a translation from the english

Stanzas Written in Dejection in Trafford
a translation from the English of
Stanzas Written in Dejection Near Naples by Percy Bysshe Shelley

It's spring. Sore from wanking.
Squirrels (squirrels!) fuck in
the bushes. Bakeries soften and relieve
rough, dry skin. The book
Occupational Dermatitis and That
in Chaucer remains unread.
Post-its consolidated into one
post-it sigh and creep under
the floorboards to nurture

their neglect. Inflatable paddling
pool full of grass clippings, soil
and sand with green and purple
seaweeds strown. And no. Walking
a dog then and less. But was good
to shout, the car door slightly
sagged. I lost a glove or cannula
but that was Wales. Bushes
growing on buildings and bridges

climbing naked over scaffolding
are suddenly green. Windows
in offices are suddenly open
and the State of Vigilance is Aroused.
Even drinking coffee on a balcony
nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure,
nor dry rising fire main nor morning
headache shiver. Materials handling
non-slip surfaces. Unlucky.

Natural and atmospheric elements, including
stretches of water including sub-sea,
mud, rain, hail, snow and ice. Whom
men love not insulting pathetic
fallacy but strained your inner thigh and
had to get up at three in the morning
to pee. Children chasing each whacking
the other with a garden cane taller than
themselves. Everyone knows better

impervious to sarcasm, tears or
physical assault. All you can manage
after drinking yesterday is a slice of toast
though at least despair itself is mild
if painful from the sun. It's blatantly
and nothing but a laptop bag. Pluck
fluff off the bottom and roll it between
thumb and fingers annoyed by the creaking
of floorboards under your chair.