CHAOS'S SYMPHONY / SINFONÍA DEL KAOS

El estudioso norteamericano Zachary Payne me envía la traducción al inglés del poema Sinfonía del Kaos (del libro del mismo nombre) que este humilde blogger escribiera hace más de 20 años. Todo un trabajo de arqueología; les dejo con el texto:


Chaos’s Symphony


After reading Lautreamont
my head spins like a blender
the pestilence swells as a belly of fire
& explodes in the skies of Lima
my head wants to think of other things
it wants to draw an Impressionist landscape
a painting of the Bastille
floating on a pond
as a sparkle of the full moon
but my lucidity is a wall of mud
that still withstands the rain
& obligates me to observe
this gloomy landscape –detained in the pupils-
single cord like an electric artifact
falling because of gravity
& gravity in not Newton under a tree
nor is it the equation
slipping in a black head
I walk bent over // boney
as if I was going to faint
I live in the axillas of those dead from cancer
& the cracked streets where Poe and Cri Cri died
like two monkeys in a traveling circus
I live in a bedroom of the Shelah – na-Gig
like a bat hanging from the cave
suffocated by the fire
My steps clash against the concrete
that now is a living man which slams us
against a dreadful poster
My voice dissolves rough in the street lights
The electric gramophone is playing a distant overture
that come as a fist in the back
The neon lights illuminate the façades of the
malls
My voice bellows like a car horn trapped in the
night
My body is an ANFO bag which leaves to walk around
in a night faded like old blue jeans
I can grasp the leadish sex of the streets
like a lock
that cracks
the keyholes
of the glass shops
I can grasp the breast of loneliness
- cow brains falling to pieces in my hands-


CHAOS´S SYMPHONY
is the hardcore that sounds on the corners
& is melted into the urban slag and the smog
which darkens your crow eyes
/ of Poe reciting The Crow/
the metropolis is a torture table where (YOU) are
your own executioner
which runs like a meek river of shit
with the shit in between your lips
you beating your chest like a hypocrite
Oh poetry
my serigraph is stamped on the face of Ankou
Penelope’s stare
the shadow that sprouts from your pig eyes and
muddies this dirty paper
Oh poetry
I’m condemned to the punishment like the dumb Prometheus
& without having robbed the celestial fire of the
word
my body wishes to be cut into pieces
& tossed in different directions
my mouth wishes to shout a suicidal verse of Artaud
my belly is a dismantler
shearing the white hairs
and non servable of the night
Oh poetry
in illo témpore/ in promptu/ in perpétuum
my nightmare boils in a Petri dish
where your hair soaks
in a scrutinized beauty
by the brushes of
Chagall – Matisse – Picasso
Domes of light bathe my peyote body
at this hour the streets open their throats
and ferociously they swallow you
the cold worsens
only a lamp post sways
& the light falls like yellow tentacles
around the edge of your neck
around the edge of my moist tongue
watching lice and smooth beetles
on whatever wall in Lima
while my rage is a white celestial poet
moving silently
as a diabetic breath leitmotiv
The moon grows like a bladder full of urine
the dogs howl/ bite their tails
& dirty the pedestrians with their scabbies
A siren shakes the avenue
Red lights burn in the street lights
Nero travels the city with a ball of gas on his back
Madness dances Vivaldi´s four seasons
Hopelessness is an immortalized bench in a painting by
Humareda
My dreams shatter like a Chinese pot
the acromegaly affects the nerves
My eyes grow like enormous testicles and sink
into depression
A voice screams in the microphone/ squeezing the pen of my
dream/ that now is a Alfred Hitchcock film
premiering on a T.V. channel
Truman Capote laughs on the cover of a rock magazine
The in crazed Piaras bites the smile of Gioconda
& again silence splatters my clothes
My body scales and is bombed like a city in the
Persian Gulf
I grow wings/ I grow feathers and from my body
colors and perfumes evaporate like beautiful mandrakes


The early morning opens its doors


A patrol car drags the body of time






Lima, August 1991


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