Sanchez is looking at himself
Ted Bundy
Sanchez is looking at himself

“Los mexicanos! Los mexicanos!” – women screamed running out of bungalow.

They were searching for you and your…
Who were they looking for? For me? And my brother? For that tiny piece responsible for headache? For forgive-me-I-knew-everything-beforehand? For I-will-not-leave-by-cutting-off-in-small-bags-by-retail? For again-painful-and-hopeless?

I was away for a short time. Dusty road, dirty kids, chicken (chicken) fights – everything was as it always was. I went away. I was drinking tequila and wasn’t feeling any remorse, I wasn’t feeling anything, because nothing mattered and this was my usual day, when I wasn’t pretending to be a chupacabra, when I wasn’t fraternizing and presenting Sanchez as my best friend, and Lucia as my fiancée – this never happened. What was there: tilted camera and sweaty hair on the forehead, which became wet because of disgust to everything around. Wherever would I go, it was all the same: I was sitting in a bar and guzzling tequila, I was coming in and looking at this, I was sitting and looking at this. There is no need to pretend.

I’m coming back home. Green jeeps, armed men, heartrending female cries. I approach to the window. Look in. On our large bed a crowd of enraged men manipulates something in blood. It is a chain saw. It screams. It stops. On the bed there is a half of his body. I feel sick. Upper half of his body, without hands, without pelvis. I see intestine falling out. Brainpan is cracked open. Little monkey’s body, cut in the same way, lies next to him. They are both still alive. Someone from the crowd pokes the wounds and brains with a screwdriver, His and monkey’s, as if this someone is trying to get an adequate answer. But they will not say anything.

I slip down from the porch. Did they notice me? But He was staring at me, He. He understood everything. It goes dark before my eyes. Falling, I’m trying to seize the very last house of the dusty street with my long claws.


you in the bathroom
you in the bathroom

Week after week.
February flies.
Dripping is it? Sound...
No, rustle of (?)week
Sheet wrinkled pages,
Scratch of nails
on stucco. Whiteness of corners.

Heel pointing at the ceiling.
Strokes of painted lamellae -
Striking-slashing arrows
blacken from varnished highboots.

I better turn round:
Strict white block,

Water noise, water noise.

Humid, warm, calm,
no chlorine and jerking
of fission spices.

Lips. Bite them a bit and
smile to yourself.
(give it closer, let me bite too)
I'll - behind the screen -
see. Terrfied -
- of myself - I don't reflect at all.
Result: your smile missed - on the wall.

Echo of your eyelashes,
Parting the curves with your lips.
We'll stand up. Stand for a while.
Then we'll lie down again.

Tights - water hissing.
So what is it in the bathroom:
Trembling spares, whistling gaz
or the remaining "you"?

Water - crunch of glass hash,
Metal paper cuts.

Morning again -
bloody myceliums of eye whites.
(give it closer, it will be calmer for me -
- I'll turn round, I'm home - fear)

Runs. Tap.
Bite through the tooth brush.
Stop. break.

You are not here. Water noise.

Palms. of faces. of hands.
Teeth. knock out.
with the rhythm of tap dance.

Stranger. Yes, yes, respond.
Eye crossglares.
Take parts. glue together.
Of You and whole your

Fog of branches.
Ice block. Roof. Fall. Calls.

^^^рус...Collapse )

Alexey Somov i want from russian tongue
Istvan eye
Алексей Сомов

я хочу от русского языка

ровно того же самого
чего хочет пластун от добытого языка
связанного дрожащего ссаного

замерзает не долетев до земли плевок
а я ж тебя паскуда всю ночь на себе волок

электрической плетью по зрачкам - говори
все как есть выкладывай или умри
все пароли явочки имена
а потом ля голышом на морозец на

посадить бы тебя как генерала карбышева на лёд очком
чтобы яйца звенели валдайским колокольчиком
чтобы ведьминой лапой маячила у лица
партизанская виселица ламцадрицаца

чтоб саднила подставленная щека
чтоб ожгло до последнего позвонка

а потом глядеть не щурясь на дымный закат
оставляя ошметки мертвого языка
на полозьях саночек что везут
через всю деревню на скорый нестрашный суд

Alexey Somov

i want from russian tongue

exactly the same
what a scout wants from an enemy man
tied shivering urine-wet

a spit freezes before reaching the ground
and i’ve been dragging you the whole night long scum

electrical lash hitting eye pupils – talk
tell me everything or you’ll enjoy a deadwalk
all the passwords addresses and names
and then naked on the frost take it

your asshole like general karbyshev’s must be put on ice
so your balls will ring like valday bell nice
so witch claw of partisan gibbets
will hang in front of your face

so turned cheek will burn
scorching down the spine

and then gaze at smoky dusk not narrowing eyes
leaving scraps of dead tongue
on the sledge runners that carry
through the whole village to the near non-scary trial

Istvan eye
Алексей Сомов

Не оставлю тебе уж прости-извини
ни кола ни двора ни воды ни земли
Дам в подмогу тебе говорящего пса
а ружье как-нибудь раздобудешь и сам

А в награду тебе я придумал врага
потому что все-все снегопад и пурга
кроме кислой как брага и едкой как дым
клочковатой неправды
посконной вражды

И еще непонятное есть существо
две руки две ноги называется скво
темнота меж ушей и зверек между ног
вот она-то тебя и погубит сынок

