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A selection of Satan Panonski’s writing translated from Serbo-Croatian to English by Nikolina Lazetic
Misli/Thoughts
I am the fruit of this civilization, but not its devotee.
Division
I divide peoples into SHEEP, DOGS and PEOPLE! Sheep as sheep: with bowed heads, timid, calm. DOGS shear them as and when they please, keep them in a herd – deceived, blackmailed, abused.
If a sheep dares to step out of the herd and escape the corral, DOGS send their wolves, all dressed up for the occasion, to punish the sheep wickedly and bring it back to a predestined habitat.
DOGS, therefore, have it easy with SHEEP. Clever (not wise), greedy, deceitful, envious amongst themselves; DOGS stand divided. Yet they unite in a hellish plot against any open-minded MAN that happens to stand in the way of their Evil, anyone who unmasks their gruesome deeds. They, then, point all their weapons at MAN, aiming at anything holy inside, around and to PEOPLE. I myself am an obvious target. But…
Ratnik / Warrior
Satan’s envoy and God’s favourite son decided to die as a boy, a punk. Prisoner of an infuriated heart that had never accepted the decision. Undertaker: dealing with the immaturity of his own mind, crippled by the methods of the current regime…neutral observations have shown – That Is Him! The magician of a noble avenging horde, the guardian of an unshielded army, opponent of addiction and a taster of shit; the fearless escapist setting the madmen free, a heretic against sense in a brutal fight with chains; pinned against the wall, a killer: hear the roar of this beast as he jumps over any trick – That Is Him, not some Napoleon! No swastika on his tattooed body, to all he has shown his bloodied ass – he is no ostrich, no mole in the ground and he will not bow his head even when the jaw breaks like a pussy would. Destined to blossom without a spring he will spit on and hate the holy science of the world; the wound without a cure grows deeper yet, before the altar of moral he will not repent; breaking, tearing, cutting – he Lasts!
Ti si moja ruka,
Ova desna moja ruka
Vidi moju desnu ruku
Odsjecenu, pored mene
I preda mnom, vidi je
O ruko moja desna
Kojom slova pjesama ispisah,
Kojom psima njuške porazbijah,
Ali, i zube izbijah;
Nikom te ja ne dam
Grlih njome
Koliko moralo pasti bogova
I koliko crvenih karanfila izgorjeti,
Ja cu padati, dizati se, plamtjeti,
Ali cu tebe na svoje mjesto vratiti,
Na rame, moje, tebe ruko moja desna,
Moj sine, brate, slugo i prijatelju
Kako smo se voljeli i nikad ostavljali,
Sada su mi te odsjekli,
Što smo se ljubili, su nam zavadili,
Nismo pruge gradili, grozde pobirali
Ti si moja ruka,
Ova desna moja ruka
Vidi kako je gledam
Kao dijete nesretno majka
I pitam se što baš meni
You are my arm,
This right arm of mine
See my right arm
Severed, lying by my side
And before me; look at it.
O, you, my right arm
that wrote all my letters down,
that broke all their dog-snouts,
that knocked all their teeth out;
I give you to no one.
I’ve embraced, with this arm
all the gods that had to fall,
red carnations that burned down;
I will fall, rise, go up in flames,
But I’ll put you back in place,
On this shoulder that is mine –
My son and brother, servant, friend
how we loved, never apart.
Now that they’ve cut you out,
what we’d kissed they took apart;
left no railroads, no grapes on the ground.
You are my arm,
This right arm of mine
See the way I’m looking at it,
like a mother at her child
Crying, wondering: Why me
PUNK KECER
Nisu ih ucili nego dresirali
Nisu ih pomogli nego trenirali
Nisu ih štitili nego zarobili
Nisu ih vodili nego zavodili
Na zivotnoj ivici
Jedini pobjednici
WRESTLER PUNK
They were not taught but they were trained,
were not helped but have been tamed;
never protected, always detained
instead of guided – led astray.
Living life on the rim
The ones that win
PIONIRI MALENI
Dok sam imao sedam godina
O vrat mi stavili crvenu maramu
Gadno je stezalo, ja se davio,
Pa još i danas imam traumu.
A drug je rekao
Svima jednako
A moji kapci nisu azbestni
A moje zjenice ne od mermera
A moji oziljci bolno potresni
A moja krv, krv je punkera
LITTLE PIONEERS
When I was seven years old
They tied Red scarf around my neck,
tightened it much – I could not breathe
so even today I have that fear.
And a friend said
We all get the same
And my eyelids are not asbestine
And my pupils not made of marble;
My scars are painfully upsetting to some
And my blood is the blood of a punk.
JUGOSLAVIJA
U našem je dvorištu bio kaktus
Cvao je jednom na godinu samo
I imao nekoliko crvenih cvjetova
Odvec malo zamlje u posudi
Za korijenja zivo cudo
Nije uginuo od leda
I stvarno mi je bilo zao
Ta vrsta nije imala bodlje
YUGOSLAVIA
A cactus once grew in our backyard
blossoming only once per year.
This cactus had but a few red flowers
rooted in no more than a handful of soil.
The roots, see, what a wonder –
survived despite the freezing cold,
And I was truly very sorry
that such a plant had no thorns.
KENGUR
Tvoje su sile iznad vremena ovog
I pravo znam tad, ti ne voliš sebe,
Slike u ocima toliko ciste su
Pa krvava istina zjenice grebe.
Svi konci koje rukama drziš
Dio su onog djeteta u tebi,
Sve moci onih protiv kojih jesi,
Sve uzeli su, daj ih odjebi.
Tvoj otac te goni kad ne zeliš
Kako i on istim stadom ici,
Kad hoceš mir, mladost i igru,
Pa veli vec ceš, u ludnicu stici.
Ti cije oci nikad se ne srame,
K srcu primi odluku moju,
Suze pale, usne vrište male,
Za te cu braco umrijeti u boju.
KANGAROO
Yours are the forces beyond this time
And I know now you have no self-love,
With eyes full of images so pure,
no wonder the truth scratches your pupils.
All the strings you’ve kept safe in your hands
are parts of a child still living within you,
the powers of those who stand against you
have prevailed; tell them Fuck Off.
Father haunts you because you’ve refused
to be a part of the very same herd,
he says happiness, youth and peace
will lead you nowhere but to the madhouse.
You whose eyes are never full of shame,
take my decision to the heart:
tiny mouths screaming, tears have been falling;
for you, little brother, I will die fighting.
IZA ZIDA
Čujem kako dijete plače
tamo negdje iza zida
zašto plače, što li mu je
ko li njemu nerve kida?
Čujem kočnicu gdje škripi
tamo negdje iza zida
djete više i ne plače
zašto, zašto majka pita
Ranjeni otac pušku uzima
dolazi u očaju bjesa
otkopava grob sina mrtvog
mahne sjekirom krhka ljesa
bludno vrišti od nepravde ljute
novac uzima djecu bez osude
tvoje će djete drznik zgaziti
plače i ubija metak pogodi.
BEHIND THE WALL
Somewhere, I hear, a child is screaming
over there behind the wall;
why’s it crying, what’s wrong with it,
who is playing with its mind?
Somewhere, I hear, brakes are squeaking
over there behind the wall;
child has now stopped crying,
why, why – the mother’s screaming.
Wounded father takes a rifle,
takes an axe in raging despair;
he digs up his son’s fresh grave
swings an axe into the coffin.
Injustice made him scream in terror,
what took away his child was money;
your son, too, will be stepped over,
cry and kill; the bullet won’t miss.
