Sir

Machine Translated by Google

Emanuel Tomasin Borda

Mister

Index

Soa. 2-58

My Demon. 59-96

The Circus of Lost Costumes. 97-114

Shots in the Night. 115-137

The dialect of the night. 138- 208

1

He tore off his collarbone

sealed the sweat spot

when he disemboweled the victim.

His hands were cold,

her eyes speckled

They suggested relief.

He took a handsaw

cut the body,

He put the parts in a bag, closed it, and slung it over his shoulder.

and at that precise moment,

He knew that his mother,

I hadn’t lost weight.

2

The origin of the universe is existence.

3

All species that went extinct did so because they didn’t know language. Language is what sustains us, what makes our extinction impossible.

4

To transgress means to immolate oneself through words.

5

Cry, ruby.

the mutilated statue

of marble and bone;

after its stillness

The murmur of centuries shines through

with empty eyes

and the expression

It expands.

6

In the electric chair;

a man;

the spectators;

immutable;

press the button;

The man dies;

the spectators;

They experience an orgasm.

7

A hanged man

in the middle of Paris,

The crowd passes by,

Take photographs,

curious near death,

Someone is approaching,

untie the knot,

He pulls the hood off the hanged man

and sees his own face.

8

A child runs

with a balloon in his hand,

Run until you reach the square,

The balloon explodes there.

They all die instantly;

There are pellets left with a taste of childhood.

9

Two cars collide,

Fifteen more crash after them,

a long-distance bus

complete the multiple.

The police

They arrived soon. at first glance

They noticed the cause of the accident;

an embedded child

on the windshield of the second car

with an unchanging mockery of death.

10

The melting ice is hitting every city,

men, women and children,

at the mercy of natural mathematics.

An avalanche buries half the town,

The blizzards knock down houses, the country bandages ink for morning papers, the rest of the world

He devours them.

11

The skeleton of a man

walk through the center

Nobody goes near him

Nobody looks at him.

The man enters a

shop, but can’t talk

then he takes a knife

cuts off an arm

and devours it.

12

Games

They cracked his skull.

His arms fell limp.

the diary, which he was reading,

flew out the window,

The passengers were shouting,

a child approached

and passed his hand over the blood.

13

A man cuts off his testicles He sits and waits to bleed out.

He last week,

She had lost her children.

14

On the subway tracks

There was a dismembered body.

They put the parts in a bag

and went straight to the morgue.

There the puzzle rests.

that we call humanity.

15

A worker cuts off his hand,

He is given three months’ leave of absence.

at that time

the worker learned

which is work.

16

The geometry of reason explodes,

The ruins plunge into the abyss of the unconscious

There, every line of the map is slaughtered.

that every human being entails.

17

At the bottom of the river They found him there.

his family

she was crying

while accompanying the forensic experts

after a while

They were thinking they had to pay the bills

that someone should go out to work

and so?

definitely

It plunged them into pain.

18

After devouring his girlfriend

The young man sat down

I have a glass of wine

belch

I vomit my nails

went to bed

and he dreamed about her.

19

In the middle of the autopsy

while they cut, liquefied, and removed organs

The forensic experts were drinking the liquor

of brutality;

They finished the job,

drunks.

20

They were in the middle of a conservation process, when she gets married

He calls him on the phone

-Yes, my dear, our son is now immortal,

Should we put it in the dining room or in the bedroom?

21

He died instantly

He was hit by a bus.

While carrying out the investigations,

a group of young people

He robbed onlookers.

Someone returning home,

He knew that something else had been lost.

22

He was diabetic

They had to amputate both of his legs

and an arm.

His family members were taking him for walks,

They changed him, bathed him, and put him to sleep.

The disabled person at night He had terrible erections

She was smiling.

23

After murdering his wife and three children

He called his lover and told her that he didn’t love her.

24

Journalists are the noise made when grinding meat.

25

Fatal accident

head-on collision

a dead family;

They had the best vacation.

26

God was killed by his own word.

27

Twenty dead children after the collapse

from the roof of the school

The parents sued the government.

The authorities responded

with a compensation ceiling.

28

A gunpowder mask

cover your body

your blood flows

between beehives

of withered planes your eyes explode and with them

everything that happened

29

A night without you…

Doctrines die

philosophy…

It means showering many times.

and find yourself in the scent of absence

It’s like walking without signs.

It’s like flooding every inch I step on.

with the figure I long for.

30

She said yes

and with a 9mm he blew his brains out

The guests were stunned

The bride went into shock.

The Bible was splattered

with the blood of a commitment eternal

31

That day he murdered 58 people. returned home

He sat down in the old chair.

A cognac was served

I see its image reflected in the liquid

blink several times

and he drank it down in one gulp.

32

Above all

Looking for you in the screams,

to bring reason closer

towards the shore of your bones.

To drown in one’s own image to discover the seams

of all architectures.

Beating waves

and breaking waves cover the coasts

to live through a storm

to be foam from that sea.

33

On genius.

The answers are tied together;

They are shipwrecked on the ice of the edge that stabs in torrents.

The signs of a world that implores symbols are intertwined,

the crust, fiery absence,

invades, divides, and multiplies

a refuge, a sustenance

for others

absences

And they will be future worlds

the ghosts that haunt us

and they will be the aroma of our sour mouths;

those;

silences.

34

On Madness

In summary, moons are being built

that collide with each other,

the mist awakens

and it envelops us, it returns us to our primordial state.

We circulate archaic

We conspire with the incipient grimace that watches you

and we let go,

We disappear doing pirouettes.

We are the wrong route, the accident, the unforeseen,

. the tragic fate that greets you

35

About love.

Love static construction,

I kiss your youth, I lick the Arctic of your figure,

My tongue is tearing

and I cover you with the sublime

of memory.

36

About Storms.

Mood of the unconscious,

make liquor with the veins of the palm of my reason

and let me flow through the meaningful cracks

of the movement

and its ruins.

37

The decapitated

The accent marks foreshadow,

The inexact time, the cadences, the chains

The walls, the domino

That which is pulverized in the air,

They are embedded strings

Murdered for centuries

Along castrated paths

Ink flows

38

It eclipses the collapse of two lands.

Jungle sediment city,

Debris rolls

While still water absorbs diseases.

The animals are looking for a place to die,

While humans lose hope of sustenance. The day turns gray.

Nature is dressed in mourning,

The voices succumb

To the rhythm of the specters.

39

They ran naked along the beach, protesting against modernity.

40

Being awake or being asleep is the same shit. It’s just that some are more easily manipulated than others.

41

I unbutton your shirt

I lick your nipples

I immerse myself in the honey of your skin.

Already drunk,

I go through the window

From poetry.

42

A sphere travels through your body

Lick your wounds, kiss your hips

And slowly

Start strangling yourself

There you feel like your childhood.

She ends up drowning

In a glass

Of blood.

43

I peel off every inch

From your city,

I devour the pulp

The liquid is drained

The rats run ecstatically

The mouth of the river shows us

One more day.

44

1

They walk while the shadow of concrete caresses their minds. They wander through the dust of the underworld. Each disguise sketches a sinister mecca, each molecule constitutes a prison

system, and there you go, lost among the swarms of what comes after, lost in the siesta of the ideal.

45

2

PhD in happiness, annihilation of the basic sense of survival, surviving is looking without eyes and smashing your head against the digital wall.

46

3

There you go, with a thousand-year-old rage that ignites the last connection, the madness of knowing yourself real and feeling part of a scene. Chewing the plastic of the aberration imposed upon us, savoring the tar of truth compressed in a stove. Watching the dawn and seeing every ghost that builds every city.

47

4

Suddenly you fall, you fall into your mind and all the possibilities liquefy along with your blood, you lose your way because there is nothing but the blush of the ghost that casts a shadow.

48

5

You wake up and underline dreams as hope, and soon the ideas that arise in bubbles go down the drain.

49

6

Each dead person breathes their own birth, each mask melts away until it becomes incarnate on the platforms of consciousness.

50

7

The cold injects into our bodies the kindness of those who are no longer here.

51

8

In the tempest, each silhouette rolls and merges with nature. The schemes of fusion die, are mutilated, because such a thing does not exist. It does not exist simply because of the word, that wild beast that distances us from nirvana and returns us to the halls of hell.

52

9

There you go, bleeding spectator. There you go, immersed in everyday banality, driven mad to make ends meet, suffering every morning, wishing for your own death.

53

10

While other minds draw the bars on your world.

54

11

Caged, blind and everyday, the shadow of the human.

55

12

Behind them are the awakened ones, the infamous ones who regulate the planet’s birth rate, the swindlers who murder directions and promises.

56

13

They jump when you walk, they laugh when you cry, they mock the world and humans, while they put on makeup and adorn themselves with stars.

57

14

And there you go, reading the stories in the newspapers, melting your head with the glow of the lie.

You reach out and see the walls of a world made for the few. Exhausted, you return to your corner, weep, and vow revenge.

58

Characters

Killer

Hitman

Chorus of drunks

Act One

A bar packed with people.

SCENE I

(The Assassin and the Hitman enter the bar and sit down at the bar.)

Killer: The blood lay dried on the avenue, like some kind of essence imprinted on that instant. People walked past the clot, stared, and spat; everyone ran to catch the bus, everyone ran toward the designated place. Their watches were working properly, the machinery functioning

perfectly. Women, men, and children disguised within a hive, a city woven from minds and organized chaos.

59

Hitman: You got caught in the web, get out of there

Assassin: I swim in silk, I don’t wade in, I dive in

Hitman: How many drowned people did you see?

Murderer: To all newborns who speculated with destiny.

Hitman: Poor devils, their heads weren’t designed the right way.

Murderer: Maybe, or perhaps they preferred to drown rather than live a lie, that is to say, We are not us.

Hitman: What are you saying? Have you gone crazy?

Assassin: I’m just saying your suit looks awful on you. I prefer to dive in and laugh out loud with real words…

Hitman: What is reality?

Assassin: A compendium of ideas that mobilize over time, like the masses.

Hitman: So you’re not real, you’re part of a lie, simply because you don’t belong and you’re buried in silk.

