Canto I

I am awfully dependent
on your carnal quartz.
I am awfully descendant
from you onto you. From your flesh,
soporific. I remain in a daze.
Oh! how I remember that child
of wide and hoarse eyes,
like caverns, gazing at the trams
of wilted spiderwebs …
At the contoured, red lights,
shaking off with frightened arms
the more-steel-than-shacks,
spitting out spiders and spurting heads
on his hands without knowing why,
or how, or from where they’ve come …


How he slowly swallowed the conches,
the roads, seas of space and infinite stride
without a trace in sight …
His ashen doom,
the miserable pain of the frightened one
obliterated by nickel-punches amid dead dogs, gray …
ecstatic to be dissolved by sad child frenetics.
And he is now asleep along the old walls
of worn links, long, long indeed,
ancient and unsightly,
amid more-steel-than-quartz
spilled, almost like myself
from your empty flesh.
Dissolved and cloaked to the beat of bronze,
and gorges soaking with saddle-trees, overflowing in qasidas.
A scattering of groins-more-than-saddles
and pus-filled axillas, white and unfamiliar.
Plucked and unacknowledged gray goose
whose breathing’s cut short by a fawning
over the infinite, opening its veins!
Ganglion! Goose of empty, hollow pus!
In place of huts, bongos; drums.
Dominated in the room of 4 shoulder blades
by the snakes and foam-dazed jungles.
Fingernails bursting with tuberculous objects and frames.
Biting his fingers with dried-out drinks,
injecting vaccines.
Oh!
He looks at intelligible objects now outside of himself …
beyond the shapeless world of his brain.
         Now more things!
Scorched by the limescale of lugubrious homes.
Motifs disfigured by dismalness,
explicit as their twisted figure of a figurine
or implicit as their own being.
From your certainty, concaved with pencils and crayons,
misshapen and appalling.
That anchored submarine of 10 black heads and blue landscapes,
with its passengers peeking out through gray skylights.
Terror drawn sharply by crayon-strokes.
Like those unmoored trucks, spooked ghosts,
green monsters cursed with scaly spikes,
dragons with huge, wide mouths gorging on red doubloons …
isolated red.
You … The forge, pain … and palm discharge

Canto II

That mouth with aged windows ajar,
open to the world of basins
and of long, funereal alleyways.
Like the half-cheese, grinning moon.
Consumed by corroded vinegar.
A tomato in the cage of worn waistcoats
kneading hands.
         Green vegetables … !
And more green and blue crayons
terribly touching the traveling abyss.
Without asking to what end.
         What is my end?
Leave the army and find yourself!
It’s a funeral march …
And it’s a cemetery.
         It’s an emaciated cross!
Without a spirit hampered
by considerations tied to hair.
Without the preliminary depth of form
and of being as a state
lacking concentric windstorm.
Which are all impositions!
Imposing forms and structures upon us,
eternity …
         To know better than anyone else
the end of the happy culture of the three forms
without rationalizing, or reasoning.
The culture of sickly, disfigured masses.
The end of tables and heads and elbows held back.
And the treading of tomorrows and of today.
And of always.
The feet, the plants,
the aged trees,
the youthful cognacs, bourgeois stifled
by the same poison.
And the shears coming near …
Useless bee! Maracas! Vessels!
Go forth!
Go forth in eating my flesh of ample, aqueous pus
through the green thumps of lymphs and axillas …
And limbos, shameless trumpets!
That hay loft of windows,
Onwards!
Ivoried panes.
The awful and bottomless imposition,
profoundly deep …
by the marks and beards, from that rough red tide,
and terribly soft and flesh-stripped like a great skeleton
that prods us,
pushes us on!
That great confection!
Cadaverous toys!
Bland and languid.
Such a sweetly strong
gelatinous bag of flowing water.
Liquefy thy spines! Net of orgies …!