Будь в усладу тебе и кумыс и варган
если враг постучится уважь и врага
пусть с ножа оплывает малиновый воск
и урчит на кошме светлоглазая скво
и на черством снегу до полярной зари
дымный потрох собачий клюют снегири

Alexey Somov

I won’t leave you sorry-forgive me
neither house nor home neither water nor land
Will give you a talking dog as a helping hand
but the rifle you ought to find somehow yourself

To reward you I invented a foe
cuz every-everything is blizzard and snow
except for sour like homebrew and acrid like smoke
ragged untruth
primordial feud

And also there is a creature unknown
two hands two legs called squaw
darkness between the ears and beast between the legs
she’s going to ruin you my son yes

So be koumiss and jaw-harp your delight
if a foe knocks your door so please him as well
let the raspberry wax melt from the knife
and the squaw purr on the felt mat
and on the stale snow till the polar dawn
bullfinches peck dog’s smoky pluck

Misty Ode

Misty Ode


A city, quiet at times,

Implores me in the density of its air,

Begs me to walk through it with stormy eyes,

With soaring sleepless eyes.


That city breathes and uneven rhythm of nostalgia and sorrow

Of bewilderment not yet revealed.


The noble lineage of Buda

With its dignity tainted

By plebeian defeats,

By the arrogant barbarism of the unravel masses

By the troubled wind of cruelty and divestiture.


The brilliant lineage of Pest

Shadowed by terror,

Surrounded by packs of wild dogs

Gathered to devour its glory,

To put their teeth over its scepters and temples.


That city, quiet at times,

Has sunk the name of its sorrow in an obstinate silence,

In a rictus,

In an impatient inflection of the delicate tongue of the land.


To those streets redeemed by music

And poetry and flowers,

Is that some men owe their words,

The chance of being said, at least,

To be named,

To number the lines in their hands.


To that river if indefinite color,

Solemn and taciturn

Owe some souls the cadence of their steps,

The last destiny of their shade.



Escena en Gliglico

Escena en Gliglico

Apenas él le amalaba el noema, a ella se le agolpaba el clémiso y caían en hidromurias, en salvajes ambonios, en sustalos exasperantes. Cada vez que él procuraba relamar las incopelusas, se enredaba en un grimado quejumbroso y tenía que envulsionarse de cara al nóvalo, sintiendo cómo poco a poco las arnillas se espejunaban, se iban apeltronando, reduplimiendo, hasta quedar tendido como el trimalciato de ergomanina al que se le han dejado caer unas fílulas de cariaconcia. Y sin embargo era apenas el principio, porque en un momento dado ella se tordulaba los hurgalios, consintiendo en que él aproximara suavemente su orfelunios. Apenas se entreplumaban, algo como un ulucordio los encrestoriaba, los extrayuxtaba y paramovía, de pronto era el clinón, las esterfurosa convulcante de las mátricas, la jadehollante embocapluvia del orgumio, los esproemios del merpasmo en una sobrehumítica agopausa. ¡Evohé! ¡Evohé! Volposados en la cresta del murelio, se sentía balparamar, perlinos y márulos. Temblaba el troc, se vencían las marioplumas, y todo se resolviraba en un profundo pínice, en niolamas de argutendidas gasas, en carinias casi crueles que los ordopenaban hasta el límite de las gunfias.

Julio Cortazar

Shipwrecked (Naufragos)

Shipwrecked (Naufragos)

Drawing of your voice by the shore of somnolence,
reefs of pillows with that smell of nearby shore
when the animals lying in the creek, the creatures of bilge
smell the herb and by the bridges climbs a tremor of skin and joyful fury.

Then it happens to me that I no longer know you, I open the eye of that lamp
that you rejected covering your face with your hair,
I look at you and I don't know
if once again you glance into the night
as the exact drawing of that other night in your skin,
with the belly slowly inspiriting,
barely abandoned in our warm beach
by a slight backwash beat.

I recognize you, I ascend by the smell of your hair
to that voice that requests again, we contemplate
at the same time this double island where we are
the shipwrecked and the landscape, foot and sand,
you too raise me out of nothing
with your errand sight on my chest and my sex,
the caress that invents in my waist a gallop of wild horses.

In the light you are the shade and I am the light, I am light of your shade
and you lying in the seaweed pretend to be the shade of my body,
we repeat nocturnal the adventure of the sun
when its narrow forehead wounds the flints and sheds
as an empty thump to the other side, a territory
that pointlessly rams and ambitions.
Oh shade of my light, how to reach for you,
how to enclose this lightning in your night!

Then, there is a furtive instant
when the eyes seek in the eyes the flight of seagulls,
something that is orbit and lure, a consecration and a labyrinth of bats
that in the dark emerged as a groping lament,
a skin refreshing and descending, a broken rhythm,
becomes convivial, watchword, breaking
of the wind that beats the white sail,
the scream of the watchman exalts us,
we run together until the crest
of the zenith wave snatches us
in an endless ceremony of spumes,

and the shipwrecks recommence, the slow swimming to the shores,
the dream upside down among dead jellyfish
and salt crystals where the world burns.

