Como si la puerta abandonada se cerrase / Diego Sequera

As if the abandoned door had closed

      As if the abandoned door had closed, the state of things comes out on its own; in itself described by means of the exit. Two oblique views don’t coincide along the way. The derivation concludes by pushing the agents that muddle their own common desire; to unify what has been in a new transfer. The essence of escape is found in all objects. Regarding the repulsion of its poles in suspense, fortunately. It’s endured thanks to the imposed tension. But another tension that invades emerging from the peripheries hinders the original resistance of things. The idea emerges forged in careless spheres of the same thing multiplied. Every goshawk sprouts irradiating the restraint of the moment sought. Not arriving. Oh entire genius wearing shoes of broken glass. In this way impatience is nothing more than the fertile surplus. Everything exits through the same coincident door. The measure denounces its own mistake of not truly calculating what the previous words say. Don’t trust. The wings of things emerge letting them fall like an initial nest. Inert, coercive. You can’t put up with too much for so much. So much more, so much worse. While you keep saving wind in a pocket without a hole, there’s no doubt it endures. The sky is oblique according to expectations. For me it’s mere lines. What a marvelous afternoon dissolved itself in the contrast between a space divided along skin and wall. Each ruled by its own constellation, according to temperament. That instant when things gain transparency once the contact with light is defined, how they acquire totality in not saying it, precisely!




{ Diego Sequera, Poemas irresponsables, Caracas: Fundación Editorial El perro y la rana, 2011 }

Bosquejo del 31 / Diego Sequera

Sketch of the 31st

Every thing considered a living entity
Living extension outside its shell
Energy administrator
All things that have surpassed
the road beyond their birth
are survivors

The thing of things tends
to follow the metaphorical fruit of what’s been deposited along the way
(In that, while the poem unwinds
with a heavy breeze in the way, all action sounds
from the edge of the doors
Today is the 31st, 12/31/06
script of the dramatized ritual)

The everything buzzes as everything
a not so machine-like state of debacle
(the infuriating confirmation
of the order of things
The confirmation of the closing and essence
an inevitable fall in each one of them)

(creosote bird and drawing of its shadow that caws)

I am every campesino recently executed by the
Extermination Group and National Guard in Chabasquén the
Revolutionary!

I’m the confused one caught in the crossfire of La
Paragua!
I’m a threatened social comptroller!
I’m an invader with no house or territory
who strikes back against God!

Ferocious brother (with whom I am)
who lives in the middle of the topographical path and resurrection
and for whom these surroundings the efficient dialect
in full systole of fear, in a full
fight against the neutrality of things
Fear is what burns overcome
in the face recovered and your own
comrades!

It’s in false triumph (and range)
where the essence of opportune disaster resides
It’s the tenacious silence formulated by
the flesh of the other who lives in the bone
of the skin
Flower of its withered nerves!

(Today for 06 closing
a dog crosses the null cup of this poem:
Beloved be the butterfly of your soul
may we be dogs!)

(Now is when the smoke of a fissure passes through the center of the poem)

Praised be those who conquer general hunger
from the depths of their house
made of life more than roof or walls!

Praised be today so 31st on the corner
without charred and excessive genius
Genius of the last nerves while piercing
the last fall in the ascent
on its own stairs!
Praised be then all stairs!

In the end
they’re the fires
of an eternal instant in its repetition

They’re the intimate mausoleums
cynical like a moon
silent like their own transfer
That instantaneous spirit in favor of distances

New is the ground of nostalgias
Native soil ready
Planting of specific faces
Yours
Comrades

20 to go until the change
as I elaborate this sketch
of the next nostalgia
when none of this will persist in its matter
Everything could be banal if I wasn’t
certain the year is dying
and surely this year I remake myself again

(The ink crab
scratches the
bottom of the poem)

Five minutes
Aqua, Hermes, Benito, Yuya, Beto and the people
(each side its own)
Remake the sad path as they pass
in the pressure of the present poem
that crosses the border
without cartridges
or passport.