Assassin: I’m as real as your suit.

Hitman: Your idiotic little words make me sick, it makes me sick that you think you know everything, you’re a microbe inside an organism, don’t forget it.

60

Killer: I never forget, I am a cancerous microbe.

Hitman: There he is, the guy who thinks he can manipulate the world, the guy who thinks he’s something, the biggest idiot addicted to neo-reality.

Killer: Fuck your grades, stop shoving barcodes in my face, you’re not at your fucking job. Go eat some ice cream and then watch a movie at the theater, you son of a bitch.

Hitman: Are you angry? Don’t be angry, champ, forgive me, I didn’t mean to offend you.

Murderer: You don’t offend me; I think you offend yourself with so many insipid words. Pre-designed products from laboratories come out of your mouth. You are part of the plague that surrounds the world.

Hitman: You’re wrong, everyone disguises themselves and lies, everyone does it. If we weren’t disguised, we’d be cannibals, animals willing to commit any “sin.” Neither religions nor books nor anything else

could extinguish our essence. We are beasts who learned to speak to mold evil, if such a word even exists.

Murderer: In any case, you are animals that haven’t evolved. That’s why I prefer solitude, I prefer to protect myself from so much shit. To follow a doctrine, to follow thought beyond the body, that is evolution.

Hitman: Mmmmmm, that’s just philosophy, your words are useless…

Murderer: I mean that we can be the creators of the world, each person can create a part of the world.

Hitman: But they do that every day, every time they go out to work, every time they socialize…

Assassin: Yes, but that’s not creation, it’s following the course, the pre-designed rhythm.

Hitman: Anyway, everyone builds the world.

61

Killer: They build their cages.

Hitman: That’s right, and I must tell you that a cage is a home, a good job, money, women, sex, it’s something pleasant, that’s what it’s about, making your stay in the system pleasant.

Murderer: I leave the pleasant stuff to the idiots, happiness is a bubble that blinds us, I’d rather tear out my eyes than fall into that garbage.

Hitman: Only parasites thrive in solitude…

Murderer: Yes, parasites that breakfast on hope and devour the heart, parasites that distance us from the niche.

Hitman: Anyway, there are many who think like you, however they are within the niche and learn to live despite everything.

Murderer: Being free within four walls is absurd.

Hitman: I know, your position is useless.

Murderer: It depends on what meaning you give to the words useless and useful. It seems to me that you use them with the concept that we are all tools. And I believe that we are people, therefore, in my thinking such words do not exist.

Hitman: Always so clear and transparent…

Killer: Why not water?

Hitman: How to recite verses in a school for the deaf.

62

Murderer: Well, there’s something magical about trying to restore hearing to the deaf through poetry; I find it beautiful.

Hitman: Yes, as beautiful as autumn.

Murderer: The cube’s boundaries bleed, the sewers belch pronouncements from the garbage, men chase after apples, while birds adjust their masks. Cold are the times of the unequivocal, the subtractions drip sulfur, pain floods the halls of conscience, whims die in the caves of the open. Everything succumbs under the claws of the invisible.

Sicario: Animals vomit cotton, baskets are trampled by ghosts, the perverse game of mime enters unabashedly,

the wheel continues toward its altar while children explode in schools, all die under the shadow of power. Lambs are mutilated, the last threads of morality are severed, books burn inside a beast, everything is lost and renewed

like the teeth of a shark.

Murderer: They show off the predator’s prey, words are crammed together in a corral, shifts are shaken up and resold on the corner. Nobody goes out during the day because the sun has been forbidden for fifty years.

Hitman: The cancer’s core advances over the multicolored hordes, the musicians groom their virtues, lick their masks and pull the trigger, the pulp of a city entirely made of sinful dreams falls. The hats bite the earth of reason, the leather gloves rot, they fly over the striations of the niche and land on the minds of the lazy.

Murderer: The threshold boundary disappears on the foreheads of statues, the lines of comedy are devoured, blood is sold by the ration, cannibals run in packs to hunt eyes.

Sicario: The demons triumph, the masked ones who conspire right under our noses triumph. It’s a mix of shit and alcohol. They react to the tides, they gather judgments and smash them in your face. They are the new species, the hidden ones, the puerile blood that manipulates and tries to govern the destiny of all souls. They are animals beautified by science, creatures of plasma and plastic. There was a precedent for these maneuvers

before, but everything was stolen and burned. The members of the puerile elite turned the meadows into a place full of cameras, of absolute control, of invading satellites, of interstellar death.

63

Murderer: Be quiet, scientists plan to absorb these words and turn them into consumer goods. Everything is mass-produced, everything is dosed, everything is domesticated. The wild appearance of the world is just a masquerade. Minds are liquefied, criteria are unified under the shadow of lies, humanity is squeezed dry and thrown into an industrial blender. Everything is biodegradable, even words.

Hitman: Corporations walk all over us every day. Individuality has been lost. The corporation captures, imprisons, and censors dissenting voices. The world—that is, the niche—is formed by a group of corporations. No one leaves, everyone enters, nothing gets out, not a word. They are all guardians of their own captors, all working together to silence, to seal away the truth. Let’s be the viruses within the corporations, let’s leak information, let’s break the chains. Silence, here come the police, the gendarmes, the intelligence

services, the rulers…

Assassin: Sometimes I get tired of talking to myself. I wish someone like me were near me... They’re probably already cloning me. It’s terrifying to think that many versions of myself are out there being trained to control and manipulate. But if my calculations are correct, upbringing doesn’t affect essence; that is, they’re creating

freedom, they’re creating the ice of chaos. To my brothers of the future, I want to say: trust no one and find a way to spread the virus.

Hitman: Tear gas floods the streets, sabotage is perpetrated by intelligence services, every social

organization has agents; they’re in businesses, they’re everywhere. I myself am an agent, meaning I’m the only

one of my kind. There’s an informant on every corner, and in factories, cocaine is mixed with the remains of corpses of those who tried to steal the secret of its formula. The secret of the formula is precisely the ability to cook

cocaine and distribute it. Airports are the industry of terror; mules, terrorists, secret agents, and so on travel through them. They are the transport of hidden citizens. I’ve heard that there are compartments in certain airplanes

for storing explosives. Explosions are orchestrated from within; airport workers are undercover terrorists. Housewives are spies, mailboxes are checked daily, and the internet is the most monitored place in the world.

Killer: I’ve been a cannibal for as long as I can remember; I kill anything that tries to interfere with my mind. I’m a quiet and extremely paranoid guy; I see the hidden agenda in everything.

Hitman: The media, you damned sons of bitches, are part of a vile spectacle. You’re the cogs in the machine that processes the dead, you’re the voice of corporatism, you’re the anchors for the masses. I think you know all this, but it’s always good to remember: the newspapers, the magazines, the radio, the television, the people who

work in all those media outlets lie. Their job is to lull your conscience to sleep. I hope those sons of bitches die of cancer. If you see one of them on the street, beat the shit out of him or insult him.

64

Murderer: If you want to kill, do it, but through others. Be the mastermind, never the one who gets his hands dirty. Butchers are animals; artists direct the killers. If you fall in love with a prostitute, never turn your back on her and try to change her all the time; it’s the ultimate fun. But make sure you sleep with her every day, preferably in the morning, so you’re the first one there. I love the tingle of tobacco after taking cocaine.

Hitman: Well, nothing special, I hope your stay in the niche is the best, the best thing is to be outside, to be inside and not to be.

Murderer: You feed the yoke, you are the collection piece, you are the rottenness of the niche, you are nothing, you are less than shit. Even the cows enjoy a better life than you. The slaughterhouse wears you down little

by little, slowly you transform into a madman. The sirens’ songs guide you towards perdition, you know it, but you love dying inside a perfect bubble.

Hitman: Today I was talking to a psychologist, and while I was talking to her, all I could think about was undressing her and fucking her on the desk. It’s pure transference, I know, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to fuck her. If you’re in the middle of a conspiracy, just think about fucking, that’s how it is.

They’ll turn out well, and you’ll end up sleeping with the conspirators. The world is about sex, and the best lover is...

He is king.

Murderer: Confinement is useful for thinking and reorganizing the mind; the board rearranges itself and the pieces gleam. Get close enough to feel like you’re thinking correctly, that is, break down your thoughts until you reach the heart of the bullshit. Ultimately, what gives birth to thoughts is pure bullshit. Creativity is the final process of creation, the last part of thought, and precisely the purpose of thought: creation. A thought is a solid construction of experiences, and creativity is the endpoint of thought, if one wants to achieve creation. The world is a

creation, an invention, pure creativity, and liquefied bullshit.

Hitman: I’m tired of walking on the grass of greed, I’m bored with the smiles, I’m tired of telling myself that this world has a purpose… to crush your imagination and turn you into a talking rot. The world has paths crushed by dawn,

it has night paths for the blind, for the dead, and for whores. The prostitutes flaunt their medals, the escorts display their delicate way of prostituting themselves, all women are women.

That’s all.

65

Chorus of drunks: The nets are breaking, The structures of the domes are dismantled,

The sky vomits acid, the forests succumb,

spider webs trap oxygen

You run inside the avenue

You play within the coming You call the avenue

Autumn brings back your scars

the worms tangle you up

that you carry inside your sofa.

The pilgrims sing, the old women shout,

The unmistakable aroma of life is ground up.

Assassin: States sow chains of bribery, they lay narrow paths to conceal their magistrates. The state doesn’t exist; it’s a complete lie. The state ceased to exist more than fifteen years ago. Those who control everything are the intelligence services; they manage the world’s agendas, set foreign policies, and manipulate the press. They are multifaceted rats, with arms in every corner, breeding and genetically manipulating future generations

of agents. The rich settle comfortably inside their coffers, the banks plunder the profits, and the world’s stock exchanges are a mirage of a gray face. But all of this is a secret, so don’t tell anyone.