 Julio Cortazar

Secular Blessings

Secular Blessings

All of my blessings contained your name:
the morning breeze as a parade of cheerful ghosts
guiding me to your door,
the glimpse of an undressed woman in an errand window
as a silent premonition,
the joy of the puppies playing in the square
inaugurating the season of the games,
the dancing waters stealing themselves from me as I get close by,
the wide dark river as a metaphor of a mystery untold,
the exuberance of the hills across the river
as a homage to your gifts,
the quiet, serene melancholy in the eyes of the people on the street,
the elegance not fit to be forgotten of the buildings of the Empire,
the delight of the music that became oh so uneasy,
the intricate cadence of a language
that I so slowly learn and so happily babble.
Also, the silence of the empty streets
when the words are absent.

Those blessings speak as well
of an unnoticeable request of forgiveness
for not being yet able to transform my trembling hands,
my most candid embrace,
in the realm distant and close that you so much strive for.
But let me still insist,
let me learn, however strained,
how to surround you slowly,
night after night,
with those same blessings
that you once made up for me.


Lucas Gilardone


Pathologist’s void report
Istvan eye

Pathologist’s void report ENGLISH

I’ll paint you in sun-colors
And in some others (pleasant),
I’ll arrange photographic cards,
I’ll tidy up the house – it will be neat.

At 17:25 the night lanterns are switched on,
Sunset…it is much later on,
But I don’t need it, whatever you say
- absence of sunset soot
(in your lungs, blood samples,
in duct tape fragments,
in a non-smoker’s contralto,
and other pathologist-moments).

I’m sad for many years now,
You tried:
You painted with your fingers, densely
Covered my head with flowers, lipstick,
I was asking only for one thing (but not aloud): don’t.

The aforesaid I’ll print in a large font,
I’ll go to a shop and buy some duct tape,
I’ll carefully fix the corners of A2 sheets,
I’ll rest only when the whole ceiling’s taped.

I’m not asking you…neither understanding, nor leaving you,
I’ll crush fingers (tightly) with a window shutter,
Laying on the back, open your eyes and you’ll see, trust me,
Hundreds of sheets nailed to the ceiling by the closed door.


Pathologist’s void report

Раскрашу тебя в цвета солнечные
И еще в какие-нибудь (приятные),
Фотографические карточки расставлю,
Уберу дом – станет опрятным он.

В 17:25 зажигают ночные фонари,
Закат…гораздо позже,
Но мне не нужен он, тут что ни говори
- отсутствие закатной сажи
(в твоих легких, образцах крови,
в обрывках клейкой ленты,
непрокуренном контральто,
и прочих pathologist-моментах).

Мне уже который год грустно,
Ты пыталась:
Рисовала пальцами, густо
Убрав мою голову цветами, помадой,
Я просил об одном (но не вслух): не надо.

Вышесказанное напечатаю крупным кеглем,
Схожу в магазин и куплю клейкой ленты,
Аккуратно прикрепив листов А2 уголочки,
Успокоюсь, лишь обклеив весь потолок скотчем.

Я тебя не прошу…не пойму, не оставлю,
Раздавлю пальцы (наглухо) ставней,
На спине лежа, открой глаза и ты увидишь, поверь мне,
Сотню листочков, к потолку приколоченных запертой дверью.


Russian original


If mantis is greatly disturbed, it can tear its head off.

None of them has seen Bill for about five years. That is why Bill came to me. That is why the organization sent him right to me; they like to keep saying that “professionalism” is my second name. I don’t care about these clichés, as long as they pay. They need me to pay a visit to Bill’s son (Tommy) and his French teacher (Valery): one appearance, talk, plus support of the legend, that’s it. Routine. However, in this case, it is the routine, which can be performed only by me.

I’m taking a girl for escort from Freddy’s agency; Olga, nope, she’s not from Russia I guess, it’s just the name. She’s updated on the business, so no additional instruction is required. Sexy, charming, impeccable physical appearance – all of these are in accordance with Bill’s legend. We go to the school. Ground floor: “kids-kids, bottoms like lollipops”, - I hum, while we pass half-open doors of the primary school rooms. I wink at Olga – this kind of job can bore you to death, if you forget about humor. She answers with equivocal half-smile, in which three parts are equally mixed: positive evaluation of the joke, light surprise of the brought-up theme and goodwill towards the interlocutor, however up to the bit, until he starts to ramble and clown around, - Freddy is a good teacher, for me it’s a pleasure to work with the professionals of logistic support. It is important that she won’t ramble herself.

Up to the third floor. I peep in – inside, in the enormous auditorium, are mixed-aged pupils (the lesson goes in English, however it’s French class, it seems there is an eternal beginner’s level). Many blacks and mulattos – really huge guys, who have obviously been staying in the school for too long. The teacher notices us, nods and I close the door. While waiting, I examine Olga more intently and I realize that she’s just stunning, that I want her, and that after this task I will invite her for a cup of coffee.

The teacher walks out and brings Bill’s son Tommy. Ordinary exchange of civilities – I’m kinda playing “a good guy in a tough situation”. Till the very end I won’t understand: for whom did she take me. Did she notice the forgery? Or did she and Bill have intimate relationship, and she perceived my visit as the news from him?

I hug Tommy, he is lost and tries to smile, when Valery says: “Tommy, it’s your dad, he hasn’t seen you for five years”. I’m used to this, not the first timer.

