3 Liter Masseratti
At six hundred kilometers per hour I question everything
I have neither peace nor calm and I say question everything
I let myself be taken I like everything that happens to me
the animal I am atop cathedrals sniffing
my excessive ease my savage mouth
opening and closing frightening doors
the micromachine that films dreams
a stairwell a torch to burn the new Babylon
I assault the circle from above from below
tonight I will sleep on the rooftop tiles so as to not compromise anyone
and on the way I piss in the writers’ park
we conduct ourselves within and without
January without a turtleneck sweater is full of conflict
nothing falls by its own weight except misfortune
at this speed I’m the only one
who has seen the distance and the immediacy of disorder
I know such deities that it makes me laugh
so thus we have the man without a hat and who needed
to work with a hat and went out into the street with his naked woman
on his head and at the bus stop he ran into his best friend
who asked him
“that’s not Eloísa!” and he said
“yeah but I don’t think it’s too obvious” and his best friend answered
“well actually not too much”
and when he entered the office everything blew up and afterward
it became habitual and at a certain point in time
he got someone to make a few repairs in those places
where they make buckles and fix hats and they lined her
all inside with red taffeta and they circled her waist
with a brilliant ribbon
and you don’t say decorated with exotic bird feathers
because it’s a serious matter as I should know and the need was such
that it was forgotten
and he left his woman hanging from a little nail and took off
like any hallucinating man with any self-worth I am hopeless
what we haven’t seen yet is an elephant cemetery
nor a ghost ship nor the consecration of spring
I’m all about a three liter masseratti
a potent machine
an agonizing agony of turbines
better yet if it brings along the sonnets to Orpheus
how long does it take to write a great poem
to then inscribe it in posterity’s grand prix
I couldn’t care less about those who are anxious for time not to kill them
I wear my jacket backwards and walk on whistling
notice I said jacket
and I said straitjacket and I said insulin and I said metrasol
but don’t notice I didn’t say occupational therapy or crooked rooster
what we still haven’t seen is not my rabid jealousy
nor the manuals of econometry for business managers
we need directional bars and axle points
high octane and battery acid
I was telling Cecilia that no world of water
was an obstacle for those long and beautiful legs of hers
we need nuts and bolts fine coils
clear platinums and resistant cranks
throw the academic nettle eaters into the cold
now is when Che is about to really wage war
we need to dress ourselves in mountain
insurgent or dead without memory
swallow me with beer my love I’m an oyster
blood of my blood
love beneath the inventory of your eyes
love without understanding that two are enough for closeness
love you have to put the least strange papers in order
and take the plane at the lost paradise terminals
love whom I look at with the right-hand sun to fly without return
in the soluble wind
Old man Orígenes considered
that we would enter rolling in the form of a sphere
my problem is something else what is poetry for
all yankees are sons of bitches
we have to kill them wherever they might be
I can’t live without conflict
this morning I woke up desperately in love with North Korea
I want a nuclear explosion
we have worked too hard for the gods
under the radiance of the mushroom we will make them work
even faster I throw the house through the window
the wise penologist says the verb to make is limitless
we can sing dance write read
and also steal cheat rape offend
that’s what we’re doing my children
I turn women into weapons of war
and then they decide vertiginously
the commander entered through the northeast coast
my favorite drink is one part
vodka with one part gin a dash of lemon
I can break my teeth on this pamphlet
my life is worth nothing
I like everything voraciously
my face drives the landscape crazy
I celebrate myself in poetry
like someone who celebrates their wedding with a knife
this was said this was sustained
everyone is the absence of all subjects
I am submerged
it costs a lot to maintain a vulture
to explain with certainty
how the future will come to your lives
to say to predict to go even deeper
the infinite always naked
my heart is more luminous
than all the suns swallowed by the earth
We won’t go to the movies to see the life of god’s lamb
it’s obvious he was born in isnotú in the state of trujillo
and since one is also from that state
and what the hell is that man doing here
I’m enervated by the chauvinism of the great village
hey! guerrillas
verb tenses don’t matter at all
according to what we’ve weighed seen and measured
terrible days will come
whoever plans on crying like a blessed creature
let him start
me inside the bubble I dance pata pata
today I received a letter from my love my love is about to arrive
I write big sticks because this agony doesn’t belong to today
this agony is not the daughter or the patrimony of liberated weapons
venezuelan death was already without us
dumb death
death without papers without pay without complaint
death the masts and spars of the powerful
old habit with bad habits
enormous turkey buzzard devouring the poor alive
pride what no one can deny us
is the irresistible transcendence from our falling
and the enemy’s violent death
we learned how to kill a leap forward
we talk for a long time about the pituitary gland
that unknown tyrant sitting in our turkish chair
we have to throw him out so that there be total confusion
the problem is finding the door filling the room with water
even if while doing that we depart from order sub-order species
the dwelling of the old lineage
we must deepen so as to continue
don’t forget I cross the labyrinth at six hundred kilometers
the square root of a ray of light plus all dreams
we are unhinged but even this is not stupid of us
that’s why I said critically
what we still haven’t seen is the country rotating madly
I am at my task
who can rest on the edge of a blade
a barrel of gunpowder is a barrel of gunpowder
of course the experts will say what else could it be
what I’m talking about is where can we find one so we can blow up the established codes
one gets entangled in each fiasco of fear this doesn’t provide dividends
I live in the same place how many would want to see me dressed in wood
today we are open air but tomorrow
the man bent his waist forward
his left eye rolled on the ground without flinching
I mean the man was unflinching not the eye that would be something
then grabbing it carefully he put it back in place
at that instant he died of fright it was backwards he saw himself from within
if you want history make it yourself
urgently we still need directional bars
the most radiant new years news
the vietcong commandos take the offensive
they want something more
for endless amounts of people a lamb chop
or veal or milk about two and a half kilograms
60 cloves of garlic 1 glass of rum
2 tenths of a liter of very sweet white wine
a bit of pork fat salt and pepper
if we begin at sunrise by sunset the fire will be ready
surrounding the most terrible chess board
they will dine on something that has been rolling our way for centuries
leg of ham in garlic in the style of Heraclitus of Ephese
then we’ll have trout in red wine the reddest
served under the radiance of our flags
we live in constant combat
let each person choose their destiny
a man walks giving and receiving blows
behind him he leaves semantics and the duties of a citizen
water and fish at the same time
he destroys the possible so as to not be annihilated
he forces us to carry pistol vapors on our napes
may no one sleep peacefully
oh that love of his for the war of the masses
offended you will say this is not a poem
and you’re right maybe it’s a lullaby
now I know I’m completely crazy
but the litany is done the joke is done
beginning with me the word is a shiver
there you have this
I climb in and start up my potent 3 liter masseratti
bursting I smash my brains into a wall
then the other hell
Mérida, 1968
Amanecí de bala (1971)
{ Víctor Valera Mora, Obras completas, Caracas: Fondo Editorial Fundarte, 1994 }
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