Hitman: Wars are waged for entertainment; wars are won to possess the gift of fear. The war industry is in film,

in construction, in fashion; war is in every product in the world. War is the highest art on the planet; the art of murder is a gift from heaven. My advice is that you must kill someone at the age of 21; there you will know the

ecstasy of death. Terrorism is guerrilla warfare; it’s an old tool. Today, the weather is manipulated, achieving marvelous effects. All that’s missing is to create efficient soldiers—that is, serial killers in the service of a cause.

Chorus of drunks: The aroma of coffee colors my days

strengthens the tacit appetite to produce teeth

open the paths of the pass

to travel them alone,

66

transforms a part of my mind,

It dries up the old ways that made my past proud,

the aroma of coffee

She smiles at me from the breasts of a sweet woman.

Murderer: Surely the barking has woken the neighbors, surely the vermin in the parking lot are about to have an orgy. The interrogation lights blur the vision, sunglasses fog the face, and every human being hides an infamous beast within. Good intentions are, at heart, an opportunity

to show superiority; humility is the ultimate expression of arrogance. Hospitals overflow with beggars, the niche is infected with the virus of indifference, the paths are the fruit of an inorganic death, shit writes the details of the future on our faces. The sowing is interrupted, ground down with kicks, the players invent, they inject the player’s dream into the sidewalks, millimeters increase in price, and universities buy the pavement.

Chorus of drunks: The plans are shot down by the nectar of my words,

All feet tremble, dislocate, all fall,

The sounds are digitized and repeated in the media,

screams, gasps, babbling sold, packaged, sealed,

distributed and nuanced.

Hitman: Thought is an instinct, and the origin of that instinct is evolution.

The word is the limit of evolution, the word is the imperfection that defines us as a species.

Creations are the intellectualization of coitus.

Killer: Closed for the holiday.

Hitman: Those who act best triumph, only masks triumph, those who act sincerely triumph, those who spread shit triumph, the masters of lies triumph, the manipulators triumph, the intellectuals in the service of death triumph, the sons of bitches triumph, the worst shit in the

world triumphs. Choose among these models and triumph, be one of us, be a winner, nothing else matters, only you matter, crush everyone who gets in your way, never doubt, act and let the mediocre complain about your triumph.

67

Assassin: A photo on a tomb strengthens death. Tentacles writhe in the abyss, necklaces sow rifles, every minute is a rehearsal, every second a triumph of science. Dragons, the devil,

the words of the church and philosophy, sparks change course, alter the trajectory. Availability is

poetry locked in a test tube, reeds petrify, I’m blind, I’m blind. Holy shit! I’m blind! Hallelujah!

Hitman: The idiots in the intelligence services are trying to play with my mind, poor fools. I’m locked away, I’m an impenetrable mind, I’m lost in my thoughts, there’s no room for melodies, nor for other people’s words. I’m alone, and that’s where my greatness lies. Being the smartest person in the world has one advantage: everyone—and when I say everyone, I mean everyone—sucks my dick. Fuck the emeralds! Fuck the medals! You sons of bitches, I

offer you death. Death that bleeds, death that conspires, death that traps, death that doesn’t escape, death that confronts, death that annoys before killing, death that brightens my days, death that I dedicate to your parents, death, you are my life. And for those who think they know something of my story, suck my dick. Shit is shit, and my words aren’t metaphors for shit. Shit is treated like shit. The SIDE’s operations are pathetic, prostitutes are shit. Stay away

from prostitutes and never get feelings for anyone; feelings are a weakness.

Killer: The sheets envelop your face, sweat slowly trickles down your body, your goosebumps smile, your breasts rest and dazzle me. I begin to lick you, I bite your neck, I trace your contours and kiss your intimacy. Now you ask me to enter, you beg me to enter. I begin to penetrate you, slowly, your face overflows with pleasure. You ask me harder, you ask me for more, and I obey. We finish looking into each other’s eyes, we begin to enjoy the aftermath, we kiss and begin again.

Hitman: Delivering a bomb in the middle of a demonstration is a cheap trick; the methods are the product of an abstract mind; notebooks are stained with a revolver with filed-off

numbers; the practices are carried out by specialists in destroying consciences. The mentally ill are catapulted into regimes of the diving suit; they all grimace when they hear the truth, hide

in the burrow of shit, and explode in rage.

They are dead and mutilated dung.

Murderer: I lay myself bare in my words and show you the mirror of humanity.

Hitman: Soiled hillsides are shrouded in mourning by the frame of the painting, chimneys spew lanterns, and each sector assumes itself in every answer, hands carry the screams

of dreams, the multicolored ones run in the wrong direction, each word crashes against the walls of impatience. Children of dawn determined to obtain the nectar of the

68

Creation, the creation of words that transform into realities. They move, change dialects, and form a circular network to petrify their creators. The way out was always a prayer, a sentence, an aphorism seared into my soul. The cockroaches approach, invite me for ice cream, I eat that ice cream and vomit a thousand lies, tinged with truth, in their faces.

The insects are determined to knock me off course, a path I tread without doubt or hesitation. Spores conspire among the snakes, songs are dissected, birds are riddled with bullets at the station. Each figure shapes its own destiny, because figures are just that: figures, masonry, pastry, liquid, plasma, turds, piss, snails, and above all, ice cream.

Assassin: Poppies mixed with the mercy of an assassin, that is to say, nothing, less, recess, solitude,

shields, and ghosts. The straps are framed between the timpani of the choir, the magpies stagger from the rooftop when they hear the cries of the newborn, each part gets in the way of the other, the snot finds an exit, the dinosaurs beat each other up on the corner of Dorrego, physicists and chemists thunder at the entrances of

the mini-markets, the kiosks are mint refrigerators, mint that secretly cheapens your eyes.

Hitman: We have a communication problem, says the shithead. Communication is an entrance, and there are airtight entrances, doors that open with the instinct that whispers in our ear while we speculate with our delusions.

Beware, saints, for it is devils who intervene on the coasts. Beware, everyone, because there is suffrage, and they will steal the election from us.

Assassin: Dietary supplements, a corrugated letter, a large lens, and seventeen buttons boxed into

thresholds. The metals demold at the butt, the weapons are carried in jackets, each jacket is a weapon against nature, the senses are altered when we conduct practical demonstrations on the terrace. Previously I had broken down an idea, previously I had broken down a feeling, an illusion modulated in the corneas of the intellect. A body cannot and should not change our course. Our mission in life is to assassinate them all.

Hitman: Behind the eye makeup hides unhappiness, a simian grimace, a mandrake that functions as mistletoe on the disguise that composes it. But who am I talking about? It’s very simple, I’m talking about the crosses that her hips display, I’m talking about the unspoken secrets that each excrement harbors, I’m talking about the guilt of feeling like something you’re not, I’m talking about eternal unhappiness, I’m talking about artificial death as a way of life, I’m talking about burnt plastic, I’m talking about fields and plows, I’m talking about idiotic systems.

Murderer: Grotesque are the schemes of the world, everything runs on pig blood, the filthy animals who are the majority are a mass. They all deserve to drown in their own pigpens.

69

Hitman: The snakes move in codes, the music leads them by the sideways glance, everything is filtered through the eyes, everything is seen in the dark.

Murderer: As long as fools are in the majority, nations are doomed to failure. Machines are only good for certain tasks, tools are limited by their usefulness, and people are disposable because they specialize in one task—that’s when they become tools. There are people who can perform

different tasks; they are composite tools. These specimens are also common; they all serve to keep the machinery running, a course of tremor and chaos.

Hitman: Solitary, the path of virtue, solitary, temptations at his side. The world, women, vices, work, travel... Only in solitude is it possible to create, only by feeling the deepest pain and vomiting it into words, that’s it, this is it.

Assassin: Betrayals are commonplace; all relationships harbor betrayals; everyone betrays. Humans are inherently a system driven solely by pleasure. Therefore, anything goes; the rules of pleasure prevail. The passionate human is the model for the masses. The masses are passionate. We cold ones remain on

the sidelines, reveling in the acrobatics and grimaces of the apes.

Hitman: The eardrums of reason burst before the plasma receptacles, the senses sharpen with pain. Jesters live inside trumpets, clown schools divide to create the difference of uniformity, everything is the same. In different places, the food is the same, the ice creams are prepared in the same way, bones are the skeleton of the machinery, each nit is a species in the niche. Mortals walk on their bodies, they are inhabited by beings from polar planes, the sides are perforated by industry while the foreheads are destroyed by the media.

Chorus of drunks: They bid farewell to every certainty

with the edge of its claws

They dismiss all the sentences

with the breath

They draw their arguments to kill all the idiots.

70

Murderer: Holes that are people, holes that are mass, holes that must die by their very perception; those who live from a well do not deserve to live. Death to the moles, death to all the blind who wander the horizon.

Hitman: A dramatic situation will likely light up his eyes, a dead man might rise from his grave, and best of all, ghosts are the fear that conflict generates. Conflicts are the flame of history, the foundation stone of man,

the conflict with oneself, the hallucinations of the future, the spawn of the past, the shields of the present.

Killer: The prey sleeps, they’re easy, they’re scum, I’ll fuck them with my dead dick. Killing animals is a dishonorable task, but as much as we hate to admit it, there are only animals. I assume the world is corrupt and that corporations are modern-day zoos.

Hitman: The scissors, the people who live in the trash of the television, the chimerical landscapes expand over the minds of the unwary. The classrooms reek of iron, the armchairs are beds for the senses, the cinemas increase the chances of dying of dehydration. Every school teaches how to exploit its students; in the end, they all remain silent and eat their own excrement.

Chorus of drunks: Consciences commit suicide

They rip off his scalp.

to all forms that navigate the cosmos.

The eyelids of the mind become dry,

They are liquefied and put into a dented can.

Killer: The hidden ones speculate among the undergrowth, each snake ovulates venom to dissuade our soul, the restaurants sell the best portion of life one can buy.

They move like a blender; the police are the conscience of the system. They go to war for self-interest and for scraps. I’ve killed hundreds of police officers, I’ve murdered hundreds of intelligence agents, I’ve murdered hundreds of soldiers, but what I like most is assassinating politicians.