- Probably, he doesn’t remember you very well, Bill, just give him some time, - Valery is still friendly; it seems that nothing has changed, neither in the geometry of her body, not in mimics – it’s interesting.
- Yes-yes, of course, - I answer with trembling voice, trying to conceal the tears, I turn away.
- Apparently, there were significant reasons for your absence, and it seems to me that Tommy understands everything. And you work at the same place, in the drug store? – asks Valery out of place.
- Ah, what? Yes, sure, same drug stores, all the same, - what a ridiculous legend Bill came up with!
- Maybe you and Olga will wait inside? I need to finish the class, - Valery suggests.
- You are so kind, Valery, of course, we’ll wait, thank you for the invitation, - Olga catches up right in time.

We come inside. Having noticed Olga the guys at the backrows become very excited: they start to make sounds, demonstrate that they give place, try to speak to. She takes the place right in the middle of these testosterone-filled youngsters. The lesson, if it may be called so, continued. Hefty guy, resembling Shaquille, tries to make a phrase in French: “je n’ai pas de tête, parce que… aye, don’t you fucking interrupt me!” The rest disturb him (they are smaller, but still of Kobe Bryant and Charles Barkley sizes) and yet they manage to buzz around Olga.

Shaquille, who finished answering, walks to his place, next to Olga’s, but it has been already occupied by some reckless kid, who tries to explain to Olga that in their school things like “free love and no sexual borders, aight?” are accepted. Shaquille’s deep voice: “I’ll give fifty bucks to the one, who’ll pull this nigga out of my chair”, - and waves the bill. The volunteer is found and starts to pull by hair the blabber, who breaks the arms of the wooden armchair, while trying to keep his place. I was almost impressed by this primeval battle and strength, if I wasn’t so mad at my escort and her cheap unprofessionalism. I realized too late that Olga is prone to this kind of attention (or I just understand nothing and something’s radically changed: how a professional like her could’ve changed so much in a couple of minutes?). Why on earth doesn’t she stand next to me with the door at our backs? – this is primary school of safety! Still I need to figure it out with the remaining resources. I nod her and say: “let’s go”. She gazes at me in deep surprise, kinda what am I doing wrong? Dumb slut, oh yes, I’ll pay a visit to the agency. Fred must have set me up for a reason – it’s obviously some game, as he never let me down during all these years. But what does Bill have to do with all this? – he’s just a petty crook.

Irritated, I go out. As it turned out, right in time, - Bill, stoned, was coming upstairs, after him Fanny, or whatever is her name, was climbing up in the same condition of inadequacy. Shit! I fly down, grab both of them by elbows, turn them around and pull them downstairs.

- Jimmy, friendo, what a pleasure! And I, I was just about to come to see my sonny Tommy! – Bill, stumbling, shuffles the stairs into porridge with his feet.
- You, drunk shit, I’m not Jimmy, I’m Bill, got it?! You have no son; you arrived here by accident thinking it was a bar, is it clear? – I whisper menacingly, pulling them one staircase down, pushing them further.
- What do you wanna do with my kid?!.. But why did you take this case at all?! This is an art for you, not just a job, you think that you’re an artist… - Bill’s face distorts in presage of hysteria, foam appears in his mouth corners.
- Okay, so now you take your…whatever, you just walk away quietly, so nobody hears you. Just allow me to finish my job.
- Jimmy, I guess, you forget yourself… - Bill tries to fix his à la Elvis haircut, but hits his temple disheveling hair, his other hand just lashes the air will-lessly.
- Allow me to remind you: the organization pays me money for you, makes you a favor, in order to clean up your “moments of weakness”. But they never told me that you would be so stupid, that you’ll try to break your own cover. So get out now.

Bill tries to make a threatening, and at the same time, pleading face, but a vomit wave passes over his face. He threatens someone with his finger, tries to make a fist of his palm, curses, and starts to crawl down clumsily under my intent gaze, his companion climbs down after him. After I was sure that his eyes finally died out, I went back.

As I arrive on the third floor, the bell rings. If I would allow my imagination to burst out, I would see the flow of crude oil carrying white camellias, twisting them in whirlpools, very carefully, not to soil their fragile petals; of course, this would be only for the pleasure of flowers dancing (even without a music, but, isn’t oil bubbling a music in itself?), and after that – rape them and bury in anaerobic environment, so that they become part of hydrocarbon brotherhood. No, I do not allow my imagination to burst out, I just turn down the flame under its pan, and that’s what I see: blasted out doors, from the depth of smoke puffs half-naked mulatto and black guys run out, going insane in ecstatic dance, their bodies are covered with ritual signs, burning fragrances only emphasize the smell of their sweat, smell of animal thirst for copulation, insemination and breeding. This would be wonderful, if I wasn’t white and could have climbed out from the box of my obligations before the organization.

The bell rings, the doors open, the crowd of those same guys pour out, and pretty melted Olga is in its center. The mob takes her downstairs. The last sparkle of Olga’s mind is enough only for a questioning glance at me, but even that is cursory. I just wave my hand to her – it’s your own trouble, my dear. I hope that I’ll be able to manage it here myself. I know the scenario in her case, the agency is full of these kind of stories; but still, why did Freddy slip her to me?..damn him, and here’s Tommy with his beautiful teacher.

