jueves, 10 de julio de 2014


Para los amigos de habla inglesa, aquí les dejo unos poemas míos (del libro Sinfonía del Kaos / Chaos Simphony, 1993), vertidos al inglés por el profesor norteamericano Zachary Payne:

Overture (pg. 13)

I walked all night with the marquees
of the theaters injecting into my eyes
& with the lights like a creeping report
pus rotting the body
my body becoming thin like a web footed bird
perishing in the arms of walkyria
damned forever with the seven plagues/ /
& in this road I was the last Chasqui
the last of the formation sharpening myself to receive
an obol from this city that was dirtying
my body with the aniline of egotism
My face always has been stuck to the
store windows/ to the images that were beating
the branches of poetry
the street lights were baseball bats breaking
my head like ball/ blockhead
bouncing in the bars and in the side streets
wounded with fragile whores
that were offering their breasts in burin labeled trays
with the howls of the pimps
I always wanted to touch the white butts of models
break the statues murmuring
distantly in the parks & they took everything from me
before sending me to jail
while my eyes grew dumb like brackets in the
pentagram & we all were drawn
tattooed in the dark foreskin of chaos

Touch and Go IV (pg.18)

Nausea spreads through the streets and these cries bore my ears
these screams shatter my testicles/ these yawns cloud my path
and my body only wants to find a place to rest the siesta for

I feel like vomiting these gun powder flavored worms
I feel like vomiting those fifteen kiosks of cheap food/ those ten
fruit stands/ these twelve restaurants

I vomit all over and my digestion leaves to travel the most
delicate places in Lima
where the hysteria can’t jump the electric fences that are weaved by liquid
my vomit is an immense mass of plagues/ bed bugs/ lice/ rats/
bats/ leprosy/ sickness/ perversion/

my vomit is a great army of ants prepared to devourer your

Touch and Go V (pg. 19)

A marble statue drags me through the streets and with my electric guitar
I'm making room bowing bodies and pulling bodies
listen to the loneliness of my song/ listen to the sound of my armor
listen to the pecks of vultures/ the growls of the gargoyles/ the
screeching of the psychopaths


and I raise my hand and grab the bludgeon of history
and these dirty tatters fall from my body- and these dirty tatters float
in the toilet bowl of my brain-
and I pull them out of me and burn them with the matches that the books give me and
this crude way of tripping on reality’s tail

Let me collect the garbage/ let me play the triangle/ let me carry away
the politicians/ the rats/ the priests/
my work is honest/ I sing/ whistle/ scream/ while I go out in the early morning/
to see myself and sink/ in the broken mirrors of your hypocrisy/
let me collect the garbage/ kick against the night/ write in the streets your
name/ climb through these rotten ruins/
smelling of shit/ I come and go from hell/ mine and only mine this garbage


because somebody has died and been reborn revived in the
Spring of this poem


For: Ñaka, Maggi y Lúcia

I've been wandering for days through these narrow streets that lead to
my hairs are great shrubs that blaze in the road/ the beard begins to grow
strangely like a flash of greenish likens
my eyes drizzle/ croak/ wail after so much beating myself against loneliness

In front of me all eat and drink of the beautiful
all speak of their families/ of their children/ of their projects only a cigar
helps me to stand
when loneliness is a thirty kilo backpack that I must carry
always on my back
I've been wandering for days through these narrow streets that lead to
my body is an enormous thistle/ my hands appear to be gothic letters
torn from some diploma
I'm completely lost/ completely tired
the cigar ash burns like a red torch recently discovered in the
and I am the last comic running carrying the unavoidable light
panoply’s fire/ of artificial castles coloring loneliness
Behind me thousands of fantasies are destroyed against the asphalt
thousands of smiles are undrawn and die forever on the faces
that now are graves or traveling cemeteries stumbling on the
lighted billboards

I've been wandering for days through these narrow streets that lead to
on the edge of collapse/ on the edge of incoherence on whatever corner
in front of a transport agency transporting apples
with a terrible coldness in the lips and in the body capable of freezing
whatever woman


Close to the trash cans I can curse in the markets
with that Judas smiles squashing my face
Close to the trash cans I can smile at misery
or walk barefoot with Diogenes bowl
- the wandering dogs have started to stretch their legs and have ignited
like in hell the red lights of the traffic lights-
My head rolls under the wheels of the tricycles
now there is only time to eat a cheap menu
twist my fingers in the passage and burp a poem
applauding at the drunks the tragic sketches of rum
with my filthy body like a newspaper that drags the wind
towards a cart of trinkets and dreams
poetry has dressed itself in rags
& is an old lady with the Paracas cloak
begging for euthanasia
& poetry sprouts far from workshops and canteens
far from the little rooms of creation and the fucking computers
& I have returned again to Sodom/ to Gomorra
& I have had to shatter first my writings and steal in the streets
these dreams that are now new slaves in Sparta
driven mad like two thousand years ago with my cardboard
& this Judas laughter on the lips
driven mad with my solitary verses in the bad weather
like the old rhapsodies in the phoenician markets

FOLK FUSION/ Marka – wuasi (pg. 39)

(the river usually pierced her between the flesh of her buttocks
& below/ way below the branches of the nettle
the men were fighting to arrive at the Fortress )
and I loved you and you loved me
& my arms fell like carrion lees around your heron neck
& a soft mist paused between us
like a cotton rug caressing the feet of a god
& the rock that was maintaining us from the cliff
that was the light
that was the find
that was death
( that was you and I )
that was a hippy Socrates over the shadow of Jantipa the beauty of the region
and Saint Peter of Casta
far very far from wangle and sordidness of the tin cans
In Marka – wuasi with the weight of the pack back helping me enter
far/ very far from the nausea and the head aches
with the weight of the bodies salted with sweat and

WARNING OR THREAT (Central Highway) (pg. 45)

Do not stop there is an order to fire!
this book is as hot as a summer without an ozone layer
and my pages are little ovens at two thousand degrees Fahrenheit
Do not stop there is an order to fire!
step on the gas and read out loud each page of this book
these verses are made to be screamed in the plazas and next to
sex shops and plastic bag condoms
Do not stop there is an order to fire!
Speed up/ shift into fourth and disappear from my sight


Chaos’s Symphony (pg. 77-78-79-80)

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 armpits 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
My voice bellows like a car horn trapped in the
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-
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
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 scabies
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
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 mad 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


I don’t understand and I’m not interested in understanding anything related
with formality
for me poetry is in the streets and for years
it is my biggest concern
Actually I live in the absolute center of Lima surrounded by all this
shit that drowns and violently shakes me
I don’t work/ I don’t study and next year I will reunite with my old horde
to travel Latin America with my celestial back pack
because it is necessary to be superior to humanity itself in tenderness
and in feelings
because it is necessary to get up and leave behind all the bullshit once
and for all
this is what I think and I'm not at all humble not at all beggarly not at all
an idiot
the rest is absolute silence

2 comentarios:

Anónimo dijo...

Dónde se puede ver la versión en castellano?

Anónimo dijo...

Está dentro del libro: Sinfonía del Kaos, 1993, Edit.HBA.