LAS MANOS DE URIAS HEEP: Feed the flies (English version)

FEED THE FLIES

Ricardo Gabriel Curci

Prologue by Gerardo David Curiá

Salt in the sign of eros

Ricardo pierces the language that returns in his loss. The absolute is the opposite, a curve in the sense, it continues and lacks. The wound so far from itself.

He is a child who plays in the angel with the illusion of form, his doubt is certainty, ash that blooms.

There is an eye in his words where the shadow is one with the light, and the storm is a weightless stone. He sees the force of a void that constitutes matter, as if the body must lack a body to be discovered. There is no more naked than the one who seeks, and he dares the beast that breathes of absences. The edge of death with life.

From a silence to a silence, in his music, the enigma is the salt in the sign of eros.

“Almost no truth, the emptiness to feel safe,

for being weak yourself and admiring the flies,

that win all the battles, disturb the soul

and devour the rest.”

Alberto Girri

I. Science

know the man

the origin

the reason for the unreasonable

in monkey sex

dog slime

brain of christ

sex and muscles

they created the idea

hands

they formed the world

the eyes of science see

an empty space between celestial bodies

white spheres

dark water

dirt from abandoned warehouses

but the serene watchman

in dreams of cold mornings

just think

in the vertigo

drop

space

that his body will occupy

the last night

at a point

between the third vertebra

and the brain

the pain of knowledge begins

the speed of light

break the carbon walls

that's why the monkeys

they also have

memories of God

big headed children

like sackcloth

it's not water

what deforms skulls

nor the blood of the deep

dark sea of no memory

it's fear

neurons grow, multiply

they become

in little monsters

when they open their eyes

the day they were born

a number for time

It is arbitrary as a measure

in the space

measure thoughts by their duration

It's like taking handfuls of air

and weigh them

a tree leaf

has miles of days

tons of dead bodies

thousands of wet nights

time space

the only same word

that a man

-it's been too long-

separated

the empirical method

confronts the subject with its object

they cancel each other

like a chair in front of your table

they look at each other

study their shapes

without touching or entering each other

complementary plans that fit

by the discretion of minds

-brains-

who look without understanding

the interior of the object

men as things

inert masses surrounded by skin

more impenetrable

that the stone

entomologists assure

the ants are forming

nests in the vertebrae

they have seen them puncture the skin

and let yourself be carried away by the blood

with a little piece of muscle as a load

until nesting in the last vertebra

then they move forward, slowly

some say they feel

a sting in the back

a numbness in the early morning

when the scalpel penetrates the skull case

they will find the queen

settled in the atlas

surrounded by eggs

Charles Darwin said

the species were not what they are

nor will they be what they seem

man is also an animal

that speaks with thoughts

he mentioned nothing about his soul

then they attacked him

with that immense idea called God

they tore him apart to devour him

but the animals kept

the bones of him in the forest

and after covering them with dry leaves

they started moaning

howl

like scared men

in a constellation

someone waits for the arrival

of the prophet

in a dragged boat

by breaths of dead volcanoes

stars

pass through concave tubes

images converge

in the eyes of rats

that dig the astronomer's head

rodents

looking out of telescopes

come in heaven

to the creator of the brain

that feeds them

the ape's hand takes the lever

and the fire escapes from the ship

space ahead, think

the man behind

then cut the cables

block all communication

he is the earth

he is alone and pride exalts him

the men looked so much like me

The sum of the angles of a square

is not equal to four right angles.

To the result we must add the figure

in which God has insisted on living.

a mathematical site

where parabolas are theorems

maybe Pythagoras is the Baptist

Einstein the Messiah

just put your minds

in the path of a bullet

obedient to Newton's physics

to reveal its substance

theoretical worlds so fragile

like the brain of god

denying is not giving up

I build walls

above my height

with rocks fallen from the sky

I say yes I say no

as the faces tolerate it

inside

the sun turns for me

like I do on the sun

I am Galileo

and I affirm that the world

it's made with fire

the men

dry firewood

anatomy treatises

explore the body

buried under the skin

for a jealous god

of the beauty of man

the intelligence of the ape

in dissection rooms

theologians study

the viscera of God

they release formaldehyde

but they no longer suffer

the day of death

stimulates secretions

multiply the neural connection

blood speed accelerates

inversely to life span

and in the darkest depths, empty

of the brain

where a hand is still a hand

the stalk of anguish

continues to grow

beyond the lens used

to admire her

Argos is dead

Ulysses announces to his son

then destroy the raft with the ax

and build a coffin

for the dog's corpse

a wise old man approaches

measure the body

makes numbers in the sand

calculate the size of the soul

Ulysses doesn't look at him

throw the box into the sea

watches her sink slowly

the water floods the beach

and erase the figures

his soul is the ocean

says

those who pray will be forgiven

with a lottery ticket in his hand

understood

acquitted

punished?