Sitting on the stair landing, we talk until sunset. About what? - don’t remember at all; living into the character – this is my job after all. Tommy appears to be uncommonly smart boy: he is clever enough not to ask “dad, where you’ve been?”, he tries to become a friend of mine, accepting me as I am now. This is weird. I’ve worked with kids before, but usually they are auxiliary objects, meaning that I just use them in order to convey an argument, or to withdraw myself from a question, as a child stereotypically possesses a large emotional potential. In short, it has always been easy. In this case, for some reason the kid is the main target or, maybe, the organization is holding something back. Anyway, I have to prepare reports on both of them.

We lie down on the mattress, which I’ve prepared beforehand, cover ourselves with a plaid. Tommy lies facing me, snuggling up his back to Valery. Normally I try to avoid the eye contact with kids, their energy is kinda not very good, or, I don’t know, maybe, even a man with my experience has his own weaknesses, don’t know. But now I have to: the distance is literally thirty centimeters. Tommy continues to talk passionately, I listen and agree. Only now I notice, that under his eyelids, right on the eyeball there is a plastic grid, encircled by blue plastic edging. What is it?! How could I’ve missed this during the whole day? Perhaps, I better don’t ask, as his father I must be knowledgeable of this; or this was installed during the last five years?

- Well, Tommy, tell me, how old are you?
- Five…eight… - Tommy opens his palm and adds three fingers to it. Why didn’t the code work? The grid is still white plastic dead. Or it’s not the code? There was not a word about it, so how do I know? No, I don’t, it must be the organization… no, something is wrong here. How old is he? In fact, why should I bother? He is obviously not prone to manipulation or, no, how did they find out about the eyes – about my attitude towards children’s eyes. How, no, all kids-related missions were accomplished perfectly, there’s no reason…

- Bill, it’s a lovely evening, and still you cannot relax, - Valery’s voice streams softly.
- Me? No, I was just thinking, so many years have passed. And what do you mean by “relax”? –I feel Valery’s palm over mine under the plaid. That’s better, this returns us back to usual schemes. Tommy continues to chatter; only these grids, gazing, shit, I don’t even know gazing at what exactly, pupils under them are practically indistinguishable. For how long has nobody seen his eyes? Or has looked into his eyes at all? He doesn’t seem to be autistic, no, normal development, or he simply knows that nobody can see his eyes, and that is why?.. That is why what? What did he go through five years ago that his eyes closed and can function only in this way? Boy, my boy, my dear mystery boy, looks right into my eyes, grids are vibrating softly… Am I falling asleep, no-no, phew, that’s silly, nah, here, it goes by the usual scheme.
- Well, I don’t know, so many years have passed. When was the last time we met? So you see. Ah, whatever, nothing ever changes, right?
- Yes, maybe, right, - I put my palm on Val’s hip, awesome bottom, knitted dress, - very well – it means, that they had something. Okay. I can caress hips like these for eternity, but I need to go further. I carefully pull up the dress, get into her panties. Her hand stops me.
- No, Bill, you won’t get it, - she says firmly.
- What? Val, what is it?

Here, I need to blink, once again, whatta? My neck bends will-lessly, head drops to the mattress under the gaze of Tommy’s grids, they are still vibrating and vibrating. I’m trying to raise my head a little and I see Olga behind Tommy’s back – she smiles at me, very warmly, as if it was for real. She holds me by my hand, Tommy embraces my shoulder. It is much harder for me to open my eyes, the feeling is that now I’ll be able to hear the vibration of the grids.
- Dad, I love you, - whispers Tommy.
- Dear, I love you, - Olga’s voice resounds somewhere very close.


in dire need of deconstructive criticism
A prayer
My senses note their existence
The sun is burning out my sense
My knowledge is a fragile web
Emotions just get in my way
I cannot watch the burning sun
It makes my inner vision blind
I will not fail to see a truth
My reason is a shadow too
My thoughts about to explode
I know what many people dont
No choices matter once I'm gone
Infinite run takes them to void
I'm calm and peaceful but so far
I have observed what makes me dull
I can't divide myself by null
But one who does is close, not far

Dark Man
The dark man
Is following me
He will not concede
Until I recede
I cannot see him
But he saw through me
What a familiar
Sense of a liar
I could not grasp face
So instead I asked:
“How long
are you gonna stay?”
“For long” - I can swear
I could hear the reply
And last thing I thought was this
Don' try to prevail
You're to no avail
And I won't accept your help

Another slab of verse for this Wednesday

In Flight

Da outstretched a gaping palm, his old arm

Long with budding veins, like incrustations

On a tree branch of age, of famine,

The commemorating scribbles of a raven’s feet.


The news of death has cooled these morning hours.

Our famished fields—where our hearts beat in the

Canals of grass leaves: the sternness of home—

Submitting to the sharpening, blue glow of dawn.


A whisper of the air: the plip and plap of wings…

Of birds? Of an inebriated fly! released from him,

Our son, our Hamlet, who begat his father

In our eyes. [1]


Lugh’s senses sharpen,

his limp ears blushing with attention:

Slán leat! a pulse of wind calls out,

And the tune, tumescent, sounds not of

Merriment, or mourning. It’s a question.


[1] “Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man. It is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, form only begetter to only begotten. On that mystery and not on the Madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the world…upon the void. Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood. Amor martis, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son?” ~James Joyce, Ulysses

A poem in dire need of constructive criticism


And he had Manannán’s breast-plate on him, that kept whoever was wearing it from wounds, and a helmet on his head with two beautiful precious stones set in the front of it and one at the back, and when he took it off, his forehead was like the sun on a dry summer day…

 ~ From Lady Gregory’s Complete Irish Mythology

Noon. Sharp sunlight, like a knife through the head.
Ahead: a street-sweeper, costumed in orange.
She’s old; gray-boned.

