R O B E R T O E C H A V A R R E N 2 POEMS translated by Donald Wellman
A N N E X P R E S S
In this dark tomb
The singer covered with enamel scales
escapes before gamers swindle him,
before their tripping the podium
deliver him to their phagocytosis.
Overdosed to bring a salivary enthusiasm
for the night nomadic and monadic
devourer of bloody lymph,
until they smash him
like a bag of mussels,
until they skewer him
with a pole, whipping inside his guts
and unplugging a toilet with rubber gloves
in a night torn from within.
They cut him up with an icepick,
and break the synapses of his crusty relief.
Not only moon rabbit.
With a flattened choraline peg
they pierce a triple fissure on the cranial vault
and turn the head into fibers
of fig blue color in a dry vortex.
The bloated bladder, now exploded
blurts a spray of makeup remover.
To fill with honey a turtle beak ,
this dark tomb swallowed the valve,
the tongue clucking, the whistle
perforating the mist, airing gasps
against the wind.
“You make me real, you make me free.” So that I can keep
this sober but secure cattle driver job
after school, your thing, ok, a hide, your hair
around my neck, in the night most of my life.
This method won’t fool anyone.
A dialysis pulsates the sky river
where a caiman swims. Little food, but I say:
“This method squanders away the dawn.”
I went up on the helicopter
so I could hack away from above.
It cuts the milk, it cuts the honey.
Now it drips more slowly.
Beacons blink in front of the hotel,
a model of the situation.
They become separated from each other.
The car with a bursting exhaust enters the pass.
I can’t see anything but a shadow.
I look up through the asshole,
a festoon in the cloak of the raging storm,
a dike in flames, a funnel,
a dragon’s neck
burning all memory, shaking any continuity,
falling apart here and there.
This baby doesn’t recognize any bond
but the circuit goes on,
a gyrating ‘g’,
the plasma of a glandular population;
he stomps the accelerator when pressed from behind;
too late to answer the phone,
sucked up by the ravings
of a soapy interior. A chalet,
Le Tourbillon, crumbles today unfinished,
undermined, a sieve bubbling, a pot boiling
in the dark makeshift bedroom.
The continuing thrashing of the empty dawn,
a muscle, a facial tic
against the bone, a spindle,
a few ropes from Paraguay,
a spinning poncho with green hexagons
covered him, better than this scraped
black over white over black.
A buzz. He raised the needle
to sow the dress he’ll put on for his demo.
The round of drinks compensated for the shivers.
It was a well-made pleat on a rubbed leopard skin
reversible at any moment, spread out on the bed.
With a rushed upon snout
I parted the wet banana leaves,
an illogical universal judgment
for anyone to consider, for no one;
a scratch traced a diagonal rain on the eye,
a wrought band disaffected any speckle.
He spun firmly. “They are here,” he said after removing
the tip of the exvoto in front of the meteorological station.
He entered the dining room to reach the crypt.
Undeterred, he snapped his fingers
over the bottomless sapphire.