Revija SRP 89/90

Matej Krajnc

 

KATETER LJUBEZNI

 

 

Doktor:             Chas me neusmiljeno priganja,

                                  osmi krizh mi zhvizhga nad hrbtishchem.

                                  Dobro zdravje – blagodat nekdanja,

                                  ki je shla adieu z vsem drugim blishchem.

                                  Ko sem mlad bil, divje sem shtudiral,

                                  nisem pil in tudi ne kadil,

                                  gobic jedel, lima inhaliral –

                                  chisto asocialen trap sem bil.

                                   

                                  Ko sem doshtudiral, sem seveda,

                                  mlad in umen, vpisal magisterij.

                                  Ko sem ga konchal, sem (chista beda)

                                  shel she v doktorat (vrag ga poberi!).

                                  Chasa ni bilo ne za ljubezen

                                  ne za bezhne enonochne shode.

                                  Res, da bil sem grd, chez pas razlezen,

                                  a saj v tem ni prevelike shkode.

                                   

                                  Zlahka bi si nashel kakshno zhensko,

                                  ki bi me imela strashno rada,

                                  vendar me je gnalo prav peklensko,

                                  s slo, ki vredna bi bila de Sada,

                                  v akademske vode, ki so kmalu

                                  hladnega pustile me pod pasom –

                                  glavo imel sem na strokovnem tnalu,

                                  plodnjo pa prepushchal boljshim chasom.

                                   

                                  Zdaj pa, ko sem izzhivel svoj cilj,

                                  ko sem se nekako upokojil,

                                  nochem she na temne deske bilj,

                                  hochem to, kar prej sem zamudil.

                                  Mladim smrkljam, zhal, ni dosti zame –

                                  zanje sem prestar zhe in dementen,

                                  brez potrebne zúnanje reklame,

                                  pa cheprav duhovno imanenten.

                                   

                                  A starejshe – teh nekako nochem!

                                  Vse so zhe poveshene in sive,

                                  hrbet imajo zguncan in uslochen,

                                  ksihte kot pohojene koprive.

                                  Kakshna vmes bila bi najbolj prava –

                                  malce shojena, a zhlahtno, to se ve.

                                  Takshna srednja, ne pretrmoglava,

                                  prototip olikane gospe.

                                   

                                  Zadnje chase se sicer spreminja

                                  vsa zadeva izrechno meni v prid,

                                  depresija iz ochi izginja,

                                  chutim, da se mi zbistril je vid.

                                  She pred tednom sem utrujen tozhil,

                                  da bom crknil kot pobit nomad,

                                  zdaj pa se testosteron je sprozhil –

                                  v dom pred dnevi je prishel komad.

                                   

                                  Ona, krasno bitje, me ne gleda,

                                  kot bi bil pohojena kresnica.

                                  V meni vidi starega vseveda,

                                  kar po svoje chista je resnica.

                                  Ogovarja me z »gospod profesor«,

                                  »dragi doktor« zadnjich mi je rekla.

                                  Zanjo nisem techen star agresor

                                  in dementen tich na pragu pekla.

                                   

                                  Vau, imeti tako negovalko!

                                  Ja, Angelca Shivic res je sila.

                                  V njej imam neutrudno poslushalko,

                                  vechkrat zhe skrbnó me je previla;

                                  ni najmlajsha vech, a odcvetena

                                  tudi ni, nasprotno, chudovita

                                  je po videzu, po srcu pa poshtena;

                                  ni, kot druge njenih let, razrita

                                   

                                  kakor kakshen vashki makadam.

                                  Vedno vprasha: a ste dobro spali?

                                  in doda, kot kakshna hoch madam:

                                  pacek grdi, spet ste se poscali!

                                  Rechem ji: na to vech nimam vpliva,

                                  ona pa: oh, doktor, bova zhe!

                                  Res je dobra z mano! In mamljiva!

                                  Pa cheprav vse v glavnem podme gre,

                                   

                                  to she ni vzrok, da je ne bi zlozhil

                                  na servirni vozek in ji dal

                                  tistega, o chemer prej sem tozhil,

                                  tisto, kar sem leta proch tishchal.

                                  No, seveda, che bi tudi ona

                                  mi pokazala, da s tem se strinja.

                                  Ne bi je polozhil brez pardona,

                                  saj sem akademik, ne pa svinja!

                                   

                                  Danes sem dokonchno se odlochil,

                                  da jo bom pobaral, Angelino.

                                  Chas za to, se zdi mi, je napochil

                                  in zgodi se mi lahko edino,

                                  da bo rekla, da sem star fosil,

                                  ki ne more niti srati sam,

                                  in da korpus petdesetih kil

                                  se ne bo dotikal njenih ram,

                                   

                                  kaj shele stvari, ki so pod njimi.

                                  A beseda, pravijo, ni konj.

                                  Saj takole vech zhiveti ni mi.

                                  Che mi reche ne, bom pach zastonj

                                  dragocene zloge v nich spustil,

                                  ki jih she dopushcha respirator.

                                  Che mi reche ne, me shok bo ubil,

                                  pa bo shel s sveta she en gnjavator.

                                   

                                  Che pa reche ja, potem ... oho!

                                  Spet bo shok, a tokrat pozitiven!

                                  Tole ubogo starchevsko telo

                                  bo postalo stroj, za vse aktiven,

                                  sam vam jamchim, da bo res tako!

                                  Spet bom ves lahák kot David Niven,

                                  blag, privlachen (na stekleno oko),

                                  mlad, nabit, v ljubezni perspektiven.

                                   

                                  Zdi se mi, da ravnokar prihaja.