Too old to be working. For pension.

Should be knitting
and dying. Not looked at.

Leftward, a beauty of the blossoming hair
Plucking a toyish, age-blackened guitar.

Pretty, dark warbler. Exiled to beg here
My pity.
Poor pretty beggar! A whore, blast her.

Nippleless (fresh, though: it’s youth). Skín’s filthy,
matted with dust, earthen colour. Fruit-blossom hair.

Out, earthen lovely!

Forgive him, brown bird: his race is superior.


Seesn’t me walk. Look up, you! Your master’s bent over
Your beautiful head. Pluck the bread from his throat!
(“Gwan!” gaping readily)

Clemency! he cried.
Don’t you dare mock me!

Very well, master. Now: throw her your charity,
At her poor whorish head,
And we’ll be on our way.

 So he does.

The wind travels softly in the cheek-warming hour.
Mam’s palms in a nest for her boy’s snowy face.

He glides, drift-adrift, through the bays of Streamstreet,
His forehead whitelit by the wintery faint-glow.

Tend, Mother, to him like you did in his childhood!
Remember your fingertips, bubbled with bath soap,
Kiss under his armpits, his gristly boy places, while he
Watched eel-backed, gleam-clean, the water
Rock, there and back? A boy that was loved.

She’s smaller with age. Her eyewhites have cleared,
Her cherryful kisses feel faint nowadays. Old lips,
Foul smells, and her clothes bleached with time:
Blue sets to gray and angel-white yellows.

Mother is pretty no more.

Worstward Ho
Dear all,
I post the link of one of my favorite pieces from Samuel Beckett, "Worstward Ho".
I read it in the shape of a poem on even pages with a (painful) translation to Spanish on the odd pages.
Beckett has always had the power of creating strong, disturbing images in my mind, but I hope it can be a good excercise of critique and discussion.
Here's the link: I couldn't find a version on internet stripped of 'translations' to human language.


Famine Memorial



They came to me as desolate ghosts,

their desperate eyes watching without seeing,

the exasperate anxiety of those starving

wiped away by their quiet final surrender.

Clutching to their last breath of life

and their modest scant belongings

they were peasants, artisans, lovers,

were men and women and children with their dogs.

Later, they were those thin fingers,

that dreadful flimsiness of specters in those ten impotent claws

watching the last ashes of their misery fading away.


They were that last man carrying in his weary shoulders

what once was his child, his illusion and the hope

that his name would turn to seed again.

That man, now soulless,

consumed by hunger and horror,

with the defeated body of his son.

They were peasants bleeding away in an endless ordeal

what had been an insurrect island, dignified and beautiful.

Those were the years of a black curse

over an island as green as the stones of Connemara.


They came to me by the edge of an exhausted river,

their errand steps towards the port,

towards that hope that was also a grave and oblivion and exile.

Their desperate final intent to escape

from the infamous twin-headed hydra:

one, mother Nature and her irresoluble mysteries,

pouring over them its plagues

perverting the womb of the land

under the sight of the sun so aloof;

the other, Her Majesty the Queen, the lady of unmatched cruelty

contemplating in boredom the agony of a people,

an entire nation decimated by starvation and ships.

Is there any return after the most treacherous genocide,

of the most cunning attack to the foundations of life?

How could it be possible, how come such sadism and contempt

against those men and women and children with their dogs?

How come such a calm and brewed hatred

against a quiet people whose only crime, if one so,

was to love with joyful human imperfection

the greenish fresh land where they were born?



Dublin, 20/02/2008

The Malkovich Zinc
Istvan eye
The Malkovich Zinc

Malkovich Malkovich.

Malkovich, zinc Malkovich. Again, no one is interested in him.

Malkovich thinks, again, what is better: to shoot a ten-minute zinc film, which only ten people will understand, or the one, which will touch a large audience. The first one, of course, will be exactly the thing I want to convey to the world on these zinc plates.

My name is just a piece of tin. Zinc, you know, it is like lead or wax, it melts and coheres.

- Good afternoon, dear Master Sir Herald Malkovich.
I am leaving the elevator and a loser, close to whom I was living last ten-twenty years, respectfully bows before me, a baldy fatty midget.

He saw the zincs!

In newspapers.
[Why did Malkovich become such Russi0N?]
Why are all these folksy shirts and blissful smile? Why does our, albeit former, star allow himself to change the way things are?

- Goddamnyou! I cannot get my head from under the pillow at all! Hey, someone, motherfuckers! Take away this beast that shuffles her feet all day long here!

- So, Lizzy, agreed, we join hands, sink them into the bowl with warm water…
- Wait, Ashley, are you sure?
- About what? That we can end our lives just with the film? Ah? Again, you’re starting it. And what about Kubrick, ah, ah?! And Lizzy – it is my name.
- Okay.
- We sit in front of the TV, the tube must write only white noise on the screen, yes, it must be green in color, you know, these greenish gleams with black strokes. We open blood to ourselves, but this happens as if it is not for real, the blood runs, it darkens in the eyes, but we know that it is just the shooting. Our faces are not seen, the shooting goes from behind, two petty girl figures, two gleaming silhouettes, because in three meters there is the Malkovich plate behind our backs. Even if nothing will happen, and no one will die, and the tape won’t exist, the film will be shot anyway, because these shots cannot simply disappear in nowhere.
- Okay, Lizzy.