He is wise who has

the intelligence of God

between your fingers

but God is mute and deaf

he doesn't even see himself

they will be forgiven

the ignorant

without the gloves of reason

they see and touch

the face of god

the light comes from the sun

and survives it

with dead messages

but if the light were beyond

of the existence of the sun

what has created it

unthinkable distant point

for the human brain

time

like a handrail

that escapes every moment

in soils that leak

and that point of light without origin

calls like hunger

despair

eyes on nothing

hands stretched out into the void

from the fingers they are born

men and travel

approaching point of light

it moves away

invisible vibe on men's fingers

caress the children's faces

when looking at the sky one night

on the beach

it's not wind from the sea

it's desire

melt the body in the sand

be with the night

a point in the stars

children flying kites

screaming men

to reach

that constellation with our face

that we see once an instant

In all life

not even the certainty

having seen her

just the stone of doubt

numbers

units

of space time

there is no infinity

but an unknown number of figures

for the idea

thought

about God

cages

-cells-

cells forming

the concept

machine

god universe

artifice that breaks

when we lock away the memory

in the wood that prevents

the dispersion

of our bones

II. War

the engines shake

in the bones of the peasant

iron heavier than earth

metal glitters

wheat spikes

lights of a million sunflowers

airplanes open their bellies

they drop fragments of their soul

under the shadow of the wings

a man

on the plain

a man takes off his clothes

covers his body with mud

build a weapon

imitates the growl of beasts

the barking of dogs

peek through the trees

the shadow

eye lights

and in the fire that he has created

of nothing

throw away the corpses

from the city limits

it is impossible to leave

iron ropes

muscle chains

attract towards the center

from a grave

surrounded by eyes of thirsty young people

with naked old men behind their backs

a well

where the planes fall

and the towers collapse

about human flows

cast steel

seas of oil

to bury the deceased

Richard of Gloucester gave birth

the anger of man

his heart was in his hump

and he didn't allow anyone to see his back

He plotted intrigues like a skilled weaver

and fury surged in response

the cannons thundered

the sweat of fear

He could smell stronger than the morning dew

armies took to the battlefield

They clashed spears and broke bones

until it disintegrates into the fragments of chaos

the world was beautiful then

it resembled his body

the weak voice of Camus

stranger in famine lands

he states with a sad smile

anti-war speeches

in front of auditoriums with firearms under their clothes

and scalpels pointing to pages

outside the speakers sound

shooting in the street

a student approaches with a voice of pollen

he chews the bread she offers him with iron eyes

hyena body

falls on the books

that he will never write

and she flees towards the sirens that gush

of the last explosion

Iago says to Hamlet

the soul of the woman

It is a rusty background in the body

and her breath smells of delicious perfumes

while she talks

behind the battle front

Lady Macbeth teaches Ophelia

to paint their lips with rust from old swords

she kisses Hamlet, she advises him

you will save him from madness

but he doesn't stop crying

His dad's death

and Ofelia kills herself in a river

that drags soldiers' flesh

the armies arrive in the desert

hands tied to

sex

soldiers scream when dying

rubbing their weapons

shoot, moan

the general still commands

the strengths

the rain of sand mixes

with the fountain of black wells

the general knows who he is

not instrument, but end

his own sex in the last fold of the

chest

They say it is inhuman to hit walls

I beat the dogs against them

to women and children not yet born

and the head of a deformed man

against the stones

don't say I'm not human

would never start

this rock with ivy that grows on my chest

or I would empty handfuls of lime from my brain

nor would it ruin the edge of my hands

with a less noble material

that the meat

we don't like executioners

not for condemning the death penalty

but the rope around the neck

the tie hanging from a beam

that bandage with which one day, in winter

they covered our eyes

when we put our heads on the tree

the blade will hum

the floor will open

the axes will shine like the sun

in the eyes of the executioner

there is no forgiveness or pity

just that mercy

with what we try to excuse ourselves

he who looks at the face of his executioner

he looks at himself

there are no laws in battle

but stigmas on the skin

projects to be sanctioned in parliament

hospitals that register these brands

doctors talking about doctrines

written by those who have read about the war

from tall numbered helicopters

the soldiers

They will learn the code of war

maybe they lose their fingers

his arms will serve as support for the rifle

and if they don't have arms

the legs will exercise the act

abandoned by god president

maybe they'll cut off their legs too

but their heads will build

bloody lips, saliva and teeth

they will baptize the instrument of fire

to kiss the body of the enemy

kill him with that kiss

the soldier is distracted

wipes sweat with a non-regulatory handkerchief

crumpled like a broken flower in your pocket

some children get off the bus

and they run towards the men

who carry rifles on their backs

toys in the bags on their shoulders

and candy in the hands

the soldier now smiles languidly

thinks about his wife

but behind the wheel there is a stranger

he suddenly knows

-as if some witches had revealed it to him-

that the vehicle is camouflage

of the dark bottom that sinks into the asphalt

he raises the gun and takes aim

and in the other's eyes he sees

what his soul guesses

what I sense in nights where even God

It is less cruel than the shouts of a sergeant

he doesn't dare to shoot

it will be after the explosion

-between fragments of bodies

burnt like candy on meat platters

when the funerals are over

and the news is lost in rivers of laws

troops advance

redeemed for papers manufactured

in coin buildings-

when the soldier will remember the blood in plastic tubes

red sirens singing from white cars

but he will then be safe

that his memory will be worth so much

like dust

there are no more drums rolling

nor bugles that announce the dawn or the end of the battle

there are cigarette coughs

helmets tied under beardless chins

They have had sex before the first fire lesson

in sheds of extensive training fields

long summers that have been one, hot days in dirty sheets

mattresses thin like layers of onions with the smell of oil

cosmetics and lubricants for sex and guns

They wonder, looking at the ceiling, if the cannons of yesteryear

They would have been deafened, perhaps, they answer.

The orders of the sergeant and the corporal and the colonel impact

in the labyrinths of the temporal bone that isolates the

eardrums that once heard the funeral march

without knowing who they were taking

your grandfather, he heard his parents, your uncles and your brother say

dragged not loaded in metal crates by air of fire

herculean planes towards distant islands and never spoken by

teachers who learn, at the same time they teach what

You don't know, the shame of schools on an autumn afternoon, where the numbers

on the blackboards are little angels of wisdom

along with the memory of the shots that come from the streets, the broken glass

and the screams that announce epitaphs and build tombstones in the air

towards ears virgin from the sound of the dead

deaf to the sirens that wake us up at five in the morning

naked and under cold water, forced to lift the flesh of the bodies

injured thighs and hands on the asphalt

from the playground, remembering the games in the shower

torsos like pink gazelles, flaming arms of white fur

and the cries in the dark, drowned out by pillows that in the morning will smell

semen and saliva

aromas that grow when the scream of the cadets is released

in blinding lights and distant cannonades that approach

planes that shake the structure of the base

no drill, repeats, no drill, shrapnel and buzzing

charges that detonate, bodies mixed between glass and cement

earth falling from the sky

on mounds of bones

that the bombs build in the mud

pious messengers

that bring me the voice

my father's caress

a long afternoon

in the pine forests

next to the sunny beach

III. Sky Earth

wind

of the polar dawn after the red sun

of the forest and the ghosts of its leaves

sea

rough salt foam

and death flies

about men

rain of stones and darkness

no winds

let them dissipate the mist

from the lighthouse

they glimpse

the coffers

what fragile sailboats

they bring from strange worlds

by dark omens

inhabited

on the beach

mace blows

they will break the hinges

and will rise

to the faces of men

the sand, the dust

breath of the dead

legacy of heaven

of God

knowledge and truth but doubts are born in every fold of the blind body

cracks in the sky where the rain falls

on porous earth like clots of clay

blood forming figures

who die before being born

wounds they will never know

how to close

under the neck of the priests

there is a mark

scar of those who were born

with the neck cut

where the wind seems like the voice of God

blowing in the throat

that voice resonates sometimes

like a bark of sorrow

and the throat has a smell

of dead meat

The garden has an air of restlessness, the smell of the rooms leaves the house towards a black sky.

