HOTEL ORIENTE (OUTSIDE / INSIDE / ROOM WITH A VIEW)

from by Anarcocks

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lyrics

Il secolo era pronto al resettaggio quando lei
rimase sola. Arrivavano battelli. Due guerre.
Soldati, marinai. Una legione straniera di locuste.
Vedova. Matrona. Partì la servitù con gli stallieri.
Passavano carrozze, poi sciacalli. Le ragazze
cambiavano ogni quindicina. La figlia nel collegio:
una Svizzera sicura. L’intonaco scorticato aveva visto
un benessere di turisti di passaggio che giocavano
a dadi dentro al bar. Lì l’Uomo e il Ragazzo
avrebbero potuto starsene tranquilli.

Ogni tanto. Solo con la luna piena. Nei giorni di
eclissi. Dopo un naufragio al largo. Dicono.
A volte accade ancora. Altri negano sia vero.
La donna che fuma ha i capelli neri, tinti. Le vene
varicose. Il seno enorme e la vestaglia senza
maniche. Lei, nemmeno li guarda, loro. Li ha già
visti. Sa tutto. Ma non parlerà. Non dirà niente.
Della bruciatura sulla moquette. Delle tracce
lasciate sui lenzuoli. Di come si guardavano.

Il porto che entra, la finestra aperta, si ferma la porta.
Pareti si spogliano. Si scordano rampe di scale di buio.
Un tavolo. Sedia. L’armadio. Dimentica: quel lato, profilo
di viso, è caldo che scotta di sole annerito, pellicola fine
che imprime la lastra, contorno di corpo. E claxon, catene
di biciclette, motori, segnali d’attracco notturno, proiettili,
ed altri rumori di palpebre secche. Lo leggerai nelle notizie. Un tubo correva orizzontale sul muro da dietro il lavabo, lo specchio. Passava davanti alla testa del letto.
_ _ _

The century was ready for resetting when she was left
alone. Ships arrived. Two wars. Soldiers, sailors.
A foreign legion of locusts. Widow. Matron.
The servants went off with the stable boys.
Carriages passed by, then looters. The girls changed
every fortnight. The daughter at boarding school:
a safe Switzerland. The flayed plaster had seen
an affluence of tourists passing through, shooting
dice in the café. There the Man and the Boy
could be in peace.

Every once in a while. Only with a full moon. When
there were eclipses. After a shipwreck off the shore. They say.
It still happens sometimes. Others deny it.
The woman who smokes has black hair, dyed. Varicose
veins. An enormous bust and a sleeveless
bathrobe. She doesn’t even glance at them. She’s seen
them before. Knows it all. But she won’t talk. She won’t say
anything. About burn-marks on the carpet. About traces
left on the sheets. About how they looked at one another.

The port entering, the window open, the door stopped.
Walls undress. Stairways of darkness are forgotten.
A table. Chair. Wardrobe. Forget: that side, profile
of face, it is heat that burns with blackened sun, thin
film that imprints the plate, body contour. And honking, bicycle
chains, engines, signs of mooring by night, bullets,
and other noises of dry eyelids. You’ll read about it in the papers.
A pipe ran horizontally across the wall from behind the sink,
the mirror. It passed in front of the bed-head.

credits

from Hotel Oriente, released November 23, 2015
Lyrics by Marco Simonelli translated by Brenda Porster

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