Estoy sudando
no paro de sudar
comas, melones y los brillos
tremendos de la materia;
sudo arcos sobre meteoritos
todos mis miembros
tienen ritmo de artillería,
sudo la gelatina del marfil
los polos nortes ruedan finos
y divididos por mis tobillos
sudo un trance de tardes y edificios
sudo el temblor de la melodía;
ay como me canso de agacharme
para recoger las cataratas
que son mi vestido de fuego,
sudo un pasillo al destino
que se abre como un hongo,
perspiro grandes olas que revientan
contra la punzante noche;
no paro de sudar gotas de distancia
las cavernas redondas de la luz
y todos el caos inundado
con el entero sudor de mis ojos.
You now must know what it is to crave a glass of water or to sip a kiss; to be so reckless as to flood the heart because it is a crater of chalk and you’re tired of its empty dusty frame.
I don’t remember what kind of day it was. Full of sun with musky winds, dark with impalpable clouds, perhaps flat and drunk in sapphire.
I don’t care what kind of day it was; a day to forget like all the rest had I not begun to count the breaths I’ve taken in despair.
I began stooping like an imbecile twig that bends with every paddle of the wind as if an essence had broken into milliard tiny mirrors on the sidewalk, and I had to count and sew them back into a remembrance.
I plead for the pallid crust of light that envelopes me like a bulky perfume to melt into a song of shadow or even for a single mindless mote of dust to land catastrophically on me and pierce this ferrous mold, I want to watch my holy skin fall away and leave a naked and unwashed soul standing erect like a pagan odalisque.
But don’t show her mercy, kick her out of this world drama, let her run barefoot back to her incomprehensible origin.
It could have been a year ago, while getting on a bus that I conceived of grabbing silence by its throat and squeezing out a peep; I had been so innocently prone to believing that the world was a gigantic bird suffocating me with its kaleidoscopic feathers but now I feel at home because suffering sets as a sun behind the panorama of knowledge and even if it is reborn every day I dream at night of being a thin echo of fiction.
We rest our heads
on the pillow of judgment
from there we dream
all the objects of sense;
our waking sleep is
coterminous with time’s throb
but a grey cloud
is home and eternity
and this life a quick illusion
that we nurse as a minuscule star
warmly wrapped in total emptiness
When I finished whispering this into her ear, she turned to me and said, ‘ I want your throbbing illusion inside my pocket of emptiness’.
Cuando me detengo
y me fijo atrás,
veo mi pasado
como un reino desbaratado,
soy un rey en exilio,
trepando sobre el muro
de un minuto más,
escapando el motín de años
para llegar a esa mañana
donde el cuerpo se hace
melodía de piel sin sensación;
cruzo una frontera más
para que colinde el viento
con mi pensamiento
y vuelen juntos perdiéndose
en alguna distancia
que ninguna sombra alcanza.
I see a wall and it is a blink
between two explosions
I contain
the thick blankness of thought
as my only faith;
ergo I cry
and become
shriveled like
the dry pain that
floats like a memory;
I see silence
like a color
like a flame
like a muscle
that bends the stars,
I don’t care
being absorbed
like a wave of frequency,
I must be nothing
glancing at the faint
enormity of life.
Alza la flor que crece
como pulmón de alegría
pues el único rincón es este
donde nos toca coexistir con la sangre;
yo si soy el polvo del adiós
caminando como un deseo
tachado por la luz de las estrellas,
no me queda más que recoger
la basura del tiempo que se acumuló
en tu ombligo,
tu que eres la sombra de una mujer
que majó la felicidad,
ahora cuando termino ebrio con la nostalgia
tragando los suspiros del alma
como si dormir fuera
el color rosado del destino.
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