it starts to rain

the windows are closed

only the door is ajar

a shadowy face appears

the dogs smell the wind between the branches

the scent of blood

that will stain the trunks

when the hammocks

stop rocking

and the child runs barking

towards the shed where they are waiting for him

hands and axes

a grain of sand

It's not a grain of sand

but word

-infinite smallness-

of what it represents

Moon

it's not

but set

innumerable

of dust and sand

Moon

falls apart

between the fingers

a man kneels

next to an injured dog

the body shakes

the meat opens

the man puts a hand inside

dig, caress

(cars pass)

the dog

open your eyes

turn your head a little

look at the man

licks his hand

and the head falls again

in the air it is

that

that cannot be named

in the fold of the neck

of a sleeping baby

bottomless crack

of freshly cut fruit

darkness of an orange

when the sun sets

that

that will never have a name

grows in boiling milk

for the child to drink

Before die

the fish are covered with salt

but the man arrives

fish and devour

while the sun

falls off

with lead density

on man's skin

the branch that breaks

contains the worm egg

in a building

metal seed

that sows on its terraces

the fast propellers of meanness

there is a body next to a window

cell network

halls of veins

and webs of bones

but there is no smell of death on the walls

but to saliva that drips on the carpets

the moss has started to grow

and insects carve new human skin

the body opens its eyes, stands up

look at the city from the window

seems to finally wake up from a dream

much longer than a single night

stops in front of the desk

It feels clean now of dirt and dust

those he has dreamed of

he knows he is protected by iron

forgiven by the sun

architects talk about worm-eaten beams

The priests say they hear voices and murmurs

in the night of the vaults

exterminators arrive with gases and poisons

two weekends the cemetery is closed

on the third, no one sees rats among the graves anymore

but the noises continue

the earth and the asphalt shake

the temple dome collapses

with the wind

the smell of corn

sand between teeth

bicolor rays

waste in thousands of ranges

the color of good

the color of evil

with the wind

penetrate the earth

the whispers of god

that sometimes they exhale

scent of death

on the face of the caves

under the burned sky

by the first fires

smoke like words

that hit faces

blood grooves on the skin that taste like lava

from the mouth of man

stones are born

dead dogs

they drag souls

tied to their tails with a thread

they approach the man

they moan, they bark

they bite the hand that tries to caress them

they lie down with their ears down

and when they seem to sleep

the man unties the thread with his injured hand

collect your own soul

dogs don't cry anymore

they return where they came from

dead dogs

They arrive with their heads bowed

the tail between the legs

they look up

and they moan, they howl

the man caresses their heads

they tear off their hands

they take them between their teeth

the man cries

shout after the dogs

but the city has disappeared

the forest

It's crying and pain

my neighbors bang on the walls every night

they don't look like people

and although in the mornings I see them leaving

with his human form

every night they keep hitting

I don't make noises

I neither cry nor scream

I sing to the old voices that inhabit

the hallways at dawn

to the elevator that starts

and stops on a floor without people

to the door that closes

and the hand trapped in that door

I sing to that void of rain

against sunday windows after the funeral

to the birds on the ledges

who stay at night and don't get up

I sing to the children's voices in the basement

dancing around a witch

and I sing to the smoke and the fire

that today rises from the foundations

and illuminates the vast

broad gesture from my neighbors

when hitting walls and doors

they too

at last

Screaming

errors are sown

a man walks with his hoe between the furrows of the field

shirtless under the hottest sun

and he pulls crops from the roots

not the leaves of small thorns

nor the flowers that, even beautiful,

They lack any aroma

but the bulbs grown in the moisture of the earth

paid with their feces

The man takes those fruits to his mouth

and they are bitter

too much for salt to benefit

They have the taste of their past

He knows there will always be more growing there.

and will return under the most painful summer sun

with the hoe on his shoulder

naked

and the sweat deforming his features

then the hands will dig the earth

and they will pluck the fruits again

before anyone recognizes your face

IV. Man/Woman

icy air

what warm hands

legs and thighs

ancient

of women

They have provoked

spread around the world

a faun

goat

talk to women

as if she licked her breasts

they look at him

cautious

they wonder if those lips

have kissed before

the sex of the gods

the hammer hangs on the wall

rest a nail on

the frontal bone of the skull

see how thoughts arise

the maternal seed

speaks

with the pain of thorns

with the help of opium

I lead men to your body

that I only have

a punctured vein of heroin

I bring men to your body

so they can tell me about the flavor

of your six lips

two for the cigarette

four for sex

with nothing but cocaine in his saliva

I hear the moans in the mouths of those men

sources of morphine

What do you use to forget me?

like when falling

of a moving train

legs can be lost

and the memory of the soul

in the ninth month

of your mother's pregnancy

you lose your soul

even if you gain a body

the girl walks

between barking old dogs

and blood stains on the trees

open windows and doors await her

she thinks about the axes in the shed

in the wounds that scream like rusty hinges

she crushes plums in her hands

and she wipes on her hips

she walks towards the house

to the vertical embrace between the thighs

They say that women are stronger than men

They lift cars if their children are crushed

they stop projectiles in the street or in war

but they are just dreams

women don't lie

with the mean words of men

they hurt if they have to

his eyes are lights that see

that languid horizon

and sweetened by uncertain fears

they are afraid

that's why they don't know mercy

what they know about the past

scares them as if they saw the future

women refuse to say

to men and their children

what lies beyond ignorance

that's mercy, maybe

but also pride and selfishness

fragments torn from love

a man is made of flesh

devours bones to feed an expanding body

His children are made of flesh with skins of childhood salt

bodies born from the sea dripping water and foam

sand blown by the wind

that covers them like worms

man does not understand the future

he longs for the past and loves the thought

he is capable of killing

-knows that everything is meat-

to preserve women and their bodies

the children in an opening fist

with the smells of a dock:

salt and blood

a man loves all this

as much as he praises God

for dying pierced with nails

woman hiding in words on the kitchen table

between reproductions of baroque paintings

knitting, talking, looking at raffles for trips to the Caribbean

she travels to the moon in her dreams of hearts of christ

in funereal fragments of churches torn down every other Sunday

she goes up and down the stairs that echo in her legs

with remedies for rheumatism, depression

the arbitration of a psychologist for your marital disputes

mortal, unfinished before and after its creation

past lives from next years

at forty what started at thirty

at sixty what she discovered at forty

apology in the unreason vestige of feeling

camouflaging yourself with anguish and tears is no longer useful

nor the cloudy eyes or the alcohol or the drugs they tried

keep a body that escapes your hands slim

of the will and designs of the other faces

children who are neither projects nor parts of one's own body

unknown members emerged a year already forgotten

Nobody remembers faces if it's not from photos under glass on a table

find compelling reasons to continue charging

bales and bags of seeds, food from markets

towards stoves and pans that repeat the same preparation

every day when the sun rises to the rhythm of the blinds

toothpastes with different flavors, that's something, at least

the mint flavor and then also the coffee

hot summer days, morning with rain and humidity

sweating in bed and night pains

at the end of all the tiredness, resentment

and above all the vital sensation of fear

that prompts you to open your eyelids with renewed force

the fear of ending up hating what we had loved

V. Language

what ratifies the meaning

of a winter night

under a frozen pine

what creaks what whistles what falls

to indicate movement

even beyond the most feared fear

there is the viscous calm without pause

but that nothing rectifies its signals

like someone who articulates syllables against a gale

crows that sing at nightfall

fish jumping in the lake

when the fishermen remove the rods

and the engines spit out dust and farewells

of the lips that pronounce you

arises the day after the night

From silence is born the sweat of gods

to create worlds from the calm of the wells

that drag time and lost places

corpses hanging with the wind that sways them

just as the emptiness of an amphora rocks

after their breakup

the body is matter, then larvae

and later dirt that another man swallows when he is born

air is water

It is nothing if you look, it is everything if you exhale

body that someone will take to the exact limit

where the sound of the word does not exist

nor the consolation of pronouncing it

there are several ways to understand

the barking of a dog:

its origin, primordial instinct

arrived from spheres, ancestral planes

From forests hidden behind centuries of dust

its intensity, strength

that accredits the degree of esteem to whoever barks

or fury, death in his mouth

crisp simile of the high night of the poles

breath of wet bark

desert wind where they howl

the grandparents of the previously tame dog

that today invades the house with muddy paws

and blood on the fangs

his tone, plaintive

like chimes between dry leaves

deceiving his prey:

its owner cornered between the stones and the stream

in front of the dog he raised, fed

caressed on the blankets of his bed

the animal that does not recognize it

or maybe yes

that's why he growls and barks

as only

last sign of mercy

the one who speaks more than his actions say

exposes himself to the scorn of the prophets of life

nights eager for movement

days inhabited by hands with gestures

running from one room to the other of the building of the world

the one who speaks less than he acts

exposes himself to the ridicule of the defenders of the speech

creators of ideas, schemes framed in paraphrases

then hypotheses, final dogmas

incorruptible, immune to verification or error

but both positions deny

of thought its origin

that is born and dies before the sound

What is it, if not, that which comes in sleepless nights?

strange and meaningless, barely noticeable

like a squeaking or rubbing in the ears

when we look at the moon on the last day of December

the one who talks like a child

preserves the origin of the first word:

the old man's cry before death

the man's scream after killing

inverted schemes like the surface of a lake

fighting to win the mind of man

who invents signs for objects

rained from the sky or emerged from the earth

not the hands nor the thought

but something primordial

elusive like the flies of instinct

and as lonely as a god who has forgotten

your own name

words like stones in virgin ears

boiling oil on the fire of battles-speeches

listen and move your eyes towards those who say

they sentence, they declaim

they perpetrate verbal crimes

rise from the deathbed

and they continue talking

They look out the windows as they follow the path of the street

words that sing hymns of verbs

like lost leaves from a gardener's bag

and swept away by time become a summer storm

summer forgotten the following autumn

seasons that God himself tends to forget

silence is the spring of words

fresh wind that forces the window to be closed

so that the ideas are not erased

silence is a word at last

mute, perhaps murmured

written with fingers

in the dust of noise

the shadow of things between bodies

maneuvers of light on the surface of things

like the pain of a stone against the forehead

chained letters that build

large empty apartment buildings

where a single goalkeeper

always repeat the same word

language as a knife

that cuts the tendons of reality

and sew the ropes to your liking

of a new trial

things claim their names

they disappear without a glance

the senses form them

thought gives them meaning

they procreate families of submissive members

or rebel at the hand of man

-just as man sometimes denies his God his-

but things are afraid

embrace the maker

They know that when their father died

the matter that survives is food of time

and their names are a substance for oblivion

who can say that the feeling

be more than a word growing under the skin

in synapses that carry concepts

to nerve endings in cheeks and mouths

where phrases of love exhaled with the aroma of mint are born

or hate with ammoniacal breath

and the other's response causes more synapses

new digressions of the feeling explored

that cry out like a radio on and abandoned

in a room with objects covered in dust

who says that the human heart

It is nothing more than a book open from its spine

of broken arteries

the words flow like blood

when we talk about order and chaos

from which of the two it arose first

we forget to consider that the muscle

-constant change soft parts

cells that are born and die in random orders

surrounds the almost eternal bone

sometimes that center expands

and incorporates elements of chaos

behaves like a child catcher

that grow in their new immobility

old men trapped in time

order is just a time of apparent calm

painful like everything that is born from the old bone

cold air blowing in the hallways

the reverse of things

entails its opposite

and the inverse is sometimes the right:

the world is a circle with a radius

which occupies just over three parts of its perimeter

plus a remainder, algebraic residue or error of thought

whose infinite number is a crack in the sphere

through which the arbitrary penetrates

free logic mirror game

principle of destruction

contrary to the order of things

IV. Hamlet Letters

someone said - maybe the god who created us -

that there are more things in heaven and on earth

than we can imagine

die, sleep, dream even

They are privileges that the flesh

cannot always receive

nor does he know how to use

the worms of thought

they cloud the gaze of those who want to see

when the sea recedes

and the skeletons of the words remain

to whom the poet god

can't cleanse the pain

not even worth it

behind each letter

lives a lion with insatiable hunger

and he is not crazy

has the cruelty of sanity

she knows that I loved her

more than my mother, even more than my father

she was my sister

My left hand

my right eye

the olive trees on the river

He must have entered the convent the day I asked him to.

Now she is surrounded by waters that fall like virgin voices

forever lost in my thoughts

because she is leaving

Ofelia disappears from memory

-even though time here passes so slowly-

and love is no longer what it was

pain and ecstasy

it's poison

first sweet, then tasteless

and without beauty

everything dies

to my father's crown

is being lost on earth

but it is the sea and it is the waves

that eat away at the precious metal of its architecture

framework of your soul

I, his son Hamlet,

I am a worm eating your flesh

just as he drank the blood of the invaders

I am the nail that lost in the battle

and the dust in their hair

the fly perched on his crown

when walking through the field of the dead

but don't tell him anything, Horacio,

Father knows I miss him

like someone waiting for his lost hand

be born again

I had spiders in custody

sad sheep, dogs that bit me

and I couldn't even keep

Without children, man's love is nullified

a number zero made of straw

tell yorick

when you die and see it in heaven

-I am in hell with the new king-

I miss her makeup face

his lost smile

the day he took my neck with his hands

and he asked: are you afraid of dying?