- Master Sir Malkovich?
- What it is now?
- Two friends were delivered to us Malkovich Malkovich.
- Malkovich Malkovich Malkovich, Mal-ko-vich!
- But they had Your zinc.
- Alive or dead?
- Who…what?
- Zincs!
- I, I don’t know.
- Okay, bring them here.

Two petty girlish bodies in the cart are wheeled in. The zinc plate lies next to them. Malkovich takes the plate in his hands, thoroughly examines it against the light.

- And how should I call it? Film on zinc for the ten, who un-der-stand. And what? Doris!
- Yes, Master Sir.
- Do you see this pile of bodies under my window?
- Yes, Master Sir.
- They do not decompose, do not die completely, they just lie down with jaws open wide, their skin is speckled with green and black strokes. Just have a look at this! What do they want? Where did they get so many of my zincs? If they are mine at all! Why on earth this zinc must be shot? Simply…simply for me to live further? And here I am alive, yes, alive, definitely.

Two girlish bodies are thrown out of the window and they freeze on the giant pile of bodies, motionless, with distorted faces, which seem to be happy.


From the first meeting....!

Ode and Oath


Who’s to say there’s a chance to replicate-

Staying up late and tracing the lines left by the burned out stars that fell on all your misguided heroes

To dream of accompanied walks

With a hand held guide

While trying to track the lives of those who came before

This can’t be yanked out with baited fishing tool

Or captured with set trap

Or even imagined on trace paper

While twiddling soft un-worked thumbs and rolling over tainted sloth mind

New skin must be forged

To tell what is….to step

To write in declaration is to recede

To assume knowing is to drown

To outline and wish is natural

To hop in and out is expected

To roll that ball back and forth with yourself

Is a more dangerous game

In the sense that you’re the only player

In a game made for more


Fighting for a sheltered lie

Fighting for transitioned relics

Forget the rest

Fighting for the horizon

Fighting for the downhill side

Fighting the flow of the current

Fighting the mind within

Floating on a slip stream

Grabbing hold of an updraft

Entering a thinner layer

With a paper veil to cloak soaked cheeks

Fighting unarmed

Fighting bare

Fighting with language

Arranged in no sensible form

Fighting to go away

Fighting to be the first to arrive

Fighting to repeat

Fighting to mean

Fighting to remain


What happened to the Kerouac poets?

With barrel chests and bloodshot eyes

Now everybody’s up here weeping

With tattered sobs and lowly sighs

Everybody’s fearing death

But no one’s kissing the cross

They’re all kissing up

For what’s going on after

Call em’ a wordsmith

Maybe too smart for me

If coming off as indifferent

Is what signifies those as literate

Burn the books in front of me

And take it all away


Let the Jack stick out

Let the Jack get smacked

Who would have though the only one

       Who really wrote to save his life

Would have been a thick shouldered half back at heart

Not your pot bellied poet

Save that for later

Now your burning, bumbling comet

Dead set for the end zone

Let his clear words scrape your skin

Then call yourself a liar

For trying to pretend


Try to make sense of everything

Try to make sense to everyone

To be unselfish

To grin and bear it

To write in fear

To come too far

To justify

To generalize

To fall asleep at the wheel

At the easel

At the pew

To rest

To be a brand

To be bought and sold

Essere un negozzio

To be owned

That is he

I am him

Meet him

Meet me

What's Developed: 2010
Look what it's worth in pictures these days
crisp and replaceable
not hazy in sepia
flash in an instant
saved a gigabyte over
erasing the mystery of a distant past
erasing the majesty of mystery
all our honchos, heroes, head hunters, hooligans
    with their stories spelled out and spilled
and its not gonna take a ghost writer to dictate
and its not gonna take a sleuth to magnify
and its trapped forever in invisible electronic tangles
    so cheap and bountiful
    so naked its obscene
and we can laugh at transparency
and resent starry eyes
and exterminate self indulgence
    lest our cumberbunds drop
letting all our hang ups hang out
    the first step to a literal species

Trail (En)

Trail (En)


Slowly chasing the traces of the night,

trailing up the veins of exhaustion till reaching anxiety,

manipulating the filthy brume that precedes the day

until crafting it in that dingy air of the threshold of the night.


Would it be possible to tell of the wounds in my soles

which of them were crafted in the slow walk home,

and which in the intrepid lunge against the streets?


Would it be possible to tell of the benches of the squares,

in their rugged texture of moisten stone or worn-out woods,

the weight of a working man gathering the energy to get home

from the weight of the last desperate man

waiting there to be shot by the day?


Trail (Esp)

Trail (Esp)


De a poco remontar el rastro de la noche,

trepar por las venas del cansancio hasta llegar a la ansiedad,

manipular la bruma inmunda que precede al alba

hasta convertirla en ese aire percudido del umbral de la noche.


¿Será posible distinguir de las heridas de mis suelas

cuáles de ellas fueron paridas en el lento regreso a casa

y cuáles en la intrépida embestida de las calles?


¿Será posible distinguir en los bancos de las plazas,

en su rugosa textura de piedra húmeda o de madera vencida,

el peso de un laburante juntando las fuerzas para volver a casa,

del peso del último desesperado

que se queda a esperar que lo acribille el día?


