Whole fucking words
can’t fill a single
moment
hard bark of sperm
coming from black
this white yellow
constellation of
possibilities
I see wall
burnt color
I hear breath
as brick
against brick
ah yea
desires
run like free
cockroaches
on my kitchen
soul
oh fuck
I’m coming
again to
your image
bah
poetry
I don’t love you, poetry.
I’m filing for divorce,
don’t know what happened
we met on the streets
I could not resist her
and now I cannot come back
to you.
Her name? does it even matter?
Oh she’s commonplace, boring
in fact. But she’s straightforward,
ubiquitous, and superficial.
It’s plain reality, chewing gum,
being hungover, to laugh.
It’s paying for bus ticket,
putting on socks, turning
in bed. It’s blinking, jerking
off, bruising a finger, the
smell of burnt toast.
I’m sorry, poetry.
I loved you once,
but today I have
bad breath, indigestion
and a disheveled beard.
I just need to read about
bombs, dollar vs euro,
I need to google:
3-day weather forecast.
It’s going to be alright,
life goes on, we’ll look
back on all our bliss
with a dry smile.
Let’s not make it any harder,
I gotta go out and
buy some cheap wine,
be alone, yeah
be alone.
Poco importa que llegue a entender
y aunque compare
la magnitud del universo
con la insignificancia del átomo,
es probable que ninguno
de los dos términos
representen algo real.
Solo sé que hay dolor
en este átomo,
que cruzar una calle
es a veces tan difícil
como nadar un océano,
que contar los días
es peor
que una muerte lenta
en las manos de Calígula.
Es una obra pequeña
entender la vida,
el reto está
en cómo olvidarla.
You who are born from the edge,
gleaming,
you who will taste the lines
of the streams of light
reflected on your tongue.
You whose sigh will
feel like home
because the mouth is
an exhausted chimney.
You who will not yet understand
an erotic moon on gray waters,
you whose body is as warm
as the concept of sleep.
You who will soon scratch the air
with savage fingers.
And I don’t know why.
I can only leave you
a beautiful ambiguity,
a map to the beginning.
esto no puede
ser un cosmos
esto tan arrugado con formas
esto tan hediondo a tiempo
como puede ser cosmos
este techo lleno de huecos
de luz
como puede ser cosmos
esta bola tan cargada
de negro y nada
esto no puede
ser un cosmos
tan cobarde
que huye cada vez
que cierro los ojos
tan insignificante
que nadie lo puede
entender
como puede ser esto
un cosmos
que persiste tan solo
si se persigue
como puede ser esto
un gran cosmos,
que acaba apenas
acaba la vida
que lo ve?
The raw brown
of this wood
the brown seed
of the book
the brown organ
of the smoke
I move like yellow
tint of dust
around the room
by balconies of thought
swift tactless morsel
of some body
I came to this room
I saw the wood
I conquered none
and half a pulse
traverses
without a crown
of ideas
without laurel
or course
I feel the brown
seeping into
whatever the room hides
I concentrate movement
towards a loud buzz
I call this circumstance home
and beyond it
an abyss
without a window.
Estudiemos la vida
sin descripciones
sin opiniones
sin palabras
sin poemas
Que esté sola
e inmensa;
pero esto ya es decir
mucho
Desvistamos
el conocimiento
de las palabras:
naturaleza, materia y universo
Ahoguemos en silencio
el estruendo producido
al chocar
el yo con el otro
Olvidemos la hipótesis
de ser y existir
Y si quedara algo,
no lo llamemos enigma
ni misterio
Si quedara algo,
por favor no le
llamen
dios
Estudiemos la vida
sin ideas
sin pensar
sin palabras
sin poetizar
I have one penny of certainty,
to buy a glimpse of sky.
Then hunger and reckless
vortex of night.
Mankind is as sweet
as a machine’s ambition.
I am the bitter cog.
But allow something like a flower
to grow from this
stump of philosophy.
A fragrance or hope,
a whiff of purpose.
To suffer is a fortune,
and pleasure a Pyrrhic victory.
When I lay paint
on the canvas, I press
hard all the colors
towards a grey pact.
There was once
bright red love,
cold blue thought,
intense yellow joy,
dark green solitude.
Today the mess
is grey and this totality
cannot be undone.
I carry this enterprise
of chaos towards a prism;
perhaps if reflected
far beyond the senses,
this senselessness,
will make sense.
An animal without thinking of hands opens a cave of innocence. It sleeps without the weight of tomorrow, like a burning match. The other animals are heavy with knowledge, spinning like kaleidoscopes of fat. My ideal self is a plant, surrounded on every side by invisible expanses of solitude. Sometimes it could think, but always to negate. It will say: these petals have not changed the world. And it will sway and tremble in a monotonous wind. If the world is a vessel sinking irrevocably into forgetfulness, there is no real distinction of types. These beings we see, or imagine and sometimes become have no name. Like thistles with nameless thorns. Like music with blind hours. Like blood without the river of taste. I see the fur and claws submerging; the animal does not struggle. It drowns like a bean in water. But I still don’t know if in a glass, an ocean or in eternity.
Vengo de los labios,
voy en medio de cantidades,
desarraigando la esencia
como semillas de una loca fruta,
escucho un tambor
pero no es el corazón,
son golpes sobre la luz,
timbres sin origen.
Podría tratar de hacer
sentido de este enigma,
salir gritando a la calle:
¡lo irreal y bello de no saber!
Ay pero los ojos
son gotas en melodía turbia.
Crecí entre senos,
voy en medio de población
y reacción,
desarraigando la esencia
como dulces semillas
de una loca fruta.
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