Canto III

The horns pricking you slightly
become sharper in the air!
They puncture you, cannibalistically rough.
They stab you in the alps and pines along the river,
and the handles of the bags under your eyes,
so profoundly quiet …


Not even a croak … you …
         Profound, profuse!
Crook of dawn deaths,
hoarseness from the lily withering
the fist raised towards the void.
You!
Poor child of winding ringlets.
Gawking from far away between foolish fences—
it’s the fences that are mad!
Carnivorously hungry, of a sailing thirst,
for being! and lo …
My poor child of muscular arms, trotted on by foam,
and blessed lips of locks, so soft and threadbare.
I feel your pain, without a doubt,
your knees for arms, made long by calcined,
calcitrant leather.
They well up flexible like the vines of long, fine leaves,
green! like your stem!
What’s more, a sword stem for a round shield.
The back of your velocipede untrodden,
that freeloading fresh voice in your speech.
Depending so much on us all—bicycles—horses as swift
         as the wind
battling it out … along the bays.
In your own web of storm clouds and more tempests.
And pavements and trams.
Rays from 100 comets.
More roads … More!


……………………


I can’t sense you laughing.
I can’t sense you crying anymore.
Like me, you’re torn apart by needles and thunderclaps
and huts like hung-up heaps.
Partial; oh, your ignorance, still more knowledgeable than us,
chained glaciers.
Adverse opinions, the vicious cycles of their threads,
you’re saner in contradiction.
From truer fallibilities …
I haven’t arrived as much at your cave-void.


Rotten glasses,
a den filled with 1,000 rags reeking of ammonia and sulfur,
soaked in alcoholado plagued by knives and rats.
         And as for me? … Imagine,
         the squirrels scaling you,
licking your hands and your tongue!
         And their tongues!
As if they were feeling out truths, embittering
them with purenesses and concavities.
Seeking out their pain,
clear amid the cadavers …!

Canto IV

Like the dreary dungeon,
you know the name for your bitter feeling,
nascent prince … Oh yes, indeed.
Tubercles estranged from bacilli.
Materialized microscope.
That guitar strapped with fertile gallops and kicks
at times without testicles,
like mesetas,
like sterile men,
like the uplands and high plateaus with strings
braided on your fingers.
And coconut groves!
Weavers!
Cowboys rolling you around in dusters,
the dust storms of a quiet street …
Flies sudsing your shotgun,
lost amid trains.
Broths …
Long noodles,
dust-harbingers of wheat in giant sacks,
countless heaps of wet clothes hung on humid rooftops,
and canals flowing with that docile, kneaded water
without knowing so?
Perhaps …
without being so premonitioned and essenced to your neck
and my eyes.
Dustiness piled on your back, you gazed at your hands
and spoke …
instead of singing …
More … more now …
Defeated pumas punching, still fierce,
the knots on your knees.
And you being galloped on
by those jolting steeds.
The unmistakable furies …
How you would look at the street turned blonde,
and the air shaken by you!
Like a windmill blade,
whirlwind, wind-up, fan! …
Like a windmill blade, whirlwind,
wind-up, fan!
So much pain in your tombs of a child!
Winged by intelligible monsters
like your crayons amid useless sargassum
resembling big yellow whales,
cat dragons with enormous bulging eyes,
and elephant throats opening in sparks.
Through caves and caverns
and solid cigars strung by the wind
the barbarians before you on your forehead
like sparks of wet carbon.
So much pain in your soots of a child,
those of my tied-up, white arms!
Cleansed of gorings
like your deer of burnt snow,
matured by furry lap dogs
with big wheels for cars and carriages.
They’re tires!
They’re rubber!
Jungle elastic!
Your dusters of dustiness.
And the powder keg that reeks of scorched gunpowder …


But how sweetly it smells on me!
That knot in your sunken, oval face filled with
cotton and wool-less reasons.
The drifting … resembling …
do you remember?
how that Angora cat asleep in the corner
would turn into a cannon-dog in the foggy precinct
of daydreams.
The little lap dog of the rock piles, trials, and lapses
gifted and brought over,
regulated by marine clocks of starched, yellow sand,
dry as a yagrumo tree …
Cannon and little mound,
like your strong, swift windmill strokes!
Wind-up …
And the ball game …
Madness …!
You! My ball child!

V

Standing still is your passion for living mustily,
spontaneous clams spring forth;
the malva gives you corollas and light-waters.
Standing still is your prison of living duplicated, inside.
         Oh, Christ of the Andes in your chest
nailed,
The edge of the rivers of the sea as it spills!
The murder of the angels now leads us
by the hand;
its cold sterile lemonade of the dead
until the narrow bed:
the lugubrious laments:
long tubes embracing arms;
the cones of the sky, it covers.
And it parts the polar waves tied to horses.
Your sugar cubes, sky of mine mired,
a harness for easing sad comings.