// -->

Стихи Чарльза Бернстина в переводах Яна Пробштейна

Charles Bernstein Broken English What are you fighting for? The men move decisively toward the execution chamber. Joey takes aim but muffles his fire. Overhead, the crescent moon cracks the unbroken sky. A moth beats its wings against the closed door - intransigence its only lore. What are you fighting for? The sirens cry wolf to the obedient masses who sway, hysterical, in synch to the boys on the back streets and the ladies of mourning. Brushing up fate pixel by pixel, burnishing dusk: the sum of entropy and elevation. Tony takes it in his intestine, the sharp pain in his body like ripples in a sand dune, his face exquisitely detached from any sign of the sensation. What are you fighting for? The market plunges, savings slip away like a greased pig in a taffy pull. Sometimes the easiest thing is just to stop thinking about it. Then it can just think you. Depending on the angle of incline and the rate of decomposition. Wives to each other, husbanding the fear that feeds upon itself and its prey. Doesn’t that count for something, even in these pitched accommodations? What are you fighting for? What are you fighting for?