2011
Campanotto Editore
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The Horns of the Rhinoceros
After sweating all night like a cup of boiling infusion, and soiling the spots on my skin with eschatology, I place my sunglasses over my tanned brow and I turn off the colors of the world.
The sea has sketched gigantic greens in the apple of my child-like nymphean eyes,. The thread of the herb hangs from the moon-flower and fulminates the petals against each other.,
Still I’m used to rinsing my mouth with a black olive and moving my fingers as if I had a nest of ants on the palms of my hands. Life is a caravan of tubers in an amorphous of the vineyard wind.,
I place myself in my distressing utopia. The operating room of the startled ocean is ready. The water narrates an empty night locking itself in my knuckled fist made of precious metal. I am an astral assassin cutting the perfume of a planet that lost everything.,
The impoverished larvae licked the walls of impossible desire., The needle of Madronos charged the small sherry-filled compass with an alphabet of consumed waves.
Sweeping the menstrual blood of the unknown gods overseas. There will be millions of electrocuted cheeks and flowers to celebrate the menopaused wrinkles of the incipient new fatherland.
The astrological conspiracy is abundant to drain the lettuce over the testicles of Guantanamo and the foam grows and grows on the path traced in the etched memories…
There is no chronology, agenda, only the balance of each hurricane, the murmur of every wind, the miracle of the tinplated saints floating on their knees over the fantasy of a world in fetal state,.
And I´m stalked by a persistent desire to cover myself with peppercorns, and place a white scarf over my head and officiate a ritual filling the audience with kisses breeded by bats born from brass organs…
2
The foam of the elusive Atlantis is beautiful from the bridge of the arctic strait,. Without the pale presence of its heirs we would have a sky of seagulls drifting deeply. Dark and solitary sleet kissing the time of those no longer there.
Vertigo and fall, crevice of salt or hoisted dream over the sugar of ice. A face on the margins of coldness, with slippery hair, a lazy nose, powdery eyes in a perennial insomnia…,
That image of the water advancing and flowing, vanishes from ship to ship, curing pains of ancient waves,
That starfish dissolved in gold petals, which revives the marines born in a sea of flames, casts a spell on the thunder, nails the waves together, to the chaotic cry of the rusty blue hinges..,
That deranged mermaid drowning her dehydrated tail with pure silence; a hint of destroyed victims till they hypnotize themselves in the gallop of the inky lake with a child’s head eviscerated in the whims of paper.
The tide is derailed again and my galactic ship goes up and down annoyingly,. We are rag dolls drowned by the repulsive time…
I have desired to clean my aura with pearl caterpillars and river lilies. I have tried to practice pedophilia on Isabel’s face, Our Lady of the Seas.,
I have consumed my pants with salt and I have ejected myself over the sea, exhaling, burping, imprisoning myself in the arm’s of this crazy labyrinth of organs that cry in positions of piety.,
I have condomized myself and I have been with all types of nymphs whom, like angels, are no longer on Earth, but in the clouds of holy water hammocking with one another,
..the illiterate sea cannot spell the ancestral volumes of the infinitesimal syllabus of the eclesiastic gluteophiles.,
I flour my skin with burnt bread crumbs while the apoliticized rodents frown their brows in front of the fetid vulva of patriotic banners…
I have mistaken a nautical chart for the route of a lost honeyless bee and, irritated I take notes over the mirage of the blind night,.
3
Going so far biblifying myself as much as a larvae kiss would allow, seeking Nosferatur´s orgasm, strangling the old inquitorial louse of Torquemada… revealing the sodomic passion of the first man for Eden’s monkeys..,
God makes my ships spin in the stomach of the New World in circles and more circles and the despicable passengers exceeding, embellishing, slandering, injuring themselves, running wild deciphering orthographic mulato signs in the clouds of Jerusalem., in the furs of the Himalayas, in the morgues of Popol Vuh
… A castaway white lily returns my hope of seaweed with ethylic hair. There is no treason, it is only the neurasthenic spirits of heavenly bodies that allow the madness of the aesthetic reason.
The mercenary sailors have computed the new time , the new continent and claim the sidereal night; a day of sarcophagous flies, tse-tse flies in the abyss of desolation, leeches of intrepid regions.
I, Christopher Columbus, Admiral of virile organ., the Discoverer of the New World, roar, wander and my nose is dirty. The phlegm disfigures the epitome of my lips and the saltpeter tarnish my redeemer cavities.
I sweat dragons through pores and encantations from my neck, I have given into the orgy imagining having created a huge deranged meta-nation full of cinematographic lolitas and aritotelic policiticans with swallowed lips…, all of them with carousel monkey heads and a shining genetic oxidized zipper.,
I, inventor of virgin regions of bleeding rocks and Venuses who can’t even attract the bacteria of disappeared hummingbirds to its hymen.,
I am close, so close like never before at the edge, at the brink at the geothermic finale of the saliva…
The gums of the amazons sweat from so many arboreal moans. I, moist and putrified with my underwear bursting against the bloated bladder of this circumcised salt.
4
…All navigation in blue sapphires to invent a country. All this passion only to arrive at a palace of dry water; all this arthritic poetizing to search for eclipses and incubate the poisonous mosquitoes in the center of the shriveled ovum.
The curtain falls from the rainy sky., little by little the amphitheater of the labyrinth yellowing their ivory parchment,
The pages evaporate in the distance, the sailors of the unicorn dissolve within the belly of the shipyard; the day gets darker and darker, the light of the eternal lamps has exhausted its stellar oil…,
I take off my sunglasses and close the mesticized portfolio of desolation.,
I’m boiling in narrative infusions. The apple of my child-like nymphean eyes has been lacerated by the horn of a tropical rhinoceros., I am an astral assassin…, the Messiahs of the world run like rivers of fire beating the handkerchief of death…., all the flowers exiled themselves on the huge mountain of giant trees of snow.,
Bartus Bartolome
Caracas, Paris, New York.
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