Sicario: The riots are just the dregs of intelligence services; they take pride in being the masses, they’re imbeciles, they’re the plague that camouflages itself among the insects. Every suit is a weapon, every word is a signal to another suit, and every encounter is a reassembly of a sequence.

71

Killer: I could freeze the moments before the murder, I could write them a farewell letter. I follow them for months, I know when they sleep, when they eat, when they work, I know what color toothbrush they use. In those moments, I transform into them, and it’s that feeling that drives me to the murder.

Hitman: They harass the leaders who come from the common people, grant four wishes to the fools who traffic in words, and stumble when whispers awaken the dreamers.

Crystal giraffes are ground in the workshops, cotton farmers reveal their scars and weep for their harvests, ladies intimidate with their low-cut tops while men dive into desire.

Murderer: The parties are shaken because the sleds bring allergies and new plagues, the minerals dehydrate in the goldsmith’s hands. Triangles are the defense of idiots; they hide in the middle of nowhere to plot a scene.

Hitman: Why dream?

Assassin: Reality is planned in stages, rubble blocks the viewer’s vision, thousands of humans are led to the slaughterhouse to dethrone the hounds of the cosmos.

Hitman: Why kill?

Assassin: Law of the art.

Hitman: What’s the point of going on?

Assassin: Deepen artistic methods.

Hitman: Is he worthy?

Murderer: Natural law.

Hitman: How much money is a job worth?

72

Assassin: The Cost of Ink.

Hitman: How many words are recited before the crime?

Murderer: The ones indicated.

Hitman: For whom?

Killer: By instinct.

Chorus of drunks: They follow them out of caution,

They weave nets for them in vain

because savages jump the fence.

They want to keep them,

But there’s no room for pride,

They want to kick them out,

but they never got in,

They want to kill them,

But they’re already dead.

Hitman: Drivers are the elite of the world; with them, the system creates new rules and new products. They are the raw material of raw materials. Drivers wield terror and own nightmares.

Murderer: Charts of enumerations loom in purgatory, ants eat the remains of a fern while slugs finish their digestion. Anagrams stir up the tides, whims end in slaps, walkers break their legs, the chimeras that inhabit me came in search of justice.

Hitman: The way the secretive choose to communicate is incomprehensible; it’s difficult to get into their dialogues and understand the thread.

73

Murderer: Limits are the support that men have when judging.

Hitman: Money envelops bodies, money buys tools, money is invisible and kills from a distance.

Murderer: Murder by conception is money.

Sicario: Precious stones, the invisible, and the natural in the human mind. Everything is designed and created to kill.

Assassin: Show your wounds and return to the snake pit from which you emerged; there you will grow stronger.

Learn from all that you hate and immerse yourself in the ice. You must be made of stone at all times; not a single feeling should touch your soul. You must be a machine, a servant of new technologies, a game of Russian roulette, a soap opera, a finely gassed program.

Hitman: Programmers are uneasy at the idea of a free cell, they cannot bear the sight of his face, they cannot conceive of words as the fruit of his dignity as a free citizen of the niche.

Assassin: Beware of the receptacles of the unconscious, they cling to the abysses that all souls possess, but I do not possess those weaknesses because I have no soul.

Hitman: I sold my soul to a corporation; they have it stored in a jar inside a secure vault.

Murderer: I sold my soul to the intelligence services.

Chorus of drunkards: The free condemned blaspheme

They burp their words

to avoid choking on the pauses, anointed in the ecstasy of their delights,

They show us doors and keys,

They show us dish towels

74

full of beef fat.

(Silence)

Chorus of drunks: The spurs collapse

The boards warp

particles fall

People fall

Buildings collapse

infinite fall

fall into a mirror

of a thousand forges.

Hitman: Pupils are sold only to be banished, sent to prison; the killer’s hair is found in the corneas of the minotaur, like flies interspersed with blood and pepper. Breakfasts are invaded with the force of a clock synchronized with the icebergs of the galaxy.

Murderer: always.

THE CURTAIN FALLS

ACT TWO

75

A street full of garbage.

SCENE I

(The Hitman and the Assassin sitting in the middle of the street.)

Hitman and Assassin: The Meridians

They triangulate to the door

the

men

lead to wheels

They eat diarrhea.

The

animals

They go out to snoop around

They bark, they moo, they whisper

pellets of

yesteryear.

When night

collapses

to its stars

the symbols

they shudder

in the stillness

76

of the water

and its crude oil.

The canoes tremble

when

They are approaching

to the pile

of crumbs,

they corner

they pee

on

they become dislocated

facing the cold reality.

They play

emeralds

on the elbows

of the chief

they stagger

the cunts in the

fields

for sowing,

the ovenbirds

melt

their nests

and the mud

it is carried

to

their

77

chicks.

Imagine

a

world

of

hundred

beds

hundred

tables

and

hundred

ladies,

imagine

a hat

a pipe

a wardrobe

and

a sandal.

Recreate

thousands

of

times

their

longings

until

pulverize them

recreate

hundred

turns

78

on an axis

for

to give

against

the floor.

Nourish yourselves

with

he

perfume

of

a

bye

eat

greetings

amusements

vomit them up.

Get on

by

he

candelabra

turn off

the

lights

undress

bite

the gluteus

of

the

women

79

further

sweet.

Savor

it

night,

to overeat

in the pigpens,

die

infinitely many times

for

tremble

under the sickle

of autumn.

Yesterday

they bought

the voices

yesterday

they bought

the skeletons

yesterday

they bought

stones

for

throw them away

to the

river

of the

cadence.

The

80

rags

bruised

by the sun

dissolve

in

the

mouth

of a

strange.

Repeat

each

tomorrow

repeat

he

wake up

is

be born.

The

ghosts

they live

in the corneas

of

all

people,

what was not,

what has been lost,

what was denied,

the jammed,

81

sleep

and

they play

in the

countertop

of the

unconscious.

HE

collapse

the eyelashes

of the

scenery, the

jewelry

HE

go bankrupt

by

the

pressure

of

the

southeasterly wind,

the

statues

they leave

in a hurry

the

sneezing

splash

82

to

the

nuns

all

HE

faint

and

HE

them

go

the

stripe.

SCENE II

(The Hitman and the Assassin get up, start walking, but don’t move from the spot)

Murderer: The masks of the orphanage have been torn apart, the glass nets are dead. Today, the lies that played on the stage ceased to exist. All the melodies were captured and surrendered within the pit.

Goodbye is to say rot in hell, along with your entire family and all your accomplices.

Hitman: To hell with the actors! Let them rot in their own shit and drink their own piss in the pit of the damned!

83

Killer: I’m going to exterminate the slaughterhouse path, I’m going to subject every body to the cruelest punishment, I’m going to skin the labs that survey their guinea pigs, I’m going to seal the macrame of the place.

Hitman: War, the dazzling element of life, sleepless nights spent sipping mate, helicopters hovering over the city and strafing civilians, the war everyone craves, newspapers stained with blood, canned goods bearing the

mark of death. War that floods the gardens and withers the quails that try to take flight, but have no wings, so sad. War that splatters the realm of consciousness, war that subdues hunger, war, plague, give me plague for all humanity.

Killer: The channels appear in spiderwebs, the channels form a sheet of concrete and crush insects. The channels twist knees, break noses, shatter collarbones, and destroy lungs.

Hitman: Lists of beggars, lists of the lost on the outskirts of the niche, are figures trying to escape the sweet scent of the afterlife. Cockroaches grow larger as they devour bodies, rats gather to quench their thirst on the banks of

the stream, burrows change hands while animals fornicate with new consciousnesses.

Murderer: The tea sacks come out to the parade, they move their skeletons to the rhythm of the blows, they stop their teeth when the accordion playwrights appear, they comb their hair several times among the swarms of

mosquitoes, they step on their elbows when the orchestra begins to play.

Assassin and Hitman: It’s Raining

cotton

mixed

with

blood,

it’s raining

it

No

born

and

the

84

images

HE

contour

in

fluorescent lights.

The

spiders

walk

by

he

tissue,

they are looking

a

shelter

for

suck

to

their

victims. A

cup

wheel

below

of

the

rain,

his

contour

HE

85

multiply

So

as

also

their

footprints.

The

snakes

syllable

the

senses,

synthesize

the

slope,

then

change

of

fur

and

begin

of

new

his

ritual

of

rain.

86

Hitman: In the keys of your eyes are hidden a thousand springs, two thaws, and a death. The sugarcane fields groan the fifth verse of the hymn of joy, asking for earth and water for their hats.

Murderer: We all wear an invisible hat.

Assassin and Hitman: Art,

search

of

perfection,

alchemy,

paintings

photos

statues

objects of

transcendence,

art

is

paganism

is

a

gift

for

the

death,

art

87

is

a

ladder

of

images

overflowing

humanity,

art

is

a

life

transiting

it

tremulous,

is

ice

tearing

languages,

is

motion

and

contradiction,

is

he

face

of the

time,

is

he

88

Eden multiplied

and

divided,

art

is

he

sound

of the

bankruptcy

is

he

sound

of

something

that

hits

in

he

background,

is

time

macerated

in

the

bones.

Art

is

something

89

that

surpasses

the

words.

(Silence)

Assassin and Hitman: The

jugulars

increase

of

price,

the

dining rooms

overflow

of

pee,

HE

they crush

the

hairs

of

a

angel.

They clean

the

90

runners

with

salt

and

drugs, clean

the

drinking troughs

with

Honey

and

juice.

The

bars

HE

break

in

the

schools,

the

bars

HE

break

in

the

parks,

all

walk

looking

91

for

he

side.

HE

flood

the

streets

with

he

vomit

of

the

snails,

he

niche

baby

his

own

element,

us

we feed

us

we feed

us

we feed

with

the

offenses

of the

92

system, us

we align

with

the

endurance

with

the

elite

with

he

control

with

the

nothing

with

the

awake

with

the

dead

with

the

that

they play

to

the

roulette

Russian.

93

Implicit

march

the

flavors

that

enclose

the

eggs,

implicit

the

theorems

that

chisel

to

all

the

minds. The crows

fly over

the

roofs,

the

crows

they eat

you

memory

and

defecate

94

new

products.