tell him to ignore the gravedigger's words

His skull will rest in front of my queen's mirror

for her to see how she will end

while she puts powder on powder

and she won't laugh then

but I will still listen among the voices of my guilt

the beautiful, terrible laugh

by Yorick the jester

mocking the tragedy of life

children are blind stalks

of large docks that fight waves

one day we will have to drink the same salt

and look at ourselves in the father's mirror

His body also has the structure of worms

if the will sometimes produces spiders

and it's a smelly liquid under shells of skin

like sex that is hidden out of shame

sit in front of the waves to build with thought

the one who will come to look for us

It's maybe better than dying by a sword

before the age of thirty

without knowing what a son is

nor how to kiss the cheeks of a dead person

we kill with different meanings

offenses against the vile are forgiven

but they condemn themselves against the faithful

we bury the dagger in the flesh

we smell the aroma of the teeth of the dying

and does not abandon us until together

we exhale the breath in the face

from the next in the chain

go out to fight

with cries of fury like the squawks of birds

that writhe in the hands of the hunter

It's not the same as anger.

that eats away at the souls of cowards

gravediggers and dead

they divide the world

what is a name

I have the sound of my father as an emblem

but not his head and beard

the blue eyes in the noble face

last king who was born without sorrows

and he married the bird that disturbs dreams

a name can become carrion

when the gravedigger pronounces it

smell like feces if the person wearing it has stolen it

-a gift ceases to be a gift when it is not deserved-

and he is an idiot will puppy

the name becomes the target of darts of iniquity

in the hands of history

and it's not even worth it anymore

the little mental pain

of the effort to remember it

the waves are souls in pain

hitting the coast

where we look for bones

that explain the night songs

the waves burst, they break

then they return to form again

but the drops on the stones of the towers

They come together and create beings of flesh

they talk, that's the worst

one can bear one's own voice

but not that voice turned into dead

who come back to give us more work:

ours and the one they couldn't do

I will not dedicate a letter to you, mother

just an epitaph and oblivion

regret and poison

in glasses that they did not know how to avoid

the death of the kingdom

turn back time

reverse the deadly silence of swords

your mouth

ulcer where they sink

the stony fingers of men from your bed

you fly over

like a bird of prey

giving advice to kill

the memory of my father

but there are things

that you can't tear from a man's body

speck of dust and stain that does not erase

a last vestige of pride

It's funny how one makes victims

those who do not wish to become such

or maybe the little hidden shadow

sniff out the smell of busybodies

I will not apologize, dear Polonius, for your death

my remorse is paid

with the madness of the beautiful Ophelia

fathers and mothers

puppeteers writers

of our actions

Sometimes I wonder

If not it would be better to kill them

we are barely born

the pain of his absence

It would be more bearable than resentment

Rosencratz and Guilderstein no longer exist

I have delivered them to the mouth of the sea

They said they were my friends

but they were corrupted holes in the bones of the kingdom

I saw their eyes when they came closer

their smiles saying

everything is fine don't worry

there is no pain if it is the hands of a friend that kill

who will put their hands in the fire for another man

in this kingdom where beards

They are masks over dead faces

look at your dogs, Horacio,

they will bite you if you hurt them

but they will throw themselves into the fire, if that is what you order

soldiers battle

I wield verses about ghosts

men die between swords

I talk about loves that rot

the fire of war breaks out

the world dissolves into dirt and rain

corpses grow like old dog feces

I simulate and play in madness

I breed worms in my soul

I dig into my father's bones

something smells like rot

maybe it's Ofelia's body

served on a table

within reach of our peaks

while the voices and the aroma arrive

of the men who fight in the fields

that virgin smell of dead trees

what starts badly

It can't end well, my dear Horacio.

I know these letters are heavy

and I have overwhelmed you with my pain

Let me give you a hug and a kiss on the cheek in return.

let your chest touch mine

and the fanfares of your prayers fall

like wild dogs on oblivion

you are the man who will link the times with his hands

the walls will fall

the fields will continue to fill with dead

but the memory

is always more persistent than rats

VII. Minotaur

Theseus's thread is thin

like human conviction

the beast hears the fearful gasps

she growls and licks herself satisfied

when the thread breaks

the man is alone

the screams of his beloved feed the mud

on the walls of stone night

empty sky with ice stars

The beast awaits him at every turn

He knows that even if he manages to kill him

won't come home

paradox that cannot be explained

he, who had so much faith in his strength

like a river

the labyrinth will drag him with its sadness

towards the center, black pit with teeth

mouth that always advances

even though he doesn't move

a being that was born deformed

He walked among beautiful men of the countryside

They threatened him with axes and hoes

dogs barked in the streets

children stoned him in a chorus of insults

judges locked him up and whipped him

not without punishment can someone

walk your dead face

saw the skull under the skin

in the faces of those who spoke to him with sullen breaths

horror of those resurrected every morning by the sun

then the creature

It was altering its forms more

That's how he acquired his definitive body

and hid in basements like labyrinths

where he murmurs the name

that the mother did not know how to give him

for not finding any similar to his horror

Theseus

listen to the steps of the Minotaur

he digs with his hands in the mud walls

when he meets the stone

cuts a leg

-has already renounced infinity

space of turns and bends-

and with the bone he erodes the rock

slowly and desperately

but the wall is also made of bone

and he cannot penetrate

leg and skull recognize each other

Theseus

is now substance of the labyrinth

He contemplates his face in the footprints of the stone

while he listens to the moans of the beast

the echoes of your own voice

in the corners of the brain

she searches in her basket of wool

choose one among many

Theseus looks at her and wonders

Why didn't she choose the longest one?

He says nothing when he sees her tie the end of it on her finger.

he kisses her for the last time

feel how the ball is spinning

unwrapping the center

where the other end waits like a sleeping dog

he turns around once more

she looks like a spider

the smell of her skin will accompany him

until confused with dirt and wet hooves

the smell of the Minotaur

the blue thread continues to open

sometimes it gets stuck in the corners

Theseus unties him

Watching every possible movement of the beast

the thread tightens

It doesn't force it, but it continues to lose weight

becomes thin like the scream of a drowned person

wind flows

corpse smell in the hallways

he doesn't see his own hands

but he feels the wool ring on his finger

and the break, the cut

the death of the bond that no longer accepts it

and he has decided to eliminate it

cut off the monster's head

save the world from its siege

you will

the ball will be red get lost she says

“Not if you extend your hand,” he says.

your hair is threads of flax

that will hold me in the dark

but she knows that saving the world

is to rebuild

what she has kissed

behind that face is the secret

in the labyrinths of the face

she will go in to look for the Minotaur

the breath of his beloved is fetid

but the skin of sex redeems it

orifices like vast canals with no exit

(if the skin is an insurmountable barrier

if the eyes are long deceptions

there must be an entry site

find out how ships navigate

uncertain seas

build maps, guides

schemes, value levels, firm paths

towards the mouth that pronounces death

with aroma of spices)

“Go and come in,” she says.

