POETRY

Another body

For many years

I fantasised about crashing a car into a wall;

to end everything.

My head was full of emotions

and emotions shouldn´t be in your head.

I woke up at night crying

and I couldn´t understand what made me cry.

I couldn´t think about anything.

I masturbated,

mentally and physically.

I masturbated a lot;

desiring an ecstasy that erased everything,

trying to accelerate the process

of self-destruction.

I remember that I had sex more in that year than ever before.

If I could´ve hidden myself in another body

I would´ve done it.

Dogs which are words

The dogs which are dogs wonder lost and thin.

The highway is a voice, is just an empty tunnel.

Cars follow the direction and hit the lost dogs.

The moon doesn´t mean anything

and can´t  illuminate the poet as much as it could.

The glow of the city devours the stellar poetry.

The cars circulate through empty tunnels

and there I am, waiting for everything to pass,

waiting for something to happen.

It doesn`t belong to me

I feel the sea on my skin,

this skin is mine,

the sea doesn`t belong to me.

I enjoy the kiss of the wind,

the pleasure is mine,

the wind doesn´t belong to me.

I welcome your love into my life,

this life of mine

no love belongs to it.

Lawrence

Telling people to “fuck off”

is something unpleasant at the time,

but when you think back

it gives you certain satisfaction

and can even be funny.

I looked after a guy,

a mental health patient

in Scotland.

His name was Lawrence.

He liked to go around making the “v” sign

at everyone he met in the street,

simultaneously whispering  “F*ck You”

with great diction.

I liked his braces

and his moustaches.

I walked behind him

as people often reacted quite badly,

even though it was obvious

 that he was mad.

When he got bored

he´d stand in the middle of the street

and shout:

“Johnny Caaaaaaash”

for quite a while.

I loved  looking after him.

Picassa

Our work in the “Factory for Destroying Culture

(As I used to call it)

consisted on making replicas of the work of 4 renowned painters.

We were all women and worked in a production chain:

One painted the background, other painted details, and so on…

I was generally in charge of the signatures and the varnish.

We painted 1,563 replicas in two months.

We worked hard and earned good money:

Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Matisse, Mondrian, Mondrian

Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Matisse, Cézanne, Picasso

Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Matisse, Mondrian, Mondrian

Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Matisse, Cézanne, Picasso…

We used to listen to the radio as all factory workers do:

Cadena ser, Radio Olé, Radio Latina and Radio Contrabanda.

At lunch time we used to go to the Mongat Nord beach,

each carrying her Tupperware to the Mediterranean sea.

We used to have a good time,

and then went back to the factory:

Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Matisse, Mondrian, Mondrian

Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Matisse, Cézanne, Picasso

Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Matisse, Mondrian, Mondrian

Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Picasso, Matisse, Cézanne, Picasso…

They paid by volume,

if you made 45 Picassos in a week

you could get 300 euros.

The Cézanne were the worst paid,

that’s why I ended up hating them.

As I was the signature maker,

sometimes I got into the character

and dressed like a ¨Picassa¨,

with a blue and white striped shirt

and high waisted beige Bermudas.

At that time I had 5 lovers,

and two of them told me on the same week:

“You gotta learn how to kiss”,

and I felt post mortem envy: I hated Picasso!

And then I used to come back home crying,

because I came back late, tired, alone,  confused,

and hungry but didn’t feel like cooking at all.

What a frustration… right?

You can be more than one famous artist at a time

and keep on failing to love.

Posmodernity

Deleuze, Lyotard, Foucault, Derrida,

I eat them with potatoes

and I throw them up…

and I don´t vomit postmodernity.

I vomit spaghetti and fresh cheese,

roast beef and something without a name.

Herbs and a little bit of glutinous flour,

wilted saliva and tooth paste,

beetroot or something similar,

coca cola and your beautiful dinner,

with vegetables and all that stuff…

Todo

I want everything;

the flesh and the spirit,

the depth and the surface,

the guts and the accessories.

What´s left

Face to face with my ghosts,

I recite, paint and draw.

All the rest falls over

like when I get drunk

at ceremonies.

I don´t believe in your ceremonies,

nor mine either.

I just believe in catharsis.

Only after catharsis do I feel

a drop of justice.

Where are you from

I´m from a beautiful and dangerous city:

A “suffering paradise”,

poor on the surface

rich underneath.

a place where assassins

cry for their mothers

and the food is home made.

I´m from that corner where a kid

pointed a gun at my stomach.

I´m from the tropical rainforest

where they captured a monkey

to give me on my fifteenth birthday.

Screaming, screaming, screaming,

without aesthetic discourses.

I am not from Paris, London

or New York.

I am from Caracas,

that corner

without aesthetic discourses

a gun

screaming:

painting.