The Suskind Perfume
Now the maestro is rather uninspired
Baptiste procure one like in the olden times
follow her scent the woman
turns her head it’s foggy steal her
smear and wrap her in a sack
let her soak in grease for a time
to preserve her volatility
with her every drop
the grease sucks her in
she cajoles you to follow
the scent on the bodies
of every other woman
do you recoil – on all?!
What happens if your yearning
drives you mad
follow her scent
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
(and you, fair scent, will evaporate)
Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics
I don’t know what it is but very ill-
intended. Surely a woman must belong to it.
And something like a laughter.
I am rotating the city on me,
rotating my beauty. That’s that!
Many keys, small keyholes whirling.
Gazes cannot be all in vain. And the answer?
Merely a jeer.
The vase hugs and kills me, can’t breathe.
Now my features—even with the best intentions—
cannot be called beautiful.
And her? The girl? Her trendy perfume
is Poison. For me a real poison indeed.
And the vase?
It hugs and kills me.
But what am I to do without?
Translated by Kinga Fabó
The bees are tough, hard to break virgins.
Virgins, but different from us humans.
They have no ego. Hermaphrodites. Like the moon.
Butterflies. Phallic souls.
Soul phalluses in female bodies.
The daughter, daughters of the moon
allured me but only until
I figured them out.
I got tired of my ego.
And theirs too.
I’m bored of their services.
It wedges an obstacle between us. Neither
in nor out. In vain
I keep trying. I can break through
But his? How?
Selfish, inspiring; but for what?
Is he like this by nature,
On me? That’s dispiriting.
He doesn’t even suspect, that I depend on him.
I am the stronger, the unprotected.
Tough as a woman, austere.
Delicate as a man, fragile, gentle.
What would I like? I want him to
wrestle me gently to the floor,
penetrate me violently, savagely.
So I can become empty and neutral.
Impersonal, primarily a woman.
© 20017 Kinga Fabó; Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics