CANTO 3

CANTO 3

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My material, my material, my material, I cannot help but have this as my material, these friends, a few verses, scattered, They illuminate, as far as their little body reaches. Poor near-suicide, your language has tormented you. You old man, in a place where buildings grow crookedly, far from home, far from adequate instruments, You play with exotic music, eastern dialects, rare tribes, ancient words, myths, persons, gods.

How many do they feel what they have engraved on their hearts with seven seals?

When you sculpt your own soul, what can garlands and parades do for you?

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(I, still suspended, in an abyss and on a cliff, I pretend the quiet, the normal, while only craziness, comes my right measure).

I know, entire wars are annoyances, dull, ridiculous delays.

“Deprivations do not bring Resurrection.”

We are entangled, in comfort, in ease. “I am sick of existence. I do not want to escape my illness. I fear health.

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I am not at the limits of the mouth, I do not know its cavity. I have edges, a tongue that carves a path through gums, teeth ready to tear, to wound, fleshy walls, incorporeal luck. My worldly existence is determined by This, the Other is limited. By the eloquent? Everything spins in avenging words. I suffer from myself; I suffer from the wavering illness, the collapsing power. I submit to the unknown matter. I hint at words whose meanings, eclipses of the rational, ghosts of the irrational run through phrases and hypotheses. “Yes, friends that I have not, I assume my existence, I submit my body to testimony, I exaggerate my language to fantasies, I cherish postponing my manifestation to the distant future.

Sweet, stupid girls, “Beauty is a star, love in pink.” They obstruct the horizon, but they bless my hatred, feeding it. This, unquenchable, illuminates my steps and my surroundings. The night is still long.

I find definitions. I deny them in the moment. Good is the exercise and the practice, mediocre people visit museums, curators organize exhibitions, I exhibit myself.

Silent, maniacally, I hide from the eyes of the being.

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Our life is a bitter affair, most often ridiculous.

I define presence and poetry. I must capitulate; I must sloganize. I must grasp a name for everyone in one goal, a signature, the defeated France in the wagon of Germany’s shame, the queues of the dead, crowd the windows to see, inks are put, with names, magical movements of pens, beautiful uniforms, colors, clothe the bodies of the illustrious.

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Four stones are appropriate; four words are not.

Terrible is the matter that I have fallen into her hands.

I suffer from the weight of my existence, therefore, a reptile. I crawl into a terrible nonexistence.

A deserted and concrete port, the country that has lost me, a sad and pulpy wreck, my skin. I do not wear a lion’s skin. I rage with emptiness and jealousy.

I am the one that humbles through the skies. I am the one that tangles in the bays. I am sick of me; I vomit me, but I have no other companion.

Then, all words and phrases, arrogant and sure of their reach, will fall to our own end.

Then, we will feel the pain of silence, which, sharp in tone, will pierce the middle ear.