There was no blue or red But nothing else would matter in my eyes
nothing more than the vision of the invisible of the flowers.
And that which was, was.
Let's then be:
I will be that being that is without consciousness
that comes and goes as yellow butterflies-
I will drink the tears that fall from what is black blue sky
(like "black-black-black people")
There will be no red or blue.
No, I don't know extempore love.
I don't know words-spoken-to-the-wind.
Would you tell me what the monads are, before my death comes?
And the wheel of nature?
Would you give me a little of what I need?
There is a blank: emptiness and desire, that which fills and
leaves a blank again.
And the notes escape and go inside my ears like ants.
Leave me alone! Don't touch the hair on my navel!
don't smell my armpits
or imprison my soul with photographs.
"Oh, just wonder about this mixture"
of hair on the arms and color that shines with honey bun lotion
oh, yes, there is the sweetness of the honey bun, sticky, molasses
but there is the bitter taste of madness which doesn't escape
slipping through the fingers
there is madness going through the legs' veins up to the aorta,
swallowing me by the nipples,
suffocating like massage from one who doesn't know how to massage.
There is what I don't even know.
There is so much that there is even what I don't know the name.
There is so much that I will create just to try to know.
I will create to try to utter something about the unutterable.
I keep creating, I keep creating.
I keep creating as spiders weave webs.
I keep creating and by creation itself I create myself
(with no red or blue)
Dear "Bird of Paradise" (the Heaven that pursues me as a Hell...)
song for missing the unknown
nostalgia of what was not even lived.
Well, but that which is to be lived, wasn't it already lived?
(That which was is here already, and that which will be has
already been! What!?!?!?!)
May the desire be cut with the sharpest dagger that exists
that which cut the thought and the breath
and which makes one bleeds inside
But there are pains that don't bleed.
There is blood that doesn't coagulate.
Bleed! Bleed as spring of perennial river and menstruation
(perennial is that which is eternal or that which lives so much
that we don't even see the death?
And the beginning?)
In the beginning was the Verb, and the Verb was God and God was nobody
But men thought less of God being so much and not being someone
that wanted him to be his image and creature.
That which is divine can not be imprisoned in labels or created.
That which is divine is.
And the divine is in everything, and everything is -- 'cause it is
Being thus, there was no blue or red:
There was light!
And I killed the serpent closing my eyes
held the cold skin with firm hands
but it would slip, slip, slip.
How would the Siamese snake taste?
How many thoughts would Amphisbaena have?
I was drooling
I wanted the test, the taste
the flavor on the lips
the blood on the face.
Clenched jaws as one who grinds the teeth
and pulled the skin as one who fucks in slow motion.
The blood had color of butterfly.
That yellow one flying through the voices in Souillac
and butterfly crowd on the windshield at the Sunday morning.
The blood had color of yellow butterflies:
the taste was transformation.
In the castle there are amphisbaenas in the cellar
Geb and Nut in each end
and in every tower there are fireworks
("num ninho de mafagafos h√° sete mafagafinhos;
quem os desmafagafizar" will find Hetep).
I walked around during raw stark* *dark nights in Havana:
A nigger on the Malecon told me 3 secrets:
"Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva".
"Hey, to* *whom should I not tell?".
"To you!" - utters, and falls in the sea.
From there I walked to the Calle Amargura and the mad guy said:
"Osiris, Isis, Horus".
"And what does it mean?".
"Search!" -* *shouts and tortures me.
The nurse whispers while she sews me:
"Head, trunk and limbs"
"And where will they take me to?"
I go on, Siamese that crawls
snake that thinks
My soul moves above and bellow
male and female, heaven and earth.
There is sex in the sky of multiple colors
a serpent which swallows its own tail...
And my soul moves in 7 by 7
my eyes look to the seventh floor of the building on the corner
but I don't know how to count stars
I don't want warts on my fingers
I don't want to know about the universe -
I fear as I crave for the whole truth in my womb
shelter and sea
Demented, caliente, serpent of infinite and orix√°
(I wish I knew about Air√°'s fire --
could it lead me to Hetep
could it give me womb
could it be an end).
"My spirit is growing in 7 by 7"
My eyes are comprehensiveness.
My vision is life, alive, Frida
ah, suffered life.
So, Frida...I have corns on my heart and fingers
and blisters on my feet
(the walkway is long
and "there was always a stone in the middle of the way
in the middle of the way there was always a stone" --
that I removed with the tip of the tongue
muscle of discord and salvation).
Let me lay down my weariness on your shoulders
(I don't even have a clock to measure my weariness)
I will sing you a lullaby in 7/4
and let you sleep 7 hours.
Your soul will grow in 7 by 7
(my fears will go in 7 by 7).
The nigger on the wall in Cuba is on the bathroom wall in Paris
I ask him the worst question seated* *on the water-closet;
"we live what must be, my little one. And that which must be, has
I go on.
Choreograph seven steps to heaven
and slide as snail on slippery wall
Slippery as words-to-the-wind
hopeless as whale which dies on the beach.
Two weights, one measure
and everything measures as wet cotton.
Everything measures seven feet
and with seven feet I walk peacefully
(chords of Gregorian chants don't calm me down).
I want the warmth of the first morn
the gift of creating and transcending.
Give me just one transcendental number and I will sing you an
a incorrect song
a passion, idiot!
I try half of the seven steps
(perfection wasn't given to me in the beginning that was Verb).
The rest is attempt* *and error
but the way is path.
"I wish at least once"
to shout to south and north as the rattle of the serpent: to stay
or to leave Heaven?
I wish at six in the evening I would pray a Hail Mary and be a
to meet Jesus on the cross and wipe off blood, sweat and tears.
The train is slow.
The life passes.
The past remains.
The recollection returns.
The recollection is skewed.
The recollection is dead?
Sure as death, sure as seven are the deadly sins:
I have hunger of hand on skin
envy of so many things
anger and despair, lust and greed
sloth of turning diseases into words
and it kills me the pride for victories and disgraces
(I am nothing but someone on the path
... and the train passes).
The train passes at crepuscules.
There are times to rise and to set
dawn and dusks,
Hail hour of androgyny, primordial state, picture of omnipotence
There will be no blue or red:
we will be light!
Translated by the author.