THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There
THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There.
You inhabit yourself but do not recognize yourself: you live in an abandoned vault in which you listen to your heart
while grease and oblivion spread through all your veins and
you calcify amid the pain and from your mouth
fall black syllables.
You make your way toward the invisible
and know that what does not exist is real.
Vaguely, you keep your causes and your dreams
(you still retain the fragrance of the suicides),
they feed your rage and piety.
Not much of you remains: your vertigo, your fingernails
and shadows of memories.
You think of disappearance. You caress
the cerebral darkness, drop to the liver charred by grief.
Such is the age of iron in the throat. Now
nothing can be understood. And even so,
you love as much as you have lost.
AN ANIMAL, concealed in twilight
AN ANIMAL, concealed in twilight, keeps watch and takes pity on me. The rotted fruits hang low, the corporal chambers boil. It's tiring to cross this sickness full of mirrors. Somebody whistles in my heart. I don't know who it is, but I understand its interminable syllable.
There is blood in my thoughts, I write across black headstones. I myself am the unknown animal. I recognize myself: it licks the lids it loves, it carries the paternal substances upon its tongue. It's me, there is no doubt: it sings without a voice and sits to ponder death, but it sees nothing more than lamps and flies and legends of the funeral ribbons. Sometimes it shouts in the immobile afternoons.
The invisible lies within the light, but is there anything that burns within the invisible? What's impossible is our church. In any case, the animal refuses to exhaust itself in agony.
This is what remains awake in me when I'm asleep. It's still unborn and yet, regardless, it must die.
If this is so, then which lost clarity do we come from? Who can remember nonexistence? It could be sweeter to return, but still
we enter, indecisively, a forest of thorns. There is nothing beyond the final prophecy. We've dreamed about a god that licked our hands: no one will see its sacred mask.
If this is so,
then madness is perfect.
VI LAS bestias expulsadas
VI LAS bestias expulsadas del corazón de mi madre. No hay distinción entre mi carne y su tristeza.
¿Y esto es la vida? No lo sé. Sé que se extingue como los círculos del agua. ¿Qué hacer entonces, indecisos entre la agonía y la serenidad? No sé. Descanso
en la ignorancia fría.
Hay una música en mí, esto es cierto, y todavía me pregunto qué significa este placer sin esperanza. Hay música ante el abismo, sí, y, más lejos, otra vez la campana de la nieve y, aún, mi oído ávido sobre el caldero de las penas, pero
¿qué significa finalmente
este placer sin esperanza?
Ya he hablado del que vigila en mí cuando yo duermo, del desconocido oculto en la memoria. ¿También él va a morir?
No sé. Carece
desesperadamente de importancia.
I SAW THE beasts expelled
I SAW THE beasts expelled from my mother's heart. There is no difference between her sadness and my flesh.
So this is life? I don't know. I know that it extinguishes itself like ripples in water. So what to do, then, faltering between serenity and anguish? I don't know. I rest
in the cold ignorance.
There is a music in me, this is certain, and still I wonder what it means, this pleasure without hope. There is music before the abyss, yes, and, beyond, again the bell of the snow and, still, my avid ear against the cauldron of sorrows, but
what does it mean, at last,
this pleasure without hope?
I have already spoken of the one who keeps watch in me while I'm asleep, the stranger hidden in my memory. Will he too die?
I don't know. He desperately
I KNOW the butcher bird
I KNOW the butcher bird. He sings and they come flocking to his white claws. Later, he crucifies them on the hawthorns. He cracks and sings because of love and feeds on what he crucifies. He dreams of bloody petals. Who knows if it's the bird who weeps.
In other times,
I saw the horse's soul, its teeth against the dew. There is a horse inside my eyes and it's the father of the ones who later learned to weep. Now
someone treads upon my dreams. I think of how the snakes passed sleekly over my heart
to listen to the blood. Where? In the blue fistula or in the blind arteries? There, iron whistles, or perhaps it burns; we're nothing more than miserable hemoglobin. There, the bones weep, their music intervening in the bodies. Finally, purified by cold, we're real in disappearance.
Shit and love under earthly light. I abandon my veins to the fecundity of the black seeds and my heart to the insects.
My heart, this humid cavern that, with neither end nor cause, impersonates the systole's monotony.