                                  Zdajle se razpletla bo vsa rech.

                                  Res je: zhe prinasha shalchko chaja

                                  z novo, svezho vrechico za sech.

                                  Tule spodaj zdajci preberite,

                                  mislim da v obliki dialoga,

                                  kaj se bo izcimilo: drzhite,

                                  prosim, da bo shlo, pesti, zaboga!

                                   

Angelca:             Doktor, kaj bo dobrega to jutro?

                                  Respirator dela, kot je prav?

                                  Glej ga, spet ste brali Kamasutro!

                                  Enkrat vam, porednezh, bo she zhal!

                                  Enkrat vam, na lepem, obnemoglo

                                  srchece bo reklo: to je to!

                                  Tákrat si ne bo vech opomoglo!

                                  She z elektroshokom ne bo shlo!

                                     

Doktor:              Danes ste she prav posebej sladki.

                                  Lajshate mi hude bolechine!

                                  Dnevi z vami lepi so in kratki!

                                  In kako z menjavo je sechnine?

                                   

Angelca:             Oh, kot ponavadi! Kar precej

                                  se je je nateklo v tejle nochi!

                                   

Doktor:              To je dobro! Dobro je! Juhej,

                                  kazhe, da kljub vsemu sem pri mochi!

                                 

 

Angelca:             Le nikar velikega veselja,

                                  saj pa veste, da ne smete vpiti!

                                  Ni menda zhe danes vasha zhelja,

                                  da vam srchek zleze ven pri riti!

                                 

Doktor:              Moja zhelja je drugachna. Veste,

                                  zhe odkar prishli ste, sem obseden.

                                  Z vami namrech. Ljubim vashe geste,

                                  vash obisk je zdaj zhe prav obreden.

                                  Zvesto kontrolirate mojo sechnino,

                                  vedno cevchice mi poravnate,

                                  pa s takó nadzemeljsko milino

                                  se mi vedno nasmejati znate.

                                 

                                  Se morda kaj v prsih vam zatrese,

                                  ko nahranite me s tole kavno zhlichko?

                                  (S chim se namrech zhlichka rima, vé se.)

                                  S tako vedro, lushtkano sinichko

                                  bi zhivljenje, kar mi ga je ostalo,

                                  rad v spokoju prezhivel. A tu ne!

                                  Rad zapústil bi predgrobno shtalo,

                                  ki ji pravijo dom za starune.

                                 

Angelca:             Chesa takega she nisem dozhivela!

                                  Ampak vi to chisto resno, kaj?

                                 

Doktor:              Naj matilda v ksiht se mi podela,

                                  che sem se zlagal, ardush nazaj!

                                 

Angelca:             Vshech mi je ta vasha neposrednost

                                  v izrazhanju. Imate kak nachrt?

                                 

Doktor:              Reche se mu gola radovednost,

                                  che odklonite, pa dokaj hitra smrt.

                                 

Angelca:             Ne, privlachijo me takile kalibri,

                                  vem, da ste iz pravega testa!

                                 

Doktor:              V sobi zhe dishi po dobri vibri.

                                  To »testo« pri vas pomeni »da«?

                                 

Angelca (smeje):   Vi le pridno polnite kateter

                                  in ubogajte, kar se vam narochi,

                                  da vam ne odklene Sveti Peter

                                  znanih duri, saj ... poglejte, kri

                                  spet se v curkih vliva vam iz nosa,

                                  spet vas, kazhe, stara shiba kolje.

                                  Chudno res, da vas she ne razkosa

                                  taka muka! Vi pa – dobre volje!

                                 

Doktor:              Ah, to vse pochne afiniteta,

                                  ki do vas jo chutim. Kam pa greste?

                                 

Angelca:             Kam da grem? Iskát Boga Ocheta!

                                  Hecam se. Ni treba, da vse veste!

                                 

Doktor (zase):     Svet je chudovit do mene, starca!

                                  Videl sem: v ocheh ji pishe: da.

                                  Kakshna chudovita mala stvarca,

                                  kakshna ptichica, kaj ptichica – gospa!

                                  Fino, da sem to iz sebe spravil,

                                  pa cheprav sem zdaj nekako fuch;

                                  v grlu je, kot da bi kdo me davil,

                                  in v daljavi vidim ... vidim luch!!!!

                                 

Angelca:             No, pa je odshel. Se mi je zdelo.

                                  Danes je to drugi ubog hudich.

                                  Fuj, kako ogabno gleda. Belo.

                                  Ni ga hujshega kot star mrlich!

                                  Star, brez svojcev. Zapushchen in shiran.

                                  In, bedak, zaljubljen do neba.

                                  Kmalu bo na vaje prepakiran,

                                  kjer bodochi medicinci, dva po dva,

                                 

                                  radi se s kadavrchki igrajo,

                                  rezhejo jih, trejo jim srcá,

                                  shef laboratorija pa, she pred vajo,

                                  kaj odvzame in dragó proda,

                                  che seveda je she uporabno –

                                  takle starec je mendá zanich;

                                  to, kar ima, verjetno je nerabno,

                                  tole bolj poceni bo mrlich.

                                 

                                  Meni je vseeno – svoj procentek

                                  vzamem, drugo pa me ne zanima.

                                  Kaj bo z njim pochel shef, kaj shtudentek,

                                  to naj znano bo izkljuchno njima.

                                  Zdaj pa hitro z njim v laboratorij,

                                  preden kdo kam nos svoj pomoli.

                                  Stari, bil si zhilav, ampak sori,

                                  kesh je kesh in meni se mudi ...

                        

 

(Izgine z doktorjem skozi vrata, zavesa pade.)