Un primeiro borrador rascunho dunha autotradución ao inglés. Con saberme as letras dos Pixies e Tracy Chapman non me chegou, témome.

/serial monogamies on ikea shelves/

How good would my tolstois look among your dostoievskis
petrified on the ice of the central shelf, just before
thawing out in nabokovs fields
bakunins boiling.

My coetzees would stalk us in silence, a bit creaky the wood
before your millers jump down to the floor on purpose
only in order to distract my ajmátovas.
Woolf of me would come to sniff your hand
your cunqueirian hand
and we’d fuck mode pedantic on, quoting blindly
and then we’d split up throwing us colettes to the head
drinking wretch gin-hemingways by vila-matas pound bars
so moebius and with a marcusaurelius air
and it is known that we’d clandestinely be happy again
with a lispector hidden under our raincoat
ready to face all of your mailers
in kingston memory cards for electronic guts.

Manuelantonios ripping their celulose to engender in pizarnik ink.
In front of my no-glasses nipple one sagan, lying face up under the univerceiling
and benjamins devoured by silverfishes and moths from your country cottage.
And what about the enigma of that book in a byzantine binded
which, only with moving three milimetres left
opens an archway in the wall to the crypt where you poes
are making out with my vernes.
Lovecrafted with regrets, with such a shame
from the fact of having acortazarated ourselves whithout mesure nor cernuda. Rulfos
who pretend not to know each other
in the beckett with no ende of this life.

Choke your pynchons back that I will inject jaeggys direct into the vein.
Pretty old flaubert-soaked muffins and the whole aristote snorted of cervantes to the códax.
Our respective cats did not expect yawning again among safos and catulos
they expected being michaux in asia, yes, but not this.
Despite of your bolívar biographies smiling at me sometimes
the truth is that each one of your agotas will be forgotten. And so the munro will and the valles
one by one.

Meanwhile, on the empty shelves, the air-freshed pat from such sacred cow steams
and sad, background, in the kitchen, a gógol spider-crab soup that nobody eats.
The sentences beginning for me will end up in sentences for another
which will be the beginning for another one’s line
and the same for my pessoas back to back with another whothehellknows and untilbutwhen.

Yet, for every rimbauds in the world’s sake
let’s stop discrediting us.
Let Alexandria burns boxed in alexandrine verses.
Let paper or babel hords burn. Extinct ink.
Let Ardenas forest burn, mar de Fóra milky sea.
Main characters and their characters melt by fire, inmortal sentences
just reduced to rained ash. And ships. The famous ships.

How good fits to forget to all this ink. Until some dickens appear
in sudden, around the corner
loaded with papers again.
And my rosalia’s leaves do turn by themselves
in autoplay some of them.
And the others just flying

trashlation by E.E. Río

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