I feel

when

outline

a

word

that

bankruptcy

to the

that

this

hidden

in

the

gears.

He

oil

is

body

mind

skeleton

blood

nails,

he

mechanism

is

paper

95

lies

words shares

screens media

Finnish

crows.

CURTAIN

96

Characters

Clown 1

Clown 2

Tamer

Maid

Ballerina Devils

The interior of a circus

(The clowns enter.)

Clown 1: How many times have you run after an apple?

Clown 2: Often the pulp was soaked before eating, then the segments were placed in the mouth until the throat was full. I find the image that struggles to disappear when ergonomics settle behind a portrait and unravel to impose themselves in a sewer or a subterranean grimace to be recondite. Words play a determining role in the cunning injected into collectives, into the

floors of buildings, into the palms of hands, into glaciers. Beyond all that, I believe that the specimens in the spheres

97

The concrete things are a kind of outlandish conviction that slips away from sayings and conjunctions.

Clown 1: So the narrow ones pay for the teeth of the marsupials that walk through garbage dumps, that is, do flies always fly near you?

Clown 2: The doorbell rings as alarms are shaken by someone’s screams, shoe soles get dirty from toothaches and cramps, the unbelievers take the form of omens, and the ladies fart after eating a steak with salad.

Why continue delving into the minds of the aforementioned when everything we could say is in the annals of the anus that speculates about everything?

Clown 1: Chairs are for sitting

(The two clowns hold hands and run across the stage. The maid enters.)

Maiden: No, no no no no

Clown 1: Who was he?

Clown 2: Do They Jump?

Clown 1: They left yesterday

Clown 1: Who are they?

Maiden: No, no no no no

Clown 2: In fifteen years?

Clown 1: Which ones?

Clown 2: Why did they say goodbye?

Clown 1: Who ran away from the place?

Clown 2: The Spectator’s Liar

Clown 1: If it’s always them

Clown 2: They’re a farce

Clown 1: Stop acting

Clown 2: They’re garbage

Clown 1: They are rotten

Maiden: No, no no no no

Clown 2: We spit them out after lighting one, a carabera awaits them at the entrances of their home, a sinister lifestyle consumes them while their noses drip the remains of their souls that remain in their miserable bodies.

(The lights go out. Circus music begins to play.)

98

Maiden: Why do notebooks return my words? Why do intruders take possession of my body? I only sell a greeting and they dishevel me like this!

Clown 1: Greed confronts the face of the best deals on the market; each silhouette hunches over, trying to feel fulfilled and improved. Many of those displayed in the chandeliers are matters esteemed on the walls of the landscapes.

Clown 2: You Lie!

Maiden: Oh, who are you!

Clown 1: Behind the makeup, just a fool who wanted to be a doctor

Clown 2: A sphinx adjusting its buttocks so it can easily defecate a finished sock in a corner. For a congregation of sense that insists wisdom is a conglomeration of books and intuition. That’s why the larks are silent.

(The lights come on.)

Clown 1: The best thing is to let yourself be carried away by the consequence that nests in the palms of reason in the concords of the stove that does not light, to take a scoop of ice cream and freeze your teeth.

Maiden: Who can shout to each other what they are? Who can skin a rabbit and then eat it? Tell me who!

Clown 2: Oh, I’d like to tell you so many things, I’d like to fly over your cleavage.

Clown 1: No! I refuse! I am the best encounter you could ever have, I am the philosopher’s stone in its purest form, I am a pair of skis waiting to carry someone.

Clown 2: Why are the sandwiches in the refrigerator?

Clown 1: Because they are cold, distant, they are a kind of contradiction, a goal without borders, a prohibition, a children’s game that wants to rid itself of the burdens of a society that imposes rules, arguments and a solid base of conscience.

Maiden: The point is not to get tangled up, that is, to say what’s happening

Clown 1: Calluses and spasms are rented out in the summer to feel worthy of a scarf, Why punish those who commit a distraction or do gymnastics behind the counter?

Clown 2: The Spokesperson of an Image.

Clown 1: Meditation as a means.

Clown 2: Deterrence in the Moves.

Clown 1: The plants drying up.

Clown 2: Fifty cows watching the slaughterhouse.

Clown 1: A mask in the rear.

99

Clown 2: Half a kilo of kiwi to strengthen the arches of the brine.

Clown 1: A traffic light explodes while toothpaste tubes are being emptied by a vacuum cleaner.

Clown 2: Can we be stunned by a pair of breasts? By some curves?

Maiden: Oh, they just want bodies, they just want sex… no, no no no no.

Clown 1: It is what inhabits the surface plane, the temperature is shaken by the separations caused by the sperm leaving the place.

Clown 2: Sulphur Legs and Lethargy.

Clown 1: Breasts, photographs, and fire.

Clown 2: A little pornography in schools, a way to take away our conscience and distance ourselves from what is truly worthwhile, a blindness worth ten billion dollars.

Clown 1: We truly led them down a slope of no return.

Maiden: Who faces the unspoken?

Clown 2: Everyone has a presence on the plains that are stimulated by the autumn drug.

Clown 1: More than life, it doesn’t cost anything to stop raining.

Clown 2: Ordering a beer solves many problems.

Clown 1: We can order three beers then.

Clown 2: Yes, let there be four.

(A naked man brings them the beers. They grab the bottles and smash them on the floor.)

Clowns: Wicker in the corneas

Wicker in the rooms

Everyone smiles and flips their sandals over.

Thousands of entities feel the gargles

They mourn in the hospitals

The acrylics are ground up

Which form the basis

From the submarine you keep in your pocket

A strange pose

At the bar

a chance encounter waiting for you

100

in every corner

a coincidence that changes

according to your soles

we can try on many shirts

And the strength one is the one that suits us best.

we can have sex

and tell each other nice things

we can jump over the berries

to feel free

we can say that life is shit and we will feel unhappy

so that we can then feel free

we can change our minds

to be free

We can talk about freedom in order to be free

We can censor freedom.

so that it is a desirable product

we can design a freedom that is coined

on the humps of our backs.

Clown 1: Physically awkward and unsettling, they infiltrate the possibilities stipulated in all the rulebooks. A kind of cloister entrusts arguments to a database, then they are related and categorized in the corresponding files.

Clown 2: Are you talking about drugs? Maiden: Oh, no no no no no

Clown 1: The artifices are flooded with the sores of the specialty.

Clown 2: Telescopes are watching people while they poop. How vulgar the world has become!

Clown 1: In terms of consciousness, the slopes are what cut with the shows, the dichotomies are used to satisfy a demand, a solidity in the jobs while clearing the horizons that hinder the stadiums.

101

Clown 2: Fifteen millimeters of stagnant water in the highlands, a water clock that plunges into the

heights, then falls and clears itself using a windshield wiper, a coagulated mind centrifuged in the lieutenant’s mixtures.

Clown 1: Let the kites fly!

Clown 2: Bribes for Everyone!

Clown 1: Chaos and Militancy in a Grid

Maiden: Oh, the plagiarisms! Oh, no no no no no

Clown 2: Plagiarizing underwear is the most vulgar thing imaginable; it’s a weed that creeps between the legs of the exchange, a chimera of substances that strives not to be left out, a mind of its own, an impulse that overwhelms all people.

Clown 1: Who remembers what they shouldn’t during a party?

Clown 2: Everyone wants to cross the horizon line.

Clown 1: Everyone thinks that sex is an argument in itself

Maiden: Oh, no no no no

Clown 2: Continue with the limitations that are wrapped in newspapers and sold alongside products in supermarkets, correct the faults to proceed to take off the pants.

Clown 1: When were species the protagonists of their own story?

Clown 2: The endings were never conclusions

Clown 1: Cold are the dumbbells that surpass the etymology of their own meaning, a resolution that increases in value when it is established that the mornings were sold in the street stalls.

Maiden: Cold are those who wash their hands before eating!

Clown 2: Testicle on the plates of all the servers of enthusiasm, a suitcase that whips the hardened ones who connect to the internet to realize that the world is control.

Clown 1: Charcoal in the hands of artisans who go to hornets’ nests to cage themselves after a smile that hides behind the senses

Maiden: A world without smiles, Oh, no no no no

Clown 2: Feet get warm

Before going to bed

Their backs warm up

With a company

Undesirable

102

The stockings are adjusted

To avoid falling out of bed

They comb their hair after bathing

To avoid being what one is

They touch their bellies

To realize that life

It only passes through the stomach

And for the sensations of a bed

Freshly made

They rub their legs together

They take off their clothes

They do it

then they talk

What they didn’t do

Of what needs to be paid

What tomorrow holds

Then they fall asleep

and intricate

They glide over the dream

They awaken to the everyday

They immerse themselves in reality

That which prevails over their eyes

On the unreal

That they dreamed on the same day

On the jaws of a cat

Who longs for a caress.

Clown 1: Drunks are those who came together by misfortune, drunks are those who write footprints on the tar, drunks are those who show their wounds only to deepen them.

103

(The clowns exit. The mirror enters.)

Mirror: Who are you?

Maiden: A product

Mirror: Who are you?

Maiden: One word

Mirror: Who are you?

Maiden: An image

Mirror: Why are you carrying that on your back?

Maiden: Because circumstances stain me

Mirror: What are the samples for?

Maiden: To impress

Mirror: Who are you? Maiden: Fresh water

Mirror: Who’s shouting?

Maiden: A splinter

Mirror: What do you live for?

Maiden: To feel

Mirror: Why do you die?

Maiden: To feel

Mirror: Where do your charms come from?

Maiden: From the coldness with which I wake up after loving.

Mirror: How many loves have you left behind?

Maiden: To all those who were shipwrecked on my breasts.

Mirror: Actresses remain silent about the crude

Bloodletting is being promoted.

To establish a melody

The wires are silent

On the walls

104

While the common people eat the fruit

Of incest

Uncertain are the arduous ones

They are trying to settle down

In the armchairs of abundance

Those who eat remains of bodies And sheets

Those who choke on the tailbone of reason

While they blur their lives in front of the radio

They think that after death

There’s something

They think that after death

The laughter they never had will appear.

