Thirst is not a woman that never leaves her apartment.
Black and white films don’t make her mad.
She doesn’t dream of a spiderweb nursing the eyes of coyotes,
Nor does she catch raindrops with her shoes.
She is half dead. She despises lakes, fountains and rivers in disguise
And the silence of molten tea spoons with a satyr
That keeps fourteen knives in his heart.
Renegade ministers are tired of penitent water.
They are perfect substitutes for giant cellos
Filled with rum and tequila like the tires of their cars.
Like instead of learning to get lost, squirrels
Grow voluptuous plants on the pavement
And throw steering wheels into the sky.
People are dangerous in
The kingdom of laughter like doorbells that
Don’t ring. Their god is viciously hiding.
A pale moon shouts at blackbirds, at labradoodles,
Books, stones, brooks.
High time to trade a rusty truck brimming with
Birds and animals for a frozen tree,
To tiptoe after a fly ‘til it dies, to trespass on a bowl of soup
Brought to the dead with all the hair of the cook.
It is the duty of mirrors to quarrel with void.
Birds facing extinction hide behind the
Smell of tortured harpsichords
And watered sofas. Darkness is
A sloppy fable where giant eggs grow
And sleeping beasts roam, wickedly toothless.
The difficulties of blowing trumpet
Drastically increase for people with equine heads,
But sleep is only a mild disaster for trimmed manes.
Of course, musicians tend to forget the shoes on the roofs
Of the buildings they fail to forgive.
Do horses forget the hooves in the rivers
They cannot cross?
Now that we don’t have a place to return
We can finally stop and smell whatever
We can barely smell. Spoilt chairs
Ride nanny-goats high above over the windows,
Empty bottles crammed on the windowsills,
The taste forgotten, and the sound they make
We can barely hear. The books on the shelves
Don’t have to be translated, don’t have to
Be even understood. Sunflowers laugh
Under the cracked soles, and the mute brains
Of barking dogs can’t help enjoying
Leaves fallen centuries ago. And little rodents,
They make the skies happy
Hiding in the unfeasible holes of oblivion.
Long live archaic theaters, one inside another.
No blood, no sweat, no word, no ending.
A spiderweb teasing a boiled egg disappears
In front of an animal too big to gulp it down,
And the mirrors above become the introductions
To the long narratives of sliced lemons.
Just what is a pet, they ask.
It is a bottle of prehistoric placebo
Prescribed to a hanged Queen of Cups.
A history betrayed by crushed grasshoppers
Thoroughly repeats itself in tree bark,
In an afternoon fib embraced by a squirrel.
Stolen library books are stuffed with the words never ready for divination
With deafening reptilian noise of long sentences only humans would care to read
It is a wail of an unplucked flower on the verge of an unfinished sky
A forgotten wave of the harvest of a year broken with pacified mouths
Trains are raining frogs on sluggish fields
Between recyclable lampposts. Cars
Become merry watermelons with seeds on fire.
They smile afterwards like invented children
Retired gods forbid you to discover.
Once upon a time specters and critters wake up confused
(Alas, there are only eleven green shoes in the whole world)
And wipe off the leftovers of their journey
Watching pigeons fight over the long tables
And the heads of singing robots that sit around:
Poetry has been left to them as a form of comfort.
Archaeology becomes less tactile
Than a language you don’t care about.
Winds belong to the trees and the serpents now,
Dilapidated train stations are nothing but a hoax,
Passengers wait for the ties to rot, tomatoes
Climb to the moon buried in shopping bags.
I am telling you, let’s grow rails in flowerpots.
North Korean cosmonauts
land on the dark side of the Sun
every week. It’s the usual. Poisonous
weeping cities float in the sea. It’s
disgusting. Angels sign all the fish
at the outskirts of the sky.