Indiscipline

Indiscipline

After Cesare Pavese

The pisshead leaves a trail of gaping houses in his wake.

Even in broad daylight a lot of people give a wide berth to a pisshead.

He crosses the road without looking, not a bother on him-

he'd walk straight through a wall, cos it's there.

Only mutts go round the place  like that, but even a mutt'd

stop up for a sniff off a bitch.

The pisshead takes no notes of nothing, not even women.

The people on the street aren't laughing, would not

want to be him, will not  look and are looking,

sometimes trip, then mutter a curse getting up

and walk on.

When the pisshead goes round the corner,  vanishing,

the whole street exhales in the  sun.

Whoever flies on as before will

never be match for the pisshead. The rest of 'em stare

without seeing, at houses or sky,

which are always there, even if nobody sees 'em.

The pisshead sees neither houses nor sky,

but he knows all about 'em, for the space

he lurches through is a jail,

fenced off like the sky. The people, upset,

don't know what to do with their houses,

and the women won't eye up the men.

Everyone's anxious. They worry

a sudden cracked song will start up, chasing 'em

home through the air. All the houses have doors,

but they're useless. The pisshead doesn't sing, he just follows his

nose. The only thing blocking his way is the air.

He's haunted-this road doesn't end in the sea, or else

he'd traipse on, unruffled, into the tide, disappear underneath,

and keep on waddling along the sea-floor.

Outside, the light would stay always the same.