Istvan eye
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A little something for next Wednesday: "Kathleen," a dramatic poem

Chill armrest and the familiar embrace of woolgrass;
The baking breath of metal—(smiles) I am sunning! close,
(Too close?) to the stove. The rusty kettle…will I put it on
Before he comes home? There is no telling what
Will please him.

I’m not a simple woman but for him:
I’ve hoped that I could make him listen if I kept
The truth from him well-hidden. A woman’s wisdom,
Even God will tell you, is the bite of apple Adam choked on
When he cowered from his choice. To this day, man is afraid
Lest God should banish him for having loved too much:
(Mocks, whispering) She sparked a match, her light was lust, and Lucifer
Unwove his flaming locks.

The truth is, son, that I see all. I see
That you’re a broken man. Your youth is spent,
Your hair is sparse, and you have lost the hope
Of being loved. I know, because my tenderness repels you;
My kisses that would make your bright cheeks bloom
In boyhood now taste foul and decayed. I embarrass you.

I remember you, a ruby-fingered cub, a snow-white face—
Somehow it happened so, in spite of nature:
I’m brown as wood, and so is Father. Your nose alone
Is what you took from me. It’s sheer, curbed like a beak—

My snowy fledgling! If I could press your head on
To my breast and stroke with fondness
The neglected stubble sprouting from your face like grief--

Beloved son, you would be wise to see me
For what I truly am: I’m old, I’m ugly,
I am poor and coloured. But I
Am what you’re made of. Believe, shamed man,
That your blood is immaculate
Although a beggar and an exile swims in it!

O but what chance does a mother stand
Of challenging the lies of timid men
Haunted by religious conscience?
None that I have learned, and I’m too old to ask
For privilege.

                          His mother’s love, and not her light,
Is what he asks for. That he shall have.

Thesis proposal
Istvan eye

Thesis proposal

- I’m still a misanthropic dick. I still hate people.
- You just enjoy it more. So where you were drinking? With whom?
- At the Danube quay, alone.
- Yep, and some things don’t change.

- Do you still believe in things that you wrote?
- Mmm…
- So, don’t. There is no language and no culture for what you want to say.
- I know.
- I pity you.
- Why?
- Cuz you won’t find any kind of language in which you would want to express yourself. There is no place for you. Even if you invent some new language, you’ll still need the reference with the previous ones, otherwise it won’t simply exist.
- So you want to suggest that the best way is to kill myself. This, as a result of my senseless being?
- Maybe.
I sit. I sit down and down. Nothing else matters. But there is one thing – my nervous system is still active, even if I’m drunk, stoned, beaten. I cannot help it. It comes and goes. I don’t have to believe in it. Just drum. Just drum and drum. Even most exquisite tracks are not for you.
- Did you ask that or I just thought?
- Does it matter?
- Yes. Because I want my last illusion. I want to live my last days as I’ve never been here, I want to listen to the music that fills stereotypical heaven, I want to feel a body which is untouchable, I want to kiss the lips which are hidden from my eyes.
- Kiss a suicide-bomber.
- Again! Why do you press me to the ground? Ah, it’s all violoncello, just it. There’s nothing to that, only these vibrations. The voice is just a paper around, weathered leaf, no meaning. Words – no meaning. All I want is to melt into some grayscale photo and rest there forever. A girl, loved, behind me, kissing my shoulder at the moment I disappear.
- Romantic, pathetic…
- So be it. Two pathetic boys from Charleville and Aberdeen chose this way, why can't I?
- Cuz you’re too mature for this kindergarten.
- So you want me to blow my head off when I’m sixty? Hemingway, Dr.Gonzo…
- Why not? You’ll be too tired to live, your bones will be like powder and heart like sponge. You’ll have no exit.
- But why she didn’t agree to go with me uphill? That one time! Regardless of…
- She wanted to live and to see your biological children, did she?
- So that some primitive dick would prevail and kiss them goodnight? No way!
- This is your only choice, otherwise… but otherwise, you’re a douche to swallow a barrel tonight.
- Yes, yes I am.
- So why do you complain? Write a paper, write the whole bunch till you’re Zweig’s character, ha!
- I’ll go to Paris and bury my youth there. Scratching my head – I just don’t have a good beat, good voice. When she’ll caress me – I’ll be destroyed, I’ll start to hate her. The first moment is always the last.
- Your argument is inconsistent.
- I can’t be otherwise. I need to start a new religion or to kill myself. I told you – I’m a bastard, I have no legal right to live. Night bus is the only friendly thing. Sleep and rest there, so the day won’t catch you.
- You always expect perfection.
- I do, but… I also wanted to live with and through it.
- That’s impossible.
- At least I tried. Greed. I wanted to “have” perfection, but instead destroyed myself. At least I understood that I’m useless and so is everything else.
- Winter. Her eyelashes. Snow’s falling…
- It doesn’t exist.
- Her body. Morning. Scent of her breast…
- It doesn’t exist.
- Tears. Mutual. Your text…
- It doesn’t exist.
- Ok.
- So… you’ll leave me?
- Of course. What else should I do if you don’t exist? You don’t even have to kill yourself physically, it does not matter.
- Thank you. It’s violoncello. Bury me with it.
- No. It doesn’t exist too.


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