Traductor invitado



In this seductive solitude
–of course, you were alone!–
in this erect, intolerable inertia
it’s her, it’s him, forever one by one, that which glitters
she, her gossamer tameness or her dress
he, his habit of slashing sabbaths, the mucilaginous membranes of the sabbaths
patio walls striped by a light struck at a strange hour
the terror ashen, already stained, slick on those searches through the slag
sore after sore, the traces of horror in the soil of charm
quickly broken
that recurrent destruction of a mirror
in the head of another mirror
or those dialogues:
“Now I won’t be your last ever faggot,” he says
that she says, or she says, or he
who’d said she, or if he’d said to her:
“I’ll be your last macho,” – and that Saturday
thick as a tulip massacre and milky
as his milk on her mouth, or her breasts
on the down of his anus, a finger in a throat
her worn out multicolored cunt in which the residual
cavalries of penetration are discharged:
of cut dicks, of junk and tricks and joined dicks
in her depths – oh lost peak
hazardous spills of hers, of his, of she-he or he-she
with their sickening vibrations and their limitless taste for filth
their coprophagia

By the pubis she placed treasure chests and pirate gold,
fruit of her stool, her spare parts
and that was her way of yoking the sapphires and hitching the rings to her rod
curved and proud, effusive and just, whose glory makes the skin meadows curl, the infinite pore
oh eruptions of a channeled hurricane, like false lightning or the belch of a gritty surfeit
Her makeup
was the goods shown by gypsies on market days,
dragging them from the tribal tents;
the shadows of her eyelids
were those turbulent bags of tropical party nights
when, after simultaneous fornications, after rhythmic
uproarings and exhalings of starch and her farts, her
fresh, sweet little farts
the aurora refracting in her compact,
nothing passes
no one does