{ Diego Sequera, Poemas irresponsables, Caracas: Fundación Editorial El perro y la rana, 2011 }

Snapshot / Diego Sequera

Snapshot

You don’t write enough for the simple reason
of considering writing a constant aesthetic moment
I listen to myself from the other side of the paper
I betray my narcissism with happiness and a bit of idiocy
forgetting the higher goal of clarity and movement in writing
which is its clear work value that pulses badly in the
completely excessive box of its only border replete with killers
who
by force
were robbed of their own by thugs
I speak of the face El cajón its completely excessive line
the one that draws tons of people Tons
of people hanging from and by their own hands on a fence that
divides
the territory
Clamoring to be within the circle of oblivion In being more imprisoned
by their own absences Hanging on a fence
but inverting their values and their judgments

Its anonymizing apparatus
Bent eviction at the most lax point of expression

I speak of how I write


2.
In this poem I can confess “This is the edge
where the shade might not be able to because of an ethical exercise
without even using that same ethics to be the companion
forced by gendarmes to an execution” On each side
to say that the intonation of these acts
deliberately thinking in the same ways
as ever Perpetuating above all the impossibility of babbling against it

It’s the only thing that hasn’t changed grosso modo.

I confess in this poem that in the actual moment
in which I write these words that barely perceive their substance
That feel and know they are no more than aspiration and
                                                            nothing else
I can clearly say due to the false investiture
that I have thrown on its text about that unprecedented mesh
I can confess in this poem the burning and true fact
that I’m losing my mind
It's not easy or honest to describe it
I almost believe myself

After each moronic syllable
Its collapse


3.
On the other hand I think I can also confess
that at the present moment I live a very strange version
of happiness
A more devastating revelry through the regular transit of
time

I feel that so much splendor is rewarding but honestly too
Speaking outside the text without telling anyone
I feel that now at this moment as I type a final version
of this poem (unbearable paper transplant) An astonishing
instant always has at its core the internal version of the lightning bolt
Something like that better yet from here but at a great distance
                                                            like everything in life
and maybe like everything we make our own It can easily drift
to a space between madness and clumsy mass media editions of death
and I have an unstoppable desperation for appropriating Certain form of
                                                            deep spite
something possessive and I lose the virtues of this more dis
agreement than what was prefixed earlier Clear form of inhabiting oneself
one in everything I speak to At its best moments
Free because dissolved from understanding that sharing more than something
is the only exercise for the most visible meaning of mercy
Word that when executed at the right time isn’t rotten and plagued with a whiff
Neither of ecclesiastical diapers or any pontificated version of the
                                                            ridiculous tale
of the life from which they emerge and to which they go according to how
                                                            convenient it might be in the nomenclature
of the business to which it’s assigned
That is executed in something unfolded but by the very same
Eternally inhabited by owners and employers
We live the only act that in life justifies
in a physical corporeal way An act that can well
be coined as mercy That edition of the spoils that
act in the solitary act To accompany ourselves from the most dissolved depths
its own conjunction when it manages to join the rest
in those who accede to enter far from the person
in them as among ourselves

Remember, most beloved person who by accident
at its base most chimera which is nothing more than an impasse of your
                                                            fate
and who because of that is now reading or listening to this poem
That this was written in a moment that’s made when I write to you
                                                            while you read
That maybe it’s that I’m writing to you And that I can feel forced
                                                            by turbulence
that can be offered from this side of the paper
a gesture I’d like to reveal (but time is already running out
for this poem) Maybe a gesture that could very well indicate
in all it’s description a desire I seek a form of offering a poem
of clear solidarity




{ Diego Sequera, Poemas irresponsables, Caracas: Fundación Editorial El perro y la rana, 2011 }

Sanctus est este mierdero panorama / Diego Sequera

Sanctus est this shit storm panorama

We’re the respectability generation.
We’re the middle class generation.
ROBERTO BOLAÑO

Sanctus est this shit storm panorama
of all the saints and hortalis ruficaudas
and of the twin turkey vulture of the holy ghost
Oh sacred dovecote that identifies us!
Bird as pure and dirty as shit!
don’t you all know the word Nation
is an abstract animal?
Shit roses for this promising pit of ferment!
You, dirty pigeons, you definitely know
that unfortunately being a moron is a right
(a fuckin’ democratic right)
All of you, who keep up to date
on how to bring up the baby of the family
will you let this sacred dump be stylized for you?
to be shit mud forged in the pre birth
Oh Plato, little Plato, such a whiner, so brilliant, so minuscule!
The man of shit has been proposed in opposition to the one of clay
Where they mark scribbles instead of traces
Where we are rigorously granted
the prestige of belonging
to the ovens of family warmth
to the most compact and solidified generation
of shit
(guano from the sky, guano from God)

We’re the most compact generation of shit




{ Diego Sequera, Poemas irresponsables, Caracas: Fundación Editorial El perro y la rana, 2011 }