I will hold it in my belly

and he dives into the void

like someone bathing in blood

blind to the horror in the face of the beast

I extend my arms to feel his hirsute chest

I won't look at his face

the body and haunches of a bull

They won't be able to move me, but they will

the sad revelation of madness in his eyes

I squeeze his head in my hands

I turn it with a sharp and quick blow

the monster does not defend itself

He caresses me in the dirty cradle of his cave

tied to loneliness and stone

sinks into my arms

taller than me

even heavier than the entire labyrinth

with its dead walls

the creature falls on my shoulders

and exhales its fertile moan

to sow regrets

at the entrance to the labyrinth

I killed my beloved

I opened her chest with an ax

and I ripped out his heart

I continued my way through gray corridors of fog

dry skin smoke

that the Minotaur burns every night

I walked with my heart in my hands

dripping blood to mark the return

not linen threads

liquid meat strewn with splinters

points of bones that hurt my shoulders and hips

naked

I look for the dark center where the beast waits for its food

not my heart

nor the slow growth of my species

but the old human trunk

the cavity always empty

improbable origin of love

anger flowing from the initial chaos into the monster's windy chest

beat like ice that breaks in torrents of frozen water

the mouth is not a warm refuge from winter

it's an abyss

where a hundred pregnant women

They watch Theseus advance

as a sacrificial priest

carrying his mother's heart

a labyrinth

sounding board

of voices shouting calls for help

-some pray

others are silent

and hear the breaking of the mud-

a labyrinth is not a tomb

it's land

tomb raised in front of a three-sided mirror:

the face that contemplates the world with its back to the past

the eye of god

about the hole in the skull

watching how the man

gets lost in the labyrinth of the brain

as he walks the hallways ashamed

there is only one entrance

no way out but the Minotaur

can offer with its deformed limbs

only in small eyes

like long and impenetrable corridors

there is a beautiful unattainable light

VIII. Impressions about the death penalty

when the body hangs from a rope around the neck

muscles tense

to avoid the tearing of thought

threads of ideas in which man

falls apart as he dies

but first the body defends itself

hands clench like cats' nails

scratching the air that the executioners breathe

in the prisoner's skin

the veins are transparent flowers

they shine in the sunlight

the judges are obfuscated

not to laugh we have punished him

in the mouth of the executed

follow that strange gesture

the throat tied in a knot of rags

drowning out the cries of resistance

then the soundless laughter

parodic grimace on a wrinkled forehead

and the body swaying with the wind

the guillotine shines in the midday light

your eyes look at the world behind your head

that you feel cut and fall

like pecks from carnivorous birds

you hear the squawks

and you see the shadow of his wings around the scaffold

the executioner's voice gnaws at the air he breathes

and his breath, although human, does not console you

he is more than just a man

It is meat and the sound of the falling leaf

you are already somewhere else

in the basket whose bottom you will never see

because he is from land

and both

-land and guillotine-

they do not allow themselves to look back

hands hold the handle of the ax

arms wide like a child's body

shoulders like pulleys of a machine

and on top of that the head enclosed in the hood

you should only see the ax as it falls

feel the cold of winter on the back of your neck

not the snow, but the early morning hail

then the intense burning

equal to thousands of ants running through your blood

spiders and wasps biting the skin

without you being able to put a hand behind your back

but your head no longer belongs to you

that scream you hear comes from the straw basket

facing what's left of your body

the executioner will collect the head

wrapped in a cold cloth that does not caress

It hurts like that single blow from your mother

the day you came home

after killing for the first time

she takes my hand

she has the smell of hospitals

He caresses the fold of my arm with cotton

a puncture with the memory of cocaine and childhood

she will make you sleep gently

but now it hurts, it burns the skin

not the blood, it cuts my bones

gods who watch me die from behind the windows

take away the pain of the falling trees

gods of mercy who do not restore childhood

she takes me back to the small world

where there will be no injections or remedies

nor do prevention or punishment have meaning

everything there is life or death

because there are no indecipherable ones

middle of the law

sitting in the gas chamber

tied hands and a blindfold

inhale and exhale slowly

let there be no pain

but a gentle rocking of the soul

like having a pillow on your face

Not even the sweet smell can stop the fear

I shiver with the cold wind

that recreates the forms of the past

But I'm not afraid of that anymore either.

It is the future that does not exist

the desperate definition

I am no longer

high voltage button panels

cables that transmit current

towards a reinforced common chair

and sitting: he

a man alone with a blindfold

which he would have rejected if he could

because I would like to see something more than darkness

before the dark

He knows, they have told him, that there will be only that

and you want to continue seeing the light of the tubes

similar to the one in that room

where he slept, he made love

and he read three books a week

now men look at him

there is no more time they say, there is no more

listen to the clank of the knob

increasing potential clockwise

only the light remains in the room of death

and the sour smell

of burnt meat

the managers seem like apostles of Christ

pick up the body

They wrap it in a black bag with closures

They clean the remains of the meat stuck to the chair

they protect themselves with masks

but they always feel the aroma

that penetrates your skin despite the gloves

and there is the smell of execution

There is a perfume of an old house and damp walls.

