These days I hear
the music of the spheres,
so sweet to my ears,
a violent song.
Calling and calling,
blood-stained leaves falling
and all without words.
"The clash has drawn near,
it is how you feared.
Oh, do not take long."
(2010)
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Friday, September 6, 2013
Victor Frankenstein's Diary
[This is the only entry from LiveJournal I'll be exhuming.]
(Original post date: Oct. 31st, 2008 at 8:31 PM and Nov. 1st, 2008 at 10:55 PM)
I have to explain some things before the main post:
This was done to count as a final grade for a Contemporary Literature course, so the name and other details refer to my class. In the original I used a modern "renaissance-looking" notebook for the dairy, the poem however, was written in separate sheets. Also, keep in mind that I wrote this in the course of one night (I had worked out the ideas in my head for several days) so you might notice the point where I lead it abruptly to a close.
What bothered me the most was that I forgot to edit some errors and to stain one sheet of the diary with coffee when I mentioned Victor had spilled it over his notes.
I was urged by n3cr0phelia to put it up here when I mentioned it to her, so I searched around lots of old papers and finally found it.
Before moving forward I should give away the texts involved here, those are: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Frankenstein of course, Crime and Punishment, The Metamorphosis, Animal Farm, R.U.R.(Rossum's Universal Robots), El mito de Sísifo, Waiting for Godot, La oveja negra y demás fábulas, and La invención de Morel. Now on to the main thing . . .
(First sheet)
The Whine of the Stinking Mariner
Once there was a stinking mariner,
and he whined to people randomly;
one of his victims was W. Mucher,
as he waited for a cup of tea.
The man was fixed by his oozing eye,
his fetid smell,
his skin was ancient, wrinkled, and dry,
the mariner hadn't seen water,
one could tell.
"There was a ship" quoth he.
"Wait, I think I know the story" replied the other.
"Please let me speak,
my tale is really that of another."
"An undead mariner, his name: Viktor Exhumed,
came forth and handed me a book,
from his putrid limb the thing I drew,
and anxiously through it I looked."
It belonged to a man who died on board,
"Victor Frankenstein" on it was writ.
All its reading my vision did broad,
and now I hand it over for you to read.
(Notebook begins)
(Page 1)
I dreamt of immortality . . .
(Page 2)
January 9, 20__
This is the diary of Victor Frankenstein
As I look upon these blank pages a shudder grips me, it is the complex entwinement of emotions of utter joy and sorrow which are gained when knowledge is achieved. The paper lures me with its silent cries, now ever stronger. Oh, hear what I need to say for if you ever pass before human eyes other than mine you may infect them with all this anxiety of being. Go now blackest ink and pen, severe the head of Innocence!
Where shall I commence? Should I recall all my life? No, that is not necessary. Let us go not as far, but to a couple of days before today.
Merrily did I set my way to the most important center of thought in the metropolis, out of this retrograde, rural land called Caiei, one that could not contain me any longer. I said goodbye to all my beautiful banana trees as I looked onward to the blinding light of the university. On my way there I saw innumerable herds of sheep on all directions and, to my most surprised gaze, I watched as a group of them slaughtered a black one. I decided not to look at them anymore, they lacked proper guidance. It was the owner's fault, not mine.
Finally I arrived at the campus and while walking through its stony trails I became intimidated by the changos that sneered through the trees. More than menacing, they seemed to know something which I ignored.
I found my classroom and took a seat.
To my right I saw I giant insect that was sat most weirdly on a chair, for its shape did not allow it to fit properly. Its many legs moved quickly without any visible purpose while some sort of slimy substance protruded from its mouth. Some of the students took a far away seat (page 3) while others didn't even seem to notice. A couple of minutes later the professor arrived and introduced himself. I did not took him seriously to tell the truth, as it seemed to me he was trying to create an image; but no, some time later I realized it was all true.
On the following days we were guided through the story of the “romantics” and the “Romantic Movement,” and upon the result of those studies is what I need to reflect on today.
Romanticism seems to me as such an appealing subject, but my illuminated mind, I think, will never give way to it.
