Jorge Gimeno (Madrid, 1964) is the author of two books of poems: Espíritu a saltos [Hurdling Spirit] (Pre-Textos, 2003) and La tierra nos agobia [The Earth Drowns Us] (Pre-Textos, 2011). His poems have been included in the anthology La inteligencia y el hacha. Un panorama de la Generación poética de 2000 [Intelligence and the Ax: A Panorama of the Generation of […]
Something—desires me, as if it—and I were part—from another part that at the same time desires us and at first—were everything. Even though the voice in my ear tells me that the game is reduced to the girl in the garden: the sun, the granite roundabout, the string of lights for a summer feast. […]
Algo — me desea, como si ello — y yo fuésemos parte — de otra parte que a su vez nos desea y en un principio — lo era todo. Aunque la voz al oído me diga que el juego se reduce a la muchacha en el jardín: el sol, la rotonda de granito, […]
He’s ten years old. He’s lying on the bed, awake, at night. During the day sometimes. He erases, closes his eyes and erases the world. He’s able to think about inexistence, the world’s and his. He’s able to see the smallness of Earth in the Universe. His plausible inexistence. Black inside the black. The […]
Tiene 10 años. Está tumbado en la cama, despierto, de noche. De día a veces. Lo borra, cierra los ojos y borra el mundo. Logra pensar su inexistencia, la del mundo y la suya. Logra ver la pequeñez de la Tierra en el Universo. Su verosímil inexistencia. Negro en el negro. El pleonasmo de […]
The night is not kohl, but your lips are kohl. Morning is not a pear but my mouth is a pear. Our love is coal. Our friendship, gas. I bite the lettuce of your ear. There, open, are my oysters. Green sun on my hair. Green salt on your legs. Parched, I look at […]
No es cójol la noche, pero son cójol tus labios. No es pera la mañana, pero es pera mi boca. Es carbón nuestro amor. Es gas nuestra amistad. Muerdo la lechuga de tu oreja. Ahí están, abiertas, mis ostras. Sol verde en mi pelo. Sal verde en tus piernas. Miro sediento tus ojos pájaros. […]
Quiet… Come… Quiet… Smell my six points. I am not the daughter of rotten water crossed at night. Don’t shriek like a beheaded lamb. Now the coccyx. The foot. Stop at the crown. What about my purple temples? You haven’t noticed my navel. My six sites are purified. Don’t shriek like a decapitated lamb. […]