O

i’ve built myself into a form you can understand

i’ve covered myself in porcelain

dyed my cheeks rosy

curled the snakes in my hair into golden locks

made myself weightless,

so that the earth no longer trembles with my steps

made my smile toothless

so that you no longer fear for your neck at night

cut my hands into stumps

covered with little lace gloves

that can no longer disembowel you




i made you believe that if you leave me

my sadness will turn me into sea foam

that i will not wait for you under the waves

until i see you sail over me

and sing you a song that will leave you

breathless




i made you believe that i only drink honey

and eat forest berries

to keep myself light, translucent, never entirely solid

that i don’t drain men dry

and leave them rock still, paralysed,

with only a vague memory of a heavy weight

on their chests




i made you believe that not only i don’t have fangs in my mouth

i made you believe that i don’t have them in any other place




i made you believe that i’m no wolf, nor viper, nor flood

just a little bird, a harmless flower, a crystalline stream

that will leave you bath in it and won’t give you

dysentery




i built myself into a form you can love

and you can only love me if you can break me

Cosmological Constant

Why do you say I don't care about anything?
I care about everything.
As if I had given birth to the world,
and its blood flowed in mine,
and the heavens laid on my shoulders,
and the swamps swallowed my feet,
and the sea ran through my skin,
and the sun burned,
and the moon froze,
and every beast died by my hatred,
and every plant perished by my fear,
and every creature succumbed to my hunger.
And my body is in a state of permanent expansion,
in a state of withering supernovae
and disgregating atoms,
a state of permanent decay.

So why do you say I don't care about anything?
I care about everything.
For I am a child of the world,
and its blood flows in mine,
and the heavens have crushed my shoulders,
and even though it is my will,
there is no chance that I could ever,
ever,
look away.

No debería publicarlo.

Lector: Le pido encarecidamente que se salte esta entrada y lea la siguiente, la que se llama "Puta", que quizá tiene algún valor literario y está en español. Gracias.

You told me to hit them

if they dared to cry.

You told me you hated

the way I write.

I hate the way I see you,

in the afternoon. In a dusty road.

I hate the fact that you never learnt

to say hello. Not even to say my name.

And I can't hit myself,

or learn to write better than this.

In a dusty road

we found a leaf

That dries and gets lost,

betrayed by a nail.

He is still alive,

older, drying,

I swear you keep singing his songs.

Why would you forsake him?

I try to make sense,

to take the perfect smile away.

You told me to burn you,

to bring you some beer.

You told me you hated

your name more than anything

I hate the tangos we never danced,

at night. We never knew how.

I hate your muse, the one you loved,

the one you killed. the one you took with you

among unicorn corpses.

And I, I can't even ride a horse.

Better if listening to: Ojalá - Silvio Rodríguez.