Ann Cotten

A terrible claw has hit me
den bor i fotostaten
spörg mig ikke I don't know
what it is men det er
atrum et sort redskab
der er färre gloser
at the edge of cigarettes
net nu kun frygteligere
var hoven i tindingen
kanten af noget less
end what I've ever been
forover när jeg lukker dem
en nögle til det jeg ikke
ved at four at night in a dark rain
resterne af det hänger näste morgen pä himlen
og börnene griner bladene flade
jeg tror ikke et ord af hvad naturen siger
grib the grit fra brostenene
regne terrible ren rädsel i begge mine
väresler siden samtlige mine negle
forsvunden opsvulmede med hvidlige udslet
forvandlede sig til skruer i den uforstäelige nat

A terrible claw has hit me
it lives in the picture carpet
don't ask me I don't know
what it is but it is
atrum
a black machine
there are fewer
words they shrink
at the edge of cigarettes
nice no longer but terrible
the hoof at the temple
the brink of something else
less than I've ever been
over forward when I close them
a key to what I don't want
to know at four at night in a dark rain
and left over hanging in the sky
in the early morning and children
laugh the leaves flat nature
I don't believe a single word
grab the grit from the cobblestones
regne terrible pure horror in both my
rooms since my nails every one of them
lost swelled up with a whitish crust, turned
to screws in one inscrutable night