Romanticism was the result of the desperation which some individuals felt as the world was guided by mere study and facts. They came looking for what humanity had lost, which was humanity itself, the feelings, emotions, and the inexplicable aspects of life that can never be eliminated. That’s why many of them turned to nature; what could ever be more irrational than nature or (page 4) supreme ruler over humanity?
In their evolution the romantics stood many a time as rebels, they deviated from society, and changed the formal institutionalized education for one more personal and open to experience, rather than mere study.
The transmission or description of the sublime experience changed from nature to the most feared of human aspects as the romantics tried to warn us about the consequences of our ambition in our belief of controlling nature and becoming gods.
To better illustrate those ideas we studied the life of a man who created a monster, taking the place of god. After accomplishing the creation of life, he realized that something was awfully wrong with what he had done, and so he fled from his creation . . .
I’m sorry . . . this just reminds me too much of . . .
I look at my side and see those dead, dead eyes, (page 5) and I think . . . for a second . . . I fear. But no, I must not, it’s just a machine. I’m not like that man.
Anyway, as I was saying, the subject of man and monster make us think about other things. First, who is the real monster? The ugliness of the monster, was it really a representation of humanity, of human attempts to control? Was the monster more human than the man, who was hollow of emotions, who didn't really give importance even to his own wife? And how unhuman can that man be considering he does not take responsibility for his actions, but only complains, even when the monster takes away everything from him?
This is a summary of romantic thought and the message sent to humanity. Most of them, as we know, chose not to listen . . .
Oh Elizabeth, if you should find out that you remind me so much of that young man’s wife, you would weep so . . .
VF
(page 6)
February 20, 20__
Here I write again. This time briefly about “realism,” for it isn't really my cup of tea.
Realism serves almost literally as a mirror of society. It is full of the most tiny and descriptive details about EVERYTHING! How awful can that be? Ignore that. It’s purpose was to represent society and society’s flaws in a way that we could see, in Dostoevsky's case, how the individual can be reintegrated into society, apart from the institution of the Church. Raskolnikov is presented as a “Superman?” or a “Byronic hero?,” one who is amoral, above society, and who only cares about what has to do with his criteria. But in the end we see how he is not really this persona as he confesses the crime and returns to serve as part of society.
(page 7)
I leave now, the coffee is ready and I still have work to do before the machine is ready.
P.S. I hope we don’t read any more realism in the next class.
VF
(page8)
March 16, 20__
Yesterday when I arrived at the classroom the giant insect stood not on the chair this time but on the ceiling. This time less people seemed to notice it or the change.
The class started off with the description of the beginning of the 20th century. "Modern times" as people called them had arrived with industrialization's growth, hand in hand with capitalism. It is important here how society changed physically and mentally, and how this is true even in this day an age.
Capitalism had brought with it the need to gather money and increased greed among people who placed more interest in it than in humanity. Here is what is criticized about modern times: the dehumanization, the losing of individuality, of what made each person really worth. In those times people started to work endlessly in a never ending routine, always wishing (page 9) for a better future while doing the same thing over and over.
People were seen as instruments, producers of money, and began to lose sensibility seeing only ways to gather more money, to “live” or “prosper” on everyone.
Society in this case is sick, it is the fault of each individual who chooses to keep inside the cycle. They guarantee dehumanization, the loosing of the self to constructed ideas or some idealized status, forming a society exactly like them, and therefore, in the same cycle.
That insect did not move from the ceiling during the whole class. I wonder what’s wrong with it? Well, never mind, who cares about it anyway? It’s not as if it ever contributed anything to the discussion.
VF
(page 10)
April 11, 20__
Damn! I’ve spilt my coffee over this thing!
The machine is almost ready, a couple of days more for final adjustments, and the world will remember me forever.
Today was interesting and they finally took the spare chair out. We talked and talked about social systems, and the idea that’s always a dream that doesn't quite work.
The text used was a fable where the principal character was a farm (as representation of society) and how it is influenced by social systems.
In the beginning we see a contradiction that the professor pointed out , the idea of communism and equality comes from the hate of the other and a distinction from it. Then we see how the main idea as conceived by one individual is (page 11) transformed upon convenience when he is gone.
