Mishaps the psychologist blocks my fears
the psychiatrist befuddles my unease
I do not toss these feelings at them
though like chains
they drag me across the flagstones to the abyss
I have given up burning bridges
yet the town still breathes smoke
the tablets have sharpened my eyes
to the kids from the high-rise estates and the brief idyll
once they’ve eaten sweets off strangers
parents helplessly spread their arms
the fridges are almost always bare
morning – eight sharp
the bus stop teems with corpo-people
with bags stuffed full of cyber-worlds
the estate observes – this woman –
world champion of mishap
(this title is perpetual)
on a triple dose
my depression carries life
into an extra-planetary space
I gaze into the foam and the waves
I shall breathe deeply
at the bottom of the ocean
Translation Graham Crawford
Anturaż, FONT 2019