THE MASKED PORTRAITS OF A. WARHOL (poem) - Branko Čegec - Croatia

Maskirani portreti A. Warhola

1. 
Prvo je bio listopad i kosa je brutalno odletjela u nebo; 
zatim su se potukli psi i ježevi između stupova 
Brooklynskog mosta; zatim su propjevali 
crnci iz podzemne željeznice. 

Bilo je mrtvih i ranjenih, novine su bile 
prekrivene glomaznim naslovim 
i mojim prepariranim fotografijama. 

Kasno popodne vatromet je razvedrio blijeda lica. 
Između konzervi i vodopada, između sterea i coca-cole 
klizio je samo šum ekrana oslobođenog slike. 

Nije bilo kiše, nije bilo anestetika: 
fantom slobode krstario je nedostižnim plavetnilom. 


2. 
Kalifornija je daleko. Rijetko sam odlazio. Pogled 
na silikonske grudi jedino je što stimulira. 

Sjetne su vinjete umjetnoga svijeta. Složio sam ih u 
kutiju, uključio struju i buljio dugo u suhu ljetnu noć: 
odvrtjeli su se jahači valova, momci s obale, 
karambolirani singlovi, cijela epoha filigranske plastike. 

Ponekad od svega zabole oči. Tada se razlijem 
u maskirnu tkaninu i razvijem tekst, tekstil, telepatiju . . .

Lijepa i tužna djevojka u meni, 
nakon svega, poželi mi laku noć.

1992

THE MASKED PORTRAITS OF A. WARHOL

1. 
First there was October and the hair flew brutally to the sky, 
the dogs and hedgehogs started to fight 
among the pylons of the Brooklyn Bridge; and then the blacks
from the subway started to sing. 

There were dead and injured people, the papers 
plastered with boldfaced headlines 
and my stuffed snapshots. 

Later in the afternoon, fireworks cheered pale faces. 
Between tin cans and the falls, the stereo and coca-cola 
there glided only the sound of the screen freed of pictures. 

There was no rain, there were no anesthetics: 
the phantom of freedom cruised the unreachable blueness. 


2. 
California is far away. I rarely went there. 
A glance at silicone breasts is the only stimulating thing. 

The vignettes of the artificial world are melancholic. I put them 
in a box, turned on the light, and stared at the dry summer night: 
the riders of waves finished rotating, the guys 
from the beach, crushed singles, the whole epoch of filigree plastic. 

Sometimes my eyes hurt from all this. I overflow 
in a masked cloth then and unfurl a text, textile, telepathy . . .

After all this, a beautiful and sad girl 
in me bids me good night.

1992