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Prickly Metareality (English)

“Poetry must be produced in struggle against impossibility”

 

    -José I. Plúguez

 

This is, thus, the last poem I write.

 

While the dust falls like snow over taverns washed with rotten wine

 

I have cut my nose agonizing to describe a flower without petals.

 

The lucid dreams that don’t even predict the clinking of my anxious guts keep me awake.

 

In the background, I hear music where

 

my lost verses which no one dared to read, camouflage.

 

I crumble as I smell the salt deserts as they wilted.

 

Tired of drying liters of Chinese ink as I turn everything

 

into bags of bloodstained bones that do not say a thing.

 

Of freezing the sand on my shoulders to check if my moles are growing.

 

A drop of snow on an oven that stenches like wood

 

Reminds me that the priest stinks like the bald beggars.

 

I have given up

 

I am abruptly forcing these words to fit

 

Now I am determined to cut my beard with an axe

 

Knowing that not even my errors are original.

 

I am fed up with chewing rotten fish scales

 

For eating what I write.

 

I enjoy sabotaging this poem that I write not to think.

 

Much has taken me much to bury it in the depth.

 

Forgetting that it is a diamond,

 

That the more buried it is, the harder it gets.

 

We all end up blaming the wind.

 

Illusively thinking that it is the last one I would give to the waves