Maiden: faces turn black, bones are ruined by saliva, licking the stinking is an escape, it is a plan that strives to be a connection of verbs.

Mirror: You have to know how to clean yourself up after circulating something stinking

Maiden: It’s that, clean with words, with the beauty that is only seen, with the sporadic nature of the immaterial, the fortuitous that arises between the lips.

Mirror: Silences that do not silence

(The mirror exits. The clowns enter.)

Clown 2: And going back on one’s word is natural, it’s truthfulness mixed with the prism of intelligence

Clown 1: The umbrellas speak to the rain, the umbrellas speak to the wind, they whisper motionless songs.

Clown 2: More pasta for the beans! More pasta for the stomachs! More pasta for vomiting!

Curtain

(The dancer enters. She cries.)

(Silence)

105

Curtain

(Enter the lion tamer)

Tamer: City life is wonderful, we have everything at our fingertips, we just

It’s necessary to have money; you only need to enslave yourself for forty years to have a pack of candy on the table. It’s a fallacy to say that the city is depressing, oppressive; it’s a fallacy to say that the city is the cause of all evils. Cities are nothing—well, that is to say, they are cities, but they are not people. It is people who create oppression in their minds. Humans always look for something to feel bad about, and it is

this dissatisfaction that drives industry. The market is psychological; every consumer product is placed next to a need, and needs arise from dissatisfaction. That’s why consumption will never end; that’s why capitalism will never disappear. Other forms of government are also subject to the laws of consumption. Consumerism is the tool that humans created as a carrot, but many realize this, don’t they? Even so, it’s necessary to consume.

Beyond the theoretical aspects I can outline, I want to offer you a representation of the distance between you and me. We are separated by the ways in which we live our ideas, how we dress, how we speak, but

there is something that unites us, and that is the price of admission.

(The Tamer exits. The red lights come on. The Devils enter.)

Devils: They sleep under the rocks

They sleep under the frogs

That are squeezed into the edges

Unrestrained, they hide from his shadow

They hide from the rottenness that dwells in their grotto.

From what is lost that is modified

In the galleries

In the mummification rooms

In business

In blenders

on all branches

in every sense.

Devils: Come, come closer to our breath, to our way of seeing things, to our fire, to our conscience that beats on the pad of all the seals, come closer and taste the food that hurt you, come a little closer

and you will see your ruins, you will see how your pieces fall. (The demons leave. The red lights go out. The dancer enters.)

106

Dancer: They come out spurious from me, they come out after shedding their sequins, they profane what is lost among the slanders of the reality that surrounds them, they go out of their way to satisfy a need that does not meet the requirements that they themselves have on their heads, they have the pleasure of knowing

themselves to be worthy when the water covers their necks, meanwhile the fish die dragged by a net, by my net.

(She cries. Silence. She looks at the audience.)

Dancer: They attract dramas, they attract all the attendees who have something to leave in the mind of a nut, they attract many versions of the juice that splashes their faces, that hits the temple of the ape you carry inside, of the disgusting animal that is humanity, of that thing you think about while doing your daily chores, of that thing you use when something goes wrong, of that thing you have sewn on your forehead, many of you boast of not being animals but your actions betray you, your actions move you towards the path of animals, you are a mixture of colors on a rickety lectern, a bed without a mattress, a kind of liquid that manages your minds and your

verbs.

Dancer: Lost in thought about what could have been

They walk the streets, they pass through the pigpens

To accommodate the body

To rid themselves of their fluid

From that liquid

That plays a role

Determinant in animals

They blend in with their prey

They seek pleasure

Then

If you get it

They leave

Again

Let’s look for more

AND

His life

In summary

In the search

From a liquid

107

Satisfaction

From a liquid

That is injected

To avoid falling.

Dancer: The potions are bought

Already prepared and labeled

Bodies are bought

For a roll in the hay

To feel for a while

The enjoyment of money

That paper

That changes hands

Like organisms

That are trafficked

In the newspapers,

The anecdotes are told

Coitus

The money is being counted.

So as not to forget them

In a bag

of garbage.

(She cries. She leaves.)

Curtain

(The Clowns enter)

Clown 1: Calamities at the back of a room, a sponge that grooms the internal contradictions, a centrifugal force that adds arguments to the despair that runs rampant today in

108

Day. Humans brood from their niche, walk for hours trying to think of a meaning for existence, become agitated when the images refuse to attend the parade, become frightened when they realize that behind their backs there is a shadow that intercepts all voices.

Clown 2: And so they fall silent, so as not to parade on the concrete that cramps the senses, the same one that fogs the windows of the shops, the same one that frightens when the eyes open.

Clown 1: A seafood salad coming out of a nose tells us how good it is to live on the outskirts of the torment, an ancient way of moving that constitutes the exodus and the uprising of the values that emerge in the stratosphere, a scheme that affects the organs and attributes to itself the forms that are designed on the outside of the landscape.

Clown 2: To stop feeling, you have to walk away from the beginning; that way, memories petrify before entering the realm of memory.

Clown 1: We could say that memories are a station before crying. Clown 2: Sure, we can say anything.

Clown 1: That’s why we’re clowns, that’s why we’re a caked and macerated face.

Clown 2: Let’s value laughter better, today it seems elusive.

Clown 1: Laughter is for the beardless.

Clown 2: Yes, sadness and pain define us as humans.

Clown 1: Have you seen how people cry when they experience a loss?

Clown 2: It’s because the object of desire is gone. Clown 1: No, he hasn’t left.

Clown 2: Then it returns with a different name and things remain the same.

Clown 1: Is there no such thing as an object of desire that cannot be transferred?

Clown 2: I don’t know, we’re clowns…

Clown 1: They stuff with strands

What’s left over on the eyelashes,

They understand that it’s better to feel

To swell with passion

They miss each other after rubbing against each other

The senses are stimulated by pollution.

To detach oneself thus

109

Anyway,

They huddle together to feel each other’s breath

from the other

They boast of knowing they are passionate

when the time is right

Then they remove their makeup

and they find their faces

repercussions

for the meeting.

Clown 2: A Web

It stains the room,

The candlesticks break

And they spill the melted candle

On the tablecloth,

Lips gleam

In the darkness

And with them, greed

In fluorescent green,

A leg peeks out

Because of the dress

A low-cut neckline

It beats in the mind

A hand holds A cigarette

The ashes fall

The first glimpses of pain fade away

The senses fade

And they are erected

sights.

110

Clown 1: What is it for?

Clown 2: To stimulate.

Clown 1: Who is it for?

Clown 2: For all those who can fit it.

Clown 1: Does it work?

Clown 2: No.

Clown 1: Is it real?

Clown 2: What?

Clown 1: This

Clown 2: Real as words.

(Enter the Maiden.)

Maiden: What a load of crap, and the whore who gave birth to all of you!

Clown 1: What happened?

Maiden: No, no no no no

Clown 2: Was it him?

Maiden: Go take a shit!

Clown 1: But why?

Maid: I’m fed up with him. I give him what he needs and he abandons me. I don’t understand it. Of all people, me, the ideal woman.

Clown 2: The ideal was always earthly, the ideal was always a desire that is achieved in the mind.

Maiden: It’s that in one way or another, the antagonists are always the ravines that thrill dreamers and petrify wasps.

Clown 1: Very good observation.

Clown 2: While the nits suck the nectar from the tributaries, the ants die under a sole, the insects are devoured by a bird and are defecated in unison.

Clown 1: Very good observation.

Clown 2: The side effects are the product of misfortune, they are a splinter in the situation.

Clown 1: Ehhhh

Clown 2: Soft drinks in refrigerators to hydrate the body, soft drinks in the press to anesthetize the mind, soft drinks at the expense of markets that devour the fortuitous

111

forms of the conglomerate, exhausted the survivors of the system who reserved for themselves the world and all the borders, exhausted those who attend the bank robberies of that system that steals from the system, we live in a nest of vipers and we manage to breathe by sticking our heads out of our feet.

Clown 1: Because bloodletting runs through the basic precept of the concept, industries burn the molds and supplant identities with hair gel and cash, after that they immerse themselves in statistics and promote pre-designed ideas.

Clown 2: The postmodern industry is criminology, an award that unfolds the regime, an inverted pyramid in the degree of consciousness, a star that immolates itself on the lunar face, the frictions of the mirror increase as I erase yesterday, I am excited by the idea of celebrating every word and every gesture every day.

Clown 1: The word as the right to win, the word that aims and shoots, the longing word that is reflected in the oasis, the axiomatic word that is forged in the conquest.

Clown 2: In conquests, virtues develop and the ego is magnified; it is victories that lead us to the abyss of our own height.

Clown 1: Virtue is connection.

Clown 2: And different elements can be connected, hehehehe.

Clown 1: A figure transcends the limits, the reeds part and tongues emerge to sculpt a face in the diaphragm of the sunset.

Clown 2: While judges kneel before economic powers, the courts are filled with papers, cocaine papers, and cases initiated due to the ineffectiveness of the system.

Clown 1: Judges are the personification of an abstraction.

Clown 2: And abstraction is the muffled sound that is gestating in the retina of the high plateau.

Clown 1: No, that’s not abstraction.

Clown 2: Abstraction is the unknown, an abstraction is the end of knowledge.

Clown 1: Exactly! Let’s celebrate!

(The clowns begin to scream and run around the stage)

(Silence. They sit down in the chairs)

Clown 2: Hello

Clown 1: Hello, how are you?

Clown 2: Good.

Clown 1: They say it’s going to rain tomorrow.

Clown 2: Yes.

112

Clown 1: And… are things alright with you?

Clown 2: Okay, calm down.

Clown 1: Well… are you reading something?

Clown 2: No, I don’t like to read.

Clown 1: What a difficult conversation.

Clown 2: …

Clown 1: And tell me something, talk to me about something

Clown 2: I can’t think of anything to say to you.

Clown 1: Well, see you later.

Clown 2: Bye.

