Now that it’s
clear
that I write
the worst
poems of modern
times
I have excess of words
to give out as cigarettes
to the homeless freaks
of tomorrow’s
cave
I have these empty
whiskey glasses
for the saddened utopia
of ultimate
reality
giving up time
as a shoe
that blistered my feet
but a bum of philosophy
took up
as a joyride
to
perfection.
A estas alturas
pensar es aumentar
la agilidad del desconsuelo
el mar
me aplasta
con olas que no
nacen de mis
decisiones
como espectador
los horizontes
caben como sombras
en mis olvidos
es la necesidad
de la línea ser
recta
y de quebrarse
siempre
en el bostezo
suspiramos
en reverso
estando el alma
cansada de tanta
existencia
en esta ficción
de vida
el refugio
está en la
en el sonoro arte
de
inventar
It is no accident
that we grew civilizations
like beards
on the first day
we became pubescent
instigators of chaos
the profligate erosion
sculpting heedless
landscapes on the arc
of this catastrophic planet
was not
enough for
the erotic sapiens
complexity as fetish
how the tables have turned
dread
served in Smörgåsbord style
for queuing prole
while the offices are
pulpit for the priesthood
of the abstract totem – $
and the day comes
carcass-congested rivers
clearing the malaise of cogito
the terrible sunshine of noon
falling on the
unadulterated
playground of the earth.
¿por qué toda esta historia,
para terminar
enroscados en cierta
melancolía de cables,
función y suciedad?
y yo
inventando una mitología
para este segundo
porque la sed
es de omnipresencia
o será de
transparencia
colgando
historiador sería
de los grandes vuelos
del nocturno alado
en la circunferencia
de la iluminación
dando algunas razones
para observar
inter alia
la soledad de otras
cosas
al margen
del evento
significativo
perhaps waiting for
that god to return and play
me like a
machine
who can I address
they all still believe in something
and I have this runaway course
poetry is my SOS cry!
I am not creating a worldview
I have an assembly line of doubts
working day and night
in the sweatshop of my
irrelevance
if you see me one day
half-dazed under an adjacent
shadow
compare the intangibility
between that shadow and me
compared our borrowed existence
the shadow merely the absence of light
on an extraneous surface, I an absence of essence
for a superficial world
if you see me one day
near the docks
you’ll see that my dreams
are not voyagers
they are seagulls
suspended in dead
air
nihilistic poetry
So this is my
bloodless combat
a fight to death
when I have no flag
behind me to endorse
to glorify
I can sneak up behind time
strangle her
only later to be
grieving that nothing ever happens
I may surround all of matter
near midnight
obliterate it in one bright flash of idealism
only later to regret
that the mind is equally senseless
and then all the personal things
work grudges, love fractures, intoxication cravings, unspoken family sorrows
all those tanks, Morse codes, handheld grenades, isolated trenches
that I must overcome, decipher, throw away, endure
when I still don’t have a flag of purpose
to endorse
to glorify
should the inconceivable happen:
victory
to what homeland should I return
if this war
suddenly comes to an end?
La tela
la tela
digo cosas
porque no sé cómo llamar
todas estas cosas
la tela de todas estas cosas
un tejido que cae sobre estas cosas
como un manto sobre muebles
de la casa que nunca tuve
la tela
de estas cosas
el vino de esta caja
me obliga a recostarme
sobre la tela
que une todas las cosas
pero en sí no es las cosas
la tela
extraña efímera tela
que conocí
como
vida.
One more
Wednesday
I see trees
growing out of the soil
from what foundation,
i pondered
do these events stem from
later, in the day
almost midnight in fact
blues and poetry
in the streets of Klostergade
he read out loud
don’t quote me
“everybody doing nothing
for him that observes everything”
there’s so much space
for me to sing
for me to cry
in the streets
with the plaintive winds
as my unlikely saxophone melodies
of this melancholic night
that has a plain ending
some minute —-
soon.
bon voyage
exiting self
to achieve
transcendence
from the will
acutely parted from the sky
wasting awash away
timeless
in the music
of plasma of objects
timeless drizzling self
aching in eternity
but effortlessly resonating
– exiting self –
at the core
of the
true
position
El poema perfecto
es irrealizable,
al tratar la realidad
la membrana de las cosas
queda sucia e imperfecta,
los mejores poemas
se escriben cuando
uno duerme sin sueños
tomo asiento
pasada la medianoche
un día expirado
que con dificultad sonreí
pero lo termino con una plena carcajada
me sitúo perpendicular al infinito
como punto inverosímil
escribiendo línea para aquellos
que ya no hablarán esta lengua
ni ninguna otra
y verán en estas palabras sólo
su fisonomía de curvas y líneas
está escrito
y cuesta borrarlo
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