Aqui va uno en inglés...
I’ve been trying to decipher,
now for a while,
the guy there standing; the one getting drunk at the window,
loathing, against the blue wall and the book shells.
He,
,
reads poetry.
The wine in his hands shakes as for he’s already trashed out,
and the lip trace outstanding at the very edge of the cup
suddenly mingles with that of what he reads:
No longer could I differ which one
-I mean the words floating on the Cabernet-or the shadow lips on the glass,
was the real poem.
Still, I concentrate,
I do want to translate him,
and I fight against the moody bookstore full of beautiful text-cores
and the fact I could fall in love with him.
He unfolds,
he continues on his Dionysic ritual,
He spares his life on that anonymous window
reading what I consider the one same undressed-body of Persephone.
He himself, becomes Mimesis of his own image inside the windowpane,
-Beyond Eikasia- I think
and for a moment the insipient silence of the audience disappear
and a vague ovation emerges from their meat.
The white, tall & well-oiled machine has now stopped.
His already purple mouth has been put into stand-by while his hands,
mechanical indeed,
pursue the missing letters from some poem.
“This one I found profound and appropriate” he might say
but he prefers an undercover giggle,
spreading through the melting bodies around him.
He stabs his eyes on the paper as if the words were trying to escape from a predator.
Pause----------------------------------------Breathe.
The bloody (torn apart) corpse of the poem hangs from his red-moisty lips
as he swings in a sort of primeval erotism;
the dust of those religious non-read books at the store’s most uncertain section
turns into a dimming fog floating against the faces of those hoping any kind of sexual act involving his soft-core pronunciation.
He (again)
,
reads poetry
Though the wine is now dry,
and for me,
I have fallen dead
or in love.
Maybe both.
... So said Persephone.