of bodies returning to the place where they were born

of sheets, viscosity of semen and sweat

when the managers finish the work

They will take the smells of the dead to their beds

It's not fear or pain

nor repulsion of crime or sworn duty

It's a sound we barely dare to recognize

much less to contradict

we hide it with strong words

that sound like incessant thunder

and we come to light because clarity

thwarts the attempts of anguish

but something always creaks and breaks and opens the cracks

where smells come out disguised as anger

echoes that piety would justify

for lack of greater wisdom

although not the judges

they hear their own echoes

in the crevices of their bodies under their suits

in the deep chest sunken behind the tie

they sense the same thing they condemn

mercy belongs to men

the mercy of the gods

granting mercy is not commuting sentences

This is how those who speak about the law understand it

We do not give mercy because we are not gods

we condemn to death by the law of retaliation

that never dies with time

It is the essence of time as it passes through the earth

where mercy does not reach

although the mercy of a couple of children whose eyes have died

those who do not see are capable of pity

those who do not smell can smell

the scent of heaven

in the bodies of others

The law has the edge of a knife that is not spent

the surgeons go down to the cemetery

They dig like gravediggers who revive the dead

they untie hangman's ropes

They unearth daggers to stab scalpels

They explore the cavities of man

not for the future but for knowledge

the tragedy unleashed by the passion of the viscera

arteries and veins leading to worms

from the first day of life to the last day of nothing

It is the blood of earth and the dust of rock and wood

where the larvae grow that will transform

meat in feces

then in dirt and dust

that not even the wind will want to take away

surgeons and doctors

last priests of the ceremony

which some call atonement and others law

not the lawyers or the judges

but the forensics will see what substance

men are made

and the knowledge will remain in their minds

maybe in books that no one else will read

because the life of the dead

It is only tolerable if it is covered with oils

scented with incense

and dressed with the word

Resurrection

IX. Copperfield

I'm looking for what's left of time

clippings memories photographs

sweet olive foam

docks on marked afternoons

for the wish that it never arrives

the return to the city

the unbearable idea of life that cannot be redeemed

but is lost in lagoons with sandy beds

childhood events

in wet and deep sand

clams that open their shells and stick out tongues

dragging bodies towards premature burial

tell me you don't know how to reverse the past

There are no answers that resist loaded words

with tips of needles in the wind

memory is anything but duration

I stop time on your face, your nineteenth century clothes

your mother's unmistakable laugh when you were born

your teachers who learned to throw words

in the school of Roman soldiers, academies perpetuated

in the temples that today occupy vacant lots

in cities inhabited by crosses, sirens, will-o'-the-wisps

here in this time with aromas of coffee

and jungles hidden under ramps of cripples

I remember your memories in old books

idyllic women who only exist in your eyes and words

in networks of streams-books feeding the seeds

that still live in pages-heavens

paths where the rain outlines the shape of your invisible body

the same kitchen where the fire burns freezes in the night

with the sea wind hitting the windows

and the candles of fire and cloth swaying

fanning the embers that illuminate someone sitting

with numb legs, sore neck

cursing the supreme art of your art for remembrance and storytelling

two worlds in schemes:

your multiple recreating itself in parallel lines

the other incommunicable like the rocks in the sea

from those waters I come

from the past read I am one of your cells

the most insipid side of the flesh, nor do I deserve the color of your eyes

I don't have the strength

to advance through waves to the beach

survive your characters risen to sink

drown you, overcome your god-poet vanity

the ink fountain is renewed by the falling water

From the sky-brain that bleeds in dissolved clots

slides that I saw at the age of ten, cried at the age of fifteen

Loud lies when I was twenty

dreamed of for so long, that seemed true

insist, conform

that's all

happiness is increasingly unlikely

Car turns on corners, headlights on beaches

laughter from shocks, screams from corrected bones

how to correct trite words

in poems sown in the light of a long summer

because winter was postponed

until the end of an unknown time

in a place to be determined by those beings we call

children-characters-gods

divergent systems that call you and call me every night to the same

ancient hour of dawn, a second long as darkness

that where we come from: sea, water, air, land

although I think that the earth is cement of the sky

and the sea the only beast capable of procreating again and again

without regrets, tiredness or sorrow

the sea can be cold like the future a day of failure

and the rain precariously simulates the sweet lash of salt water

the transformation of the body into water towards the origin of nothingness

the past always one step behind your back

so immense the space of memory, colorful

brightly adorned by perfumes and spices

and we

like simple blind larvae

no hands to catch it

nor legs to return.

in a bar in Buenos Aires

At the beginning of September, I see her passing

I don't know if it's my eyes that are deceiving or the rain

but his body has not been deformed by children

nor his graying hair or his wrinkled forehead

with the sorrows of a husband who never deserved

because he was just waiting for me that afternoon among the forests

while the buses waited to return to the city

remains beautifully statuesque, cold and angelic

like when I looked at her hair and gave it the shapes I loved

although she was another behind the dark veil of her smile

she remains beautiful despite myself and my absence

So I think that the women you created were born not in your books

but in the mind of the first man in the caves

under a mountain where the rivers flow between trills

songs and laughter of women shaken by shudders

They wait and dose the male's flow

nuanced as a slave animal at your service

sometimes I seem to see horrible shapes

after those naked bodies that drive you crazy

and disturb the serene plenitude of man as reason and logic

slow walk between chosen paths

(but they cover themselves with the madness they cause

Doom is beautiful like the summer sun

blinds, creates secretions and tongues

where there is nothing but grass and dry land)

Now that I think about it, Inés exists

the beautiful Inés with the complete horizontal smile

the faithful friend who is the same in sex and in the daytime in full sun

she is vibrating on the last pages of the book while she points to the sky

(If she wants to talk to the others, I don't know and no one else can know.)

The woman's mask is an uncertain and sad face like that of a supreme judge

It always matters what they think, what they say, what they do

in the September sky or under the July rain on the sidewalk)

they appear from I don't know what place

to leave not long after

and say:

god, man-god

they leave without sparkles

they just leave.

when the teacher asked us to write about ourselves

I imagined a future not too distant, where fear was also absent

as always when what is projected is at a probable but uncertain distance

We do not fear what will come next week, but what will happen tonight

And that's how I remembered the family I would have, if I dared to be like Copperfield.

the cell that you put in my mind, on a book of drawings that still last

like those insect stains on television and lamp screens

indelible marks that persist and form the substance of a house

someone would have given his kingdom for a horse to survive, as I remember

I know that many would give their past for that future born on an autumn day

in a classroom with windows to the playground

enjoying a suddenly enjoyable task for the first time

beautiful like a found treasure with no obligation to return it

and above all except for lending it, unique, non-transferable

misunderstood by others and therefore hidden

two treasures in one afternoon, perhaps it was too much:

The family of the future

thinking as pleasure

My family of three children had the model of your face and nineteenth-century clothes.

with twentieth century settings, a cornered television always on

a car and a beach vacation every summer

Much later the screen was filled with food thrown by angry hands

walls with peeling papers and some broken bones

loneliness settled in the house

and the street was a dull criterion

to measure the distance that separated me from the invisible

one spends the nights creating insults

so as not to feel isolated, rejected

surprised by those streets that suddenly

they decide to eliminate us

Everyone looks at me as if I had the expressions of a cruel monkey on my face.

looking for victims in children and perversion in lonely men

what others see I am not, or I am and I do not see myself

mirrors are not books, but puddles of dirty water

image that we recognize as particularly familiar

the past faithful to what we did not know how to see

changed the memory of the future

transformed into something else

different from the spirit that one boasts of

as if we were gods because once

we have touched the happy skeleton of the origin

rebirth is the goal

children who continue not the species

but the hunger that will take us to the individual community

the shared death of two parallel universes

who were born on the same day:

mine irreparable

the other unfinished.

X. Kant or the laboratory of thought

what comes first:

the blow of some eyes against the cold of winter

or the touch of fingers on a torn calendar

months after the beginning of the year

July shows the undone initials of newborns

They look at December's face in the distance

but the September sun deceives the eye

boasts delights that melt on a bed of asphalt

children talking on portable phones

words that simulate skin contact

but the dust of winter touches the orbits

under a burning white forehead of frozen fever

men who know they are separated by distances that no one else

Not even books or newspapers will be able to remedy

or the rubbing of the skin of a dog or a human

useless, harsh, irritating tongues

the proud and sad experience of december

looks like January's corpse

time that moves things around

moving objects at a rate of rhythm

simultaneous with the following

time does not turn or pass

It is a phenomenon of things

the boy is an old man depending on who observes

God is a clock without hands

that never stops

guess the time, he tells us with his face

where you stand, there you will die

we are something because our skin ages

nice synthesis of empirical thought

which is intended to alleviate

the pain that the soul has always known

this window in my room

it is there

or the window is me

watching the dogs pass by like messengers

from left to right?

