DI / Francisco Pérez Perdomo


I must be rigorously faithful to my mental oscillations. In consequence, my ubiquity should not be seen as a memorable feat. It’s understandable that one day I take a brusque and sudden leap from my room through the window’s emptiness and find myself, at the same time, hanging by a thread from my hair on the haunted slope, just like the acrobatic spider, or floating in a dinghy that simultaneously balances itself adrift from all waters. (The spider’s equilibrium undoubtedly embodies the image of happiness and disgrace and thus its relevant importance for the human race.) Nor is it unheard-of that without having to resort to the manipulations of fraud and other tricks I might be able to descend from the seventh dream, pulled by the vibrating strings of my eyelashes, to the place of the initial delirium, without for an instant releasing myself from my intimate room, now sustained by silence, four precarious walls and another nefarious dream.

Los venenos fieles (1963)

{ Francisco Pérez Perdomo, El hilo equívoco de los vocablos. Antología poética, Caracas: Monte Ávila Editores, 2014 }

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