(Clown 1 gets up and leaves)

Clown 2: A Hundred Ordinary People

From ordinary lives Of oblique minds

He observes them

AND

They bite their lips.

(Clown 2 exits. Maiden and Dancer enter)

Maiden and Dancer: The diadems are intertwined

The profiles merge into nothingness

Each sphere blends in with the environment

Reality suffers from within.

And the inner self multiplies in front of the mirror…

(The clowns enter.)

Clowns: Ahem! Sorry, sorry, sorry, it seems the melodies are staining the curtains…

(Enter the Lion Tamer)

Tamer: Humanity is heading towards rigidity and its own extinction. What do I mean by this? Individualism is dying out, and with it, the particularities that make us unique are being lost. Now everyone seems the

same to me, and if I don’t know them, their clothes and the way they walk speak for them. Everything is identified and put at the service of others.

113

From uniformity, a uniformity that binds and gags minds. There are thousands who try to be free, thousands who try to think, thousands who try to go against the system, and it is these struggles that make them uniform. Today and here, we don’t try to be part of anything, and that is precisely what makes us another pre-established form. No one escapes the yoke that humanity itself created, no one escapes the hives, no one breaks free from appearances, no one is willing to live a true life because it is forbidden by the very rules of coexistence.

CURTAIN

114

It is born when it sees its own silhouette imprinted on the concrete; thirst begins to alter its body. Its eyes open when the air hits its face.

115

He dresses his madness with laws, he dresses his madness eating icebergs, he dresses every part of his body with the diagram that establishes each district.

116

The folds of their system are the pills that are distributed daily in the sewers.

117

It modifies its skeleton with the scent of death.

118

Loneliness prepares him for the portrait on the tomb.

119

He sighs when his heart dictates his conscience, he breathes when he vents his misgivings, he relaxes when the world disappears under the halo of mysticism.

120

Singing to the crippled in spirit, digging up more earth for my flowers.

121

We spent the night with IV fluids… and we enjoyed it.

122

Costumes are a social condition; without them, chaos would bring us perfection.

123

Humans never seek perfection.

124

Laughter clouds the mirror, it falls asleep covered with the shrouds of the moment.

125

The corner of the circle of all circles is seen; skidding.

126

To enter, you have to be inside.

127

After remaining, the involuntary word occurs.

128

The rhythm of the river shines in the eyes.

129

Terrorism is the oldest art.

130

Behind the misfortune lies a surface full of scratches.

131

The fire trees eclipsed the sun.

132

Coldness is only allowed at wakes. Nobody realized we were living in a wake.

133

Sex is a topic for starting a conversation.

134

The aftermath is a silence filled with coughs.

135

Slandered to the point of being his very life.

136

The meeting sparked dialogue.

137

The corpses

They look out from their tomb

like iron melts with rubble,

the cries of the dying

soon fall silent;

The calm reigns, devastation.

138

A

frozen

HE

melts

while

thousands

of

people

it

lick,

a frozen

that

between

so many

languages

learned

to

say

tea

I love.

139

Among the concrete debris,

Flies eat meat

and lay their larvae;

soon a dark cloud,

envelops the place.

140

The agony screamed,

The bodies were torn apart by the weight,

the sounds of the structure

They set the final pace.

141

The candlesticks sink into the mud, the birds tear apart their wings,

their bodies sweat the ecstasy of return,

The objects observe the simplicity of the act,

The apes bite their lips

while playing with their hands the lap of nothingness.

142

They dissolve in my mouth

the platforms, the reeds, the buildings,

They are torn apart in my mind

stone and sand paths,

They break in my stomach

all those blank faces,

They live in terror

of the nightmare,

the bodies of the cities,

Those, which are fading in my eyes.

143

Two who burn their hands,

They stretch out their feet and put their backs together,

They eat their own feces and vomit hearts and clocks,

They sit and wait for someone to take them out,

But nobody is going to get them out,

The lights go out.

The deceased victims are taken to the morgue.

there it is discovered that they died

before the elevator

will touch the floor.

144

Path by

the

ruins

of

something

that

never

existed,

path

between

animals

that

gimen

mugen

They squawk,

path

by

he

pigpen

and

my

feet

No

HE

they make dirty

path

by

he

145

time

that

HE

bends

in

each

passed.

146

The dirt is palpable.

It is injected into the veins of the passengers,

the night opens its eyes

and euphorically advances among mortals,

The day brings us countless crosses

repulsed by the dawn.

147

They were cremated

through the eighth stanza of a poem,

They were the ones who left the world

for a watch

for a stroll

for a meeting,

They were the ones who closed their eyes,

those who covered themselves with the cloak of night

those who fell asleep, after so much waste.

148

A drop of sweat is begged for

to calm the desert that dwells within us,

destinations are fragmented

Hope, which solves everything, disintegrates.

the brew of the night dissolves,

our minds spin in fluorescent,

the screams die,

in the dim light,

with a smile.

149

The bones are torn out.

they bite each other

They mutilate their souls

the corners of their mouths are torn off

they are lost

They get angry

they blush

they submit

they break They kiss

They love each other.

150

Already drunk, I leave the mud

next to the glass,

disgusted by so much meat,

fed up with words,

fed up with illusions

that shine in the eyes of the water,

Tired of it all, I throw myself out the window

and I discover that on the other side,

There is a mirror,

stained with drool,

and shit.

151

To bathe in the water of your sex to become intoxicated with the ecstasy of what comes after, to smile at you to show you my teeth, those same teeth that bite the velvet of your skin while the viper sheds its skin and is reborn amidst the shrieks of twilight...

In a corner devoid of experience, what should be the intimate part of each being is constructed, what defines them as a person, their way of seeing and relating to reality, the changes suffered due

to lack, the changes experienced due to distance… a jungle of apes playing at being fire, this stupidity of being an exhibitionist to get into some vagina, this stupidity of playing with obscene words… with metaphors that try to intellectualize coitus, the emphasis on sex that is only that… sex, the stupidity of the ape who finds amusement in the lack of content, reciting vulgar verses aloud and finding comfort in the externalization of genitals, only apes crying for the lack of some satisfaction, only apes trying to show their elegance with foul words, only digressions into imaginary worlds, into partial futures conditioned by the experiences each one has gone through, only products sold with words, only silent machines, that They await their turn to be lit.

152

Your eyes, your mouth, your heart, your silences... and everything that makes you who you are.

153

Chalk and rage

bizarre chaos

that dances on the sidewalks

that produces sulphur and sulfur

that plays realities

night falls on the meadows,

velvet fissure

saliva and flies recreation

secluded mineral grotto

that you weave together mornings

in the antique shops downtown, skin temperature

on the walls of the world,

lime wedges

on the walls of the body,

polymers that vanish

right in front of the doors,

juices that are squeezed

in the dungeons of betrayal,

remnants of garbage

on the streets

in the hotels

deep within the subsoil,

legs breasts hips

that come

minds and souls

that come out,

whistling eardrums

horror songs

154

and fire,

pats on the back

taps on the temple

leftover food

between the feet

sage remains

between the folds,

beginnings and continuations

for the same price,

tyranny of orgasm that invades

in each chart.

155

The nectar of your mouth

begins to flow,

their gazes drift apart

in the mists of oblivion,

the lights go out

when the shadows melt into nothingness,

You look at the ceiling

while the clots show their presence,

You turn around

and in bed;

There’s nobody left.

156

You were trembling with tears,

your legs went numb

on the road to heaven,

You were biting the canvas of the painting

to swallow the pleasure

what is there in mutilating

a creation,

your hands caressed

the end of distance

the infinite solitudes that withered away

in the labyrinth behind it;

of your smile.

157

The iron twists,

the bleeding begins,

it glides along the coasts

of the folds,

the voices fall silent,

while they watch,

the collapse.

158

Two animals

they bite each other

the smiles

drop

her eyelids thawed

to step on them,

to put makeup on them

delayed.

They hug,

before her lips

touch comforts,

the marked dagger

on the emerging skin

of humanity

passes through bodies

and the subtle lightning

illuminate that flower

incarnate

in the mirrors

of all desires.

159

Sharp, cutting face

slice my remains,

Take away my sorrowful flowers,

towards silent seas

where the viscera rattle

bronze gasps, mixed with blood.

160

I slide

along the tropic line,

I bite the contours

from your city,

I enter your soul,

I’ll inject you with poison,

And I watch as you slowly die,

tremor after tremor.

161

A fly.

His language

sucks up vineyard debris,

corrugated scraps

that harbor their terror

in the gaze of perhaps.

Satiated,

flaps its corrector wings.

162

A blow stimulates the viscera, absorbs the commotion of the blood

that stagnates between my hands,

the skin twitches fluorescent

and the mind expels the past,

that evaporates;

about nothing.

163

The numbers sing the funeral march,

The systems silence the flourish of the images,

The pronouncements of the radiance remain silent.

that worsens,

day

day after day.

164

I sink and shake to your inner world, thousands of faces collide

against the wall of the abyss,

the blood flows,

the sunset envelops us;

convulsed.

165

He

liqueur

HE

spills,

thousand

images

they travel

the

morgue,

thousand

shouting

they fall silent

in

the

evening,

the

cries

dye

the

farewell,

the

cries

draw

a

clock

frozen

to

the

six

166

of

the

late.

167

We sat down.

The lips of destiny

they caressed the metallic skin

that covered our table.

“What will you have?” asked the waiter.

I looked her in the eyes and answered:

Hells and almonds.

168

Your

lips

they say

Yeah

your

lips

me

They smile

your

lips

me

they ask

further

your

lips

cut

ellipses.

169

To tear off one’s skin

with the words of the body.

That’s it, just that, love.

170

Night falls

and with it the crystals

that are embedded in the empty face

from the coffin,

the skins fall silent

while the cigarette smoke envelops us

to wake up again

the hunger of death

hidden cannibalism

that is in our eyes.

171

We melted into dreams of daggers and wounds. We wake up and perform our daily rituals,

like two strangers.

172

What brand is your puzzle?

A turn around the corner, a fold without mending.

What brand is your puzzle?

