Where are you suppose to go with your plastic bags
by Niels Hav

That guy with two clubfeet
and several layers of ragged coats
sitting in a corner of the train station
filthy and surrounded by abomination
like a distinctive stench you can smell
from five blocks over.

He’s a terrible temptation
every time you pass: to give up
this life of routine as an idler
throw away the key and sit down
next to him, could possibly be celebrated
as a homecoming to the holy light
shining on the mind’s original pastures
and the primordial fieldstone
lying deep in childhood
where you first sat and watched
people passing by.


That is if homecomings existed.
But Gladstone Gander has sprayed the fields
with poison and Donald Duck drives his tractor
around in the toxic light
while he roars a song by Gene Autry.
There’s nothing sacred here
apart from cash, cunt and chemistry.
And the primordial fieldstone has been blasted
with dynamite.
So where are you supposed to go with your plastic bags?

Translated by P. K. Brask
Niels Hav

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