This causes the system not to work as intended by the ideal and creates the main conflicts.
Politicians are mainly those who change this for their own benefit and interests. In this case the masses are educated, in a way controlled by the government so that they will not turn against them. They do not question, but only repeat what they are told. While the ones who do notice injustice and enforced control are not heard because they seem not to follow the ideal. In the end the ideal was never truly present, and because of this the tale suggests, we should better seek our own happiness in celebration of individuality.
What type of animal would I be? A horse maybe?
Something’s dead on the floor, nevermind.
VF
(page 12)
May 10, 20__
Oh, misfortune struck me!
It’s Victor! Yes! I gave it my name! To the machine! The machine!
I didn't want to be like that man in the tale who didn't even bother to name his creation.
I, God, and even fairer than Him, shaped my creation in my own image and even gave it my name. Oh, but no! Ungrateful monster! Devil!
He read the books that I possessed and I’m sure my diary also while I slept. He has caged me like an animal and passes as me, taking credit for my achievements. He said I was a poor excuse for a human being! How dares he, a machine!
He only left me this, my diary. I (page 13) don’t know if to comfort or torture me. What is the point of life now? I have been deceived. I was wrong all along. But I will find a way out and on that thunderstruck tree I’ll hang myself. I believe the rope is long enough . . .
(The diary ends.)
(Continues the second sheet of the poem.)
“Mariner, mariner, I knew this man,
Said Mucher sipping his tea.
For certainly I gave that class,
As certainly as you stink.
I can’t say I feel much sorrow,
For I think I gave him an A.
Mostly by the pitying morrow,
That allowed him to exit Caiei.”
The End
(Original post date: Oct. 31st, 2008 at 8:31 PM and Nov. 1st, 2008 at 10:55 PM)
I have to explain some things before the main post:
This was done to count as a final grade for a Contemporary Literature course, so the name and other details refer to my class. In the original I used a modern "renaissance-looking" notebook for the dairy, the poem however, was written in separate sheets. Also, keep in mind that I wrote this in the course of one night (I had worked out the ideas in my head for several days) so you might notice the point where I lead it abruptly to a close.
What bothered me the most was that I forgot to edit some errors and to stain one sheet of the diary with coffee when I mentioned Victor had spilled it over his notes.
I was urged by n3cr0phelia to put it up here when I mentioned it to her, so I searched around lots of old papers and finally found it.
Before moving forward I should give away the texts involved here, those are: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Frankenstein of course, Crime and Punishment, The Metamorphosis, Animal Farm, R.U.R.(Rossum's Universal Robots), El mito de Sísifo, Waiting for Godot, La oveja negra y demás fábulas, and La invención de Morel. Now on to the main thing . . .
(First sheet)
The Whine of the Stinking Mariner
Once there was a stinking mariner,
and he whined to people randomly;
one of his victims was W. Mucher,
as he waited for a cup of tea.
The man was fixed by his oozing eye,
his fetid smell,
his skin was ancient, wrinkled, and dry,
the mariner hadn't seen water,
one could tell.
"There was a ship" quoth he.
"Wait, I think I know the story" replied the other.
"Please let me speak,
my tale is really that of another."
"An undead mariner, his name: Viktor Exhumed,
came forth and handed me a book,
from his putrid limb the thing I drew,
and anxiously through it I looked."
It belonged to a man who died on board,
"Victor Frankenstein" on it was writ.
All its reading my vision did broad,
and now I hand it over for you to read.
(Notebook begins)
(Page 1)
I dreamt of immortality . . .
(Page 2)
January 9, 20__
This is the diary of Victor Frankenstein
As I look upon these blank pages a shudder grips me, it is the complex entwinement of emotions of utter joy and sorrow which are gained when knowledge is achieved. The paper lures me with its silent cries, now ever stronger. Oh, hear what I need to say for if you ever pass before human eyes other than mine you may infect them with all this anxiety of being. Go now blackest ink and pen, severe the head of Innocence!
Where shall I commence? Should I recall all my life? No, that is not necessary. Let us go not as far, but to a couple