A spiderweb without flies, a board stained with paint.

What brand is your puzzle?

A drum without sound, a grimace on the stairs.

What brand is your puzzle?

A ruby stretched out like a jewel.

What brand is your puzzle?

A nap in a zip-top bag.

What brand is your puzzle?

A splinter lodged in the collarbone.

What brand is your puzzle?

Wings without feathers, paths without a floor.

What brand is your puzzle?

A bun on the forehead of conscience.

What brand is your puzzle?

Break down each word.

What brand is your puzzle?

A disaster, a sequel.

What brand is your puzzle?

A solitary ear-pull.

What brand is your puzzle?

A heart that does not beat, immolates itself.

What brand is your puzzle?

173

It is the reflection of your shadow

what captivates me to a frenzy,

They are your lips, incarnate on my forehead.

the coronation

of my loneliness,

It’s your gaze

the liquor that intoxicates the ghost

from a memory I never had,

nor will I have,

And finding you would be like plucking the petals from the gardens of the world.

to build a fragrant path

with illusions

of love.

174

I woke up with my heart pounding

in the matrix of your blood flow,

I kissed the syntax of the charred images

and with them I wrote my name

on your skin,

I licked your trembling flesh

looking for the flavor

of your pain,

I covered you with black sheets,

I left a cold coffee in the park of your memory.

And I left.

knowing that human knowledge is impossible.

That’s how I built a reliquary

and I filled it with chimeras

that were born from your words,

so,

one more time,

I think it’s possible

love.

175

The trees of fire

They eclipsed the sun.

176

The thirst

makes the strings vibrate.

177

Nudity

trembling with her beauty

fall in love

and from her

cults are born.

178

Humanity creates portraits

colored with deficiencies

and those creations

They are duality

that complements us,

with mirages.

179

Costumes are seductive like the hotel mirrors

like an echo

But behind all that

there is an immeasurable loneliness that seeks by force of instinct

adapt to the environment

to achieve a smile,

although false,

although fleeting,

although the intelligence of emotions

set up a theater,

I can’t stop loving you

I can’t stop undressing you I can’t stop telling you

that when the curtain falls

we’re going to offer

until the glasses run out.

180

And you dance with the masks of the clouds

with the steam from your fountain

And it’s a wonderful world.

that falls apart

when I blow

and there all the covers fall.

And there are the souls of the skins

banging his face against nothingness

to achieve a melody

to cope with his loneliness

And there you are.

tied to the forms that are injected into universities with the tools that are the prism of uniformity

with the expression of a carnival queen

vibrating in the gondolas of the party

And there you are.

wanting to lift you up

But only those who do not know how to walk or refuse to walk fly.

And there you are.

easily infatuated, beautiful beyond compare,

with the vertigo of fertility

with orgasmic eyes

throbbing with every step,

always with her hair done, her makeup done and her perfume on,

And I’m there too.

whispering horrible things in your ear

while my mouth waters

But you look so pale.

that hurts

181

devour you.

182

We were filled with silences

without even touching each other

We dream or wake up underwater from a nightmare

We held hands

we throw ourselves off the cliff and when the fall ends

we see the shards of the mirrors

which are

our stars.

183

I lick the words

that nest within my contours

the perhaps

It envelops me in the movement

and unleashes a torrent of images

which completes the collage

of desire

and the world floods

with the juice of the butterflies

and I discover a different kind of oxygen

and there is neither depth nor surface

And when fate drains everything I’m full of stairs

to feel again

even if it’s just for a few seconds

the emergence

of all the arts.

184

185

186

187

The cadence of the river

It shines in her eyes.

188

189

190

191

I swallow the hemlock

that holds the memory of the future,

I freeze

on the verge of death,

the waves calm down, respite,

I close my eyes.

The sequence repeats

infinitely.

It is the taste of agony

what keeps you awake,

192

There are countless cases of suffocation,

those who wait,

that the poison,

becomes crystalline

and like a torrent take my life,

towards where the heartbeat is,

in unison,

with death.

193

Every time I get close

She runs to the library,

of the images that stop her,

He takes out a book and throws it at me,

But I can bite her lips.

with absolute ignorance

and there he will feel that it belongs to him

Well, you’re the one who’s left speechless.

And with the humility of a gardener

I contemplate in stillness the architecture of his soul

and I notice that it’s missing some stones

to build a pond

where water can flow

and its harmony.

But you’re the one who knows

and she smiles with joy

while thinking about the tremors

what the night will bring,

while kneeling before the statues of Cupid

and sobs, evoking the figure of the ideal

which does not exist,

while approaching moving away

with a condescending smirk,

while she goes crazy

194

seeing how I dig in with the tongue,

while he begs me

He denies me

He curses me.

And he loves me.

195

Sunset accompanied by the solitude of warmth.

I climb four concrete steps and all around me, empty cities emerge.

On the ceiling I find an illuminated field with a branching separation

while my feet fill with bricks.

And there’s nothing more to it than that.

but I love its textures.

196

The blue of your movement,

is what remains unresolved

It’s your passion for photography

It is a thirsty eye

which takes away from the unrepeatable,

her beauty, her condition.

Or are they memories of montages?

that have an aesthetic

devoid of life.

Or are they images of humanity?

that overwhelm, that fill with the sensations of a book

without goblins.

Or maybe it’s a line and a dot

which I cannot understand

because I’m just a beast

with their senses horrified.

197

Your inherited nightgown

It is diluted by gray sighs.

Your trained eyes

sometimes they go blind

by the colors of your mind.

And the female that beats in your feet

Sometimes it gets lost in the woods

because he doesn’t know how to summon storms

to uproot the trees.

And then you understand the effect of the rainbow,

to experience it playfully

and take the gold

which is nothing else

more than having tasted a fruit.

And you close your eyes

and you return to equilibrium

And your soul, your dreams, your body, and your feelings are hard,

because there’s already something of mine.

inside you.

198

You make circles on your skin,

while you look at me,

with the ink

a deep red

that keeps waking up.

Me too,

expecting,

with a crazy desire,

of tearing off my hands,

to reach you,

otherwise.

199

If your hearts

They don’t keep pace with illusions

It’s better than fresh water

speak in French

to avoid spilling the glances

of the children.

200

The vases were filled

from the foolish and unsuspecting niches

And life went by as fast as stupidity.

to cry and release your anguish

of your sad movements

And you don’t close a story that’s over.

Because you want to be the last one

because behind all things

There is my memory

stinging

And you talk to another dead person and create another reality

and you throw a tantrum over a loss

that is lost

and hammers on an elastic band

who keeps the other half of the pitcher

and I can turn the page whenever I want

But I was born for these little games

and you run with a pack of dogs

who have no fire in their words

And we’ll let the hours pass because I’m thrilled by cliffs.

in which I was not, am not, and will not be

because it is only a shadow in eternal fall

so

Where is the ground?

201

With desires I bind your hands,

I lift the skirt of your emotions

and I lick your heraldry and its black star

And then I enter your universe

with a blind plumage of colors

and you’re going to writhe in monosyllables

And Alexandria will burn again

And his ashes will be the essence of Guduchi

that will slide across your lips

And there you will understand that words shelter nothing more than the journey

to our eternal bed

and that flower fields are useless

more than to adorn ourselves when we close our eyes

And although loneliness is inevitable

Nothing will remain but the memory

of the pulverized moons

entering right under our noses,

of boozy afternoons and mornings

for an emerging world,

of instincts, of honed fangs

sinking into the flesh of our reason,

of the only certainty there is in life

which is precisely

to have lived.

202

Awake

the ignorant, the common people, the pigs,

then I sleep and dream

like a perfect predator

And they tell me about the double or triple

And I smile

because immorality spreads

and they are consumed in their pigpen

and they think they are special, unique, fast,

And I only hear from their mouths

Oink, oink, oink, oink, oink,

like a mantra that leads them to the slaughterhouse

and they get together and form a circle

while they undress and defecate

And they are so happy smelling their lives

And just thinking about it made me kill Zoroaster and all the prophets.

because neither of them was right

That is why I cast a solitude towards the empire

of those who refuse to live

among the rags

among the shrouds of cosmic garbage

that they call destiny

among the fauna of the depressing

which are their joys

between muteness and the blindness of open eyes

open as the assholes of all assholes

where it enters

this dickhead.

203

The female portrayed in the tango

These are all my wishes that travel to the farthest reaches of memory

And I love her even though her words hurt me.

even if he lets himself be guided by self-serving and petty voices

and maybe I’ll never be able to kiss her lips

But in my dreams I always will.

and I will feel that she was once mine

And here I am, becoming the master of the world and the galaxies.

And with longings like warm lips, I explore its corners.

And I love her even though I know nothing but the well-being of her illusions.

because it’s my complement

even though he understands nothing because his mind cannot comprehend such heights

in which my sighs fly

And I love her and I will always love her

even if it’s not her turn, even if the denial of her foundations distances her from my kisses

and she can laugh or curse at me or simply close her eyes

with the certainty that a deity

ever

He fell in love with you.

204

I am what you breathe, what you see, what you hear,

I am dreams and realities

I am the invisible ink that shapes your contours

I am the orgasm you desire

every time you hear the song that has your name on it

I am youth, freedom, and strength

Waiting and advancing to conquer the green moons

that sparkle in your eyes

I am the bonfire where all the heresies you carry within will burn.

I am your smile, your tears,

I am the one who makes your belly beat.

205

A strawberry in an empty sugar cup.

Shall we have a coffee?

No, the cup dissolves and the liquid branches out.

along the coasts of the folds.

Once again the roar will envelop the cities of the smoked windows.

Because they are just voices in the mind

that go from here to there

because humanity is one voice

that shouts the echo of a melody

written on a staff

of flesh, skin, bone, and soul.

206

Word of God

And when you understand that neither you nor you are you

Not all are all because they are no one, they are one.

You will understand the world

reaching absolute consciousness

which is fullness

And there, at the summit of all summits

You will conquer the solitude that is having the world

and at the same time have nothing,

that is to say,

You will conquer the paradox.

207

Emanuel Tomasin Borda

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