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. […]
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 […]
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 […]
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. […]
The unpainted buildings performed cavernous arias, gray like concrete, thundering. Behind, the avenue lined with eucalyptus. I had come back for you. One wall spoke of the death of everyone, each individual and nonspecific. And the wall was finite and it was well written. I tried to find you in the smoke from the […]
Or too sub-lunar, or too little. Whoosh! I was a beggar… A whoosh! is the sublime event. Sitting on the sidewalk, leaning on one hand, boozing with the other. I have more class than the two dandies in Manet’s Déjeuner sur l’herbe. (At my eye level, the world is Ptolemaic. It holds beauty in […]
All day long I walked with the bundle in my hands. It looked like a hobo’s sack for clothes and food, deformed but manageable. It smelled like food. When I gave some food to a woman a head fell from it, black and big, with big lips, slightly pointed, a woman’s. Since she didn’t […]
At first poems are somewhat bipolar. Then they make a pact and save themselves and they are read. In the end sometimes poems have red hands, a lump for every eye, serosity in their throat. Women condemned to a gulag of clinical analysis. The moon is white and the one who sees it is […]