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?