el estuche

cora son dear tub

lamination ,lamerme el

codo que se me quema

con el esfuerzo del esfín

ter’s shadow in the toil

et bowl’s sweaty sug

ar madura stroked and

,ffeeling of the ppene g

goteando in the rice

...olives...    O               O

...el escribano del barro...

- Luis Bravo

the smoke deflation

tiemblo tomo la tumba g

gaseosa choked burrowise g

ainst the cloaca chismosa h

is spine’s tomb curled fan

go en la Ccueva de tu votive

pose’s slow sinking mirror ,tu

cacalavera rut ilante would

shatter glass you hear ,a

sleep in spaces ,caras de lona

invisible swayed across the

clay some dusking silence ,de

mi brazo populcro ,pipopular

,papendi cular ,cryptic culo

staring in the flitning dark

your courted flies yr be

bida hus meante

Con fragmentos de la épica

arturiana inédita de Olchar E. Lindsann

  

the sneeze

ch chew s and cr

isp y con chas y el vid

rio circucumular ‘s whap

ped I ,“¿sabes?” the umb

rella full of olives ,or your

keys ,ffroze n in a sp

here of ice el ququeso momor

dido y tu ggus aano liberato

...¡ay tantagua desenfocada!

...lentes(  de  )tierra...

...you know...

- Luis Bravo

the sink

‘’wa//et  /int’‘

you reads

the

bl

Õ‘

O

d  ticket

‘lost’

in’s

sh

‘A’

pe

grot

d.u.s.t cage

the logck

said

goteo ,fauces

t

o

  

ool

bliny y

vomitorio

shades

and crawls

your sTack

P

  

parnassus

supine ,lupus ,trainer do

me rising from the “sea”

turds hid beneath

tomatos the squirrels

twitch  .rust crawls up

the garage et je suis

flapi et j’ai flasqué dans

le miroir  .ah the noddin’s

left the soap’s streaming

from my lips  .mined ,too

thless ,choking on the

suds - when the answer

fills my shoe

...waters of which were

fabled to inspire...

- Mitchell’s Ancient Geography, 1845

the egg

decipher pursued the tw

isting hole salt rentata ,gr

ass and win d a c omb ,somb

ra in the gasoline or ticketless

travel ,fangfarms ,smould

ering parking lots ,the fun

eral slophats or Golgotha fun

nel ,quonset ghost over

whelmed with ,the crusted

clock falling from the chim

ney ,digital ball in your

eyes a code jaw teleph

one hammers through a pl

umbing event my shorts and

wasps ,ceiling books ,a

utonomo bone glyph en

graved in the tents the toll

booth filled wiuth diarrhea

action tholo buttib hair

dark wall’s end of rotor

time miasmic suit in the

bottom of a ,well ,banks and

burbats ,ineffable photograph

,a maddened moth in a cave or

scented pool of shoelettuce ,st

reaming slugs go to sleep in t

he basement where the faint

cinema crushed a watery

mirror or fossil opens its

stony valves the sea the

radish the pants bill

owing in the distance ,br

ink

From Jim Leftwich, Six Months Aint

No Sentence, Book 60; Ivan Argüelles,

“the Hymn to Clio”, “from the Hymn to

Persephone”; and John M. Bennett,

from nothing.

le sud

the ash hock ,ply ,would

spl inter calar ,ni voz

,tócame ,riñón ,leva dura

bicicleta o bigote goteado

-  planificación ur bana l

sin túnel  -  )my craw ling

syn apse(  “just c hew ,i

t p lung es” my flesh my

walllllll

                            Tree  e

 

the gnat

spread said lung spent the

...foarce of shingle ,off the

roof breath my ^ flaming elbow

~~...what rises from the thumb

“your mouth” a green nickel

on your tongue your moth sh

oulder where the speckled te

xt ...I ran outside my p

ants  ...the written sidewalk cr

umbles ...I had “nothing left”

]]what’s heard inside the Sandwich

 

la urbe

chain of sinks a

hot hell ,dampness

combs the rinsing

fog the seeming hill

of masks’ a breast

,eyeless ,seeing ,seen

from the dusty grava

de hoja seca ornada

,los grifos mudos son

y en los bajos

la maleza tupida se sonríe

...yeux, clairs sous le masque.

- Paul-Jean Toulet

the disk

sludgy well ,or air’s expans

ion ,if grey with dust it

thicks ,a drying b rain ,with’s

eyes ,what sees es el fin ,a

l umpy wall of meat ,bloodless

,so’s thin like leaves ,fallen

from the burning tree wh

at connects ,or did ,the worlds

without pants ,nor beaded necks

,p ages which all time contain

the bindings blind s ,sin

ojos por the water’s text

,where an onyx cup with st

ones is filled

L’air immense ouvre et referme mon livre...

- Paul Valéry

the blood

yr rust ling chee k

pail      for  mica      ton  sure

the su gar es capade ,cor

└’’ ‘ nered as h yr shirt’s

binding where yr r ecto f

ades and the vers o’s

in’s la go di suelto

teeth barking in yr shoe

los huevos divorciados

tanto libro dengue nigre

niger igner inger ¿cómo

ocultar la túnica roja el

tiempo ni espacio espinacas

de moscas ,gemir de esp

adas?  falange y   £

bóñiga manchas negras de

larva-máscara reflejo del

cerebro histerionocturno la

pirámide del libro ,loteria y

aviones hidrófobos  .una mas

a de metal humeante salsa

roja y el césped de líquidos

verdes ,mierda y cata

rata ta ,máquinas de plaga...

...y refritos de ceniza...

  

Un hack de un cutup de

Antonio Bonome y poemas de

Juan Eduardo Cirlot, de su libro

Del no mundo, 2008

 

the cheese

your chewing your drowning your

apt to when the ,fantods wh

eeling in yr closet cl utter

spake of ,nods yr doubt

ink ,wham an wham a wh

ile yr clouding yr clowning yr

flomax crawling on the floor

.issue ,and so spitty oh ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

  

...el viento juega con espadas...

- Juana de Ibarbourou

el agujero

bestia l obotomía ,lo que

no me ,queda la nada ni

veladora ,espe rancia

,lubprecación de los goznes

de mi abrebrazo te pu

se la mhano ,infieltro

in hiesto invertebratido y

...el mentón del calzado

ví... donde tú ,el rin

coñón de mis meadas in

fértiles ,me recibes to

davía ,sin sesos sin b

razos sin gorra para

cubrirte el hueco temporal

Los rostros que convergen en el rostro...

- Juan Eduardo Cirlot

the plate

sieze short eye the itcher’ ‘ ‘

one the oth er got’s itchy ‘ ‘’

itchy hill with googlyeyes’  ’  ‘

lumpy masks your deepest ‘’

head your itching hind most’ ‘

must claw yr nails ‘ ‘’ ‘’

or itchy th’’  ‘ ‘’ ‘

igh or back you’re blind’ ‘

to ,itchy mirror jerks be’ ‘

fore yr face the itchy s not’s’’ ‘

spp atttered down yr chest  ‘ ‘

...pas sur le pavé boueux...

- Paul-Jean Toulet

the singer

pl unge a he ad th h ill sor’

t c lose em heead num’

b nort h h anker ed c hew I’

I “H”ed an uh th s âme’s’

ste aam  .logg ccorse ,en’

rivver ,w ear the ststingking L’

ache’s filling slo w ith ssocks’

s wit h air  .’mind’

...down the slope a tooth washes...

  

the sill

m ate red action’s h

ot wall et les «fatals

ciseaux» in my pock

et opened ,a coin ,like

my mouthed stone green

cools my leg ,so my lucre’s

other’s ,and free of my change

...Je mourus...Sans laisser de cadavre.

- Paul-Jean Toulet

the bucket

cet pied ,your setting

chair deglutante a

glove ,defocused ,foco

de piedra ,where yr

shivering thumb ,rai

sed to the ear ,re

fought the war ,lutte

inmiscible ,of yr cor

nered sleeve ,em

belesada ,sin brazo

ya ,scrawls the word

,de l’air fungible ,que

cobra forma ,y al

zapato entra

...ce chemin de nuage...

-Paul-Jean Toulet

el dedo

ent er we ll ,o sot

ilesa ,for ma tunda

w ,hat yr s hack c lun

g sp ill ,or spell the

sh aper were yr t wat’s

ingasping  .ful minar ,el

f oco lazo ,in mantado

lag o sweatlip shave

for me incáustico ,the

fl uttering m out h ,mot

h m old ,twin of s

lathered mi roir or es

pejo pellejo ror rim ex

zematic ,chuff c huff

yr sorweaty sad dle g

lue  .mime the b reath

held clod ,o mimo en

el zócalo caído

...en la región más transparente...

- Alexander von Humboldt

the sill

spelled the fork hairs

twisty stone nostril ex

recision des écritures

hiératiques grunting

on the fallen wall

...et tu m’écrases...

- Théophile Gautier