I am the glass that reflects a space

on negative plates

that invert the color of the soul

converging diverging

what is seen is inside

the invisible outside

the dogs pass

wind that raises dust

of ancient volcanic rocks

dogs that carry mountains on their backs

towards the center of my soul

on the horizon line

with a handful of grass between your fingers

you ask yourself:

the grass is more eternal

that my body or my soul

but then the object of the doubt is no longer there

the wind left my hand empty

I am the creator of what my fingers touch

the space of my skull

It's the size of a cracked walnut.

fragments aligned over the strip of time

life is a thing that reason disintegrates,

like a vivisector, in concepts and explanations

to change the desperation of nothingness sensed

-where things are pieces of memory-

for the longing to see the contours of that nothingness

like a handful of herbs

time is not one

They are parallel and crossed lines

of a geometry similar to chaos

disorder as a fundamental concept

to understand its rules

how to conceive a construction

that does not have three dimensions

has

at once

gravitational and centripetal force

something like that

like the vacuum of air in the sea

the fall of a rock from space

what have you waited for

thousands of light years

that impact

to split into fragments of dead children

simultaneity stones

on which men set their sights

They try to introduce past and future laws

formulas that give encouragement to this time in which they live

no less dead than the past

in front of the object

a sensitive subject

and understanding as revealing

of a transcendental logic

concepts that go beyond

of simple contact between the parties

decomposition of its formulas

not to exhibit at fairs

the particular members of an aesthetic

-critical or condescending

contradictory to the point of absurdity

but intuition as a zone

in which few enter because it is dark

sometimes arid, other times cold as eternal ice

creating conceptual steel roads

where white trains run towards the origin

seed of knowledge

locked in a non-returnable point

oblivion between the walls of blood

what comes first

knowledge to grasp physical rules with the senses

or imagination to intuit objects in time and space

everything flows in a synthesis of juxtaposed ideas

the eye upon the eye that follows the movement

of a hand on the concave back of the world

understanding

judgment list

empirically proven consciousness

if the definition of a star

create the possibility of that star

perhaps the name God produces the god

necessary condition for the creation of the world

It is the touch of an olive-scented hand

there are more paths linked in its plot

that in the entire cosmogony imagined by man

where ideas wander like vertigo in conceptual abysses

definitions that do not say the primordial anguish of the origin

empty buildings built

-with closely obeyed rules-

on planes that sink like mud

how to break then a perfumed hand

without leaving the substance free in its original expression

that nothingness that also smells of decomposed bodies

There are those who get upset if someone tells them

who were others before themselves

how to accept having been a beggar

a stray dog

a woman who died of cancer

time is a persistent substrate

everything changed an accident of forms

the boy we thought we were

has disappeared forever

the man we remember

with tenderness and a certain envy

he has been buried for a long time

every ten years we bury someone

at a closed-door funeral

one, alone, who watches the time

like someone who sees the bitter landscape

of a war that begins

imagination and unverifiable dreams

refute the idea of reality

the intuitive body opposed to the motor body

of these magnitudes subtracted from time

it turns out zero

possible number of the absolute

where everything is its opposite

but the understanding tolerates only the real

and justifies only what is necessary

column of consciousness

concrete platform

that breaks over time

concepts without object

invention of which even the numbers doubt:

sun size

thickness of the core according to the powder that forms it

the boy's look when he looks at the dog

that after biting him he runs like a hunted murderer

the dew accumulated between the stones of a neighborhood street

Even at noon, when the sun shines in the middle of summer

that smell of old things piled up in the yard

the day after the death of its owner

old man who tolerated the humidity of death

until you feel the weight of nothingness between your teeth

the impossible defined without contradiction

the zero between the cracks of everyday life

empty like the pitcher to be filled by each one

concept empty objects

fear maybe

until the instruments of the mind

manage to measure the capacity of a hand

to count the number of meters of fear that is born

with each new formula and building built

sides like forceps handles

straitjacket fabrics

dissector forceps to tear out the remains of death

in cemetery museums

alternative names

in which no one agrees

things defined by their substance

in a space that disappears when you erase your gaze

hunger like a tickling of the fingers

wind as a cause of body fever

that anguish drawn on the skin soaked in formaldehyde

that flows and overturns when bodies are drawn from nothing

virgin pool of concepts and oxygen

who hears sounds from his bed

on an Easter Thursday night

maybe you hear a man's sigh

died many years before

the same as the cat when meowing

at midnight on a sunday

He knows that the world ends there

but he's not sure if he'll start again

doubts that arise

like someone who is born breathing certainty

that he is alive because before the beginning

the dark zone already exists

what is behind the eyes is what is not seen

intuitive and indefinable

fragile like a porcelain cup

broken inside the box he never opened

empty object without concept

parallel lines that form a triangle

names for the limit of understanding

when colliding with the abyss behind the letter

our paradox is the body

container between two nothings

zero before one

the white silence after the word

experience is the mother of illusion

Should I trust my eyes or my hands?

What do my ears hear?

repeatedly

the whistle of a train has been for me

the cry of a falling man

from the terrace of a building

and I have seen the silhouette of a spastic child

in the form of a crow perched on the ground

we can taste blood

when drinking a glass of water

or beget a child in your arms

after selling an empty crib

death is an end in itself

your own judge and your god

decision and design of roads

He gives no one an account of his affections

death is an absolute

which includes all possibilities

uncertainty is its intrinsic character

because if something is possible

also accept the impossible

then maybe death

can tolerate life

I saw a balloon floating in the sea

its entire white and smooth surface

it was not possible to say what point

touched the water at what time

a simple thing that could be rocked

as if he were aware of rest

the sea seemed aware of its duty

and rocked the sphere like a father

separate elements

indifferent to each other

but the real impression was that of a whole:

sphere on straight line

If everything simple were capable of thought

and everything that thinks is an indivisible soul

perhaps the soul of the sphere

I was grateful to the sea

The heart has pillars of three kinds

some attached to bronze walls

others with free centers like guitar strings

the third parties open floodgates of blood

pillars of a gothic cathedral

with echoes in their four-cavity ships

the prism of the human heart

in baroque architecture

the table I write on

It is a space of my senses

I am the table for the one who looks

space is in us

like that cosmos that we invented

to reach God in failed attempts

whips that make the ships advance

out to sea

Ilustration: Anidando (Irina Nogina)

LAS MANOS DE URIAS HEEP

sábado, 26 de octubre de 2024

Feed the flies (English version)

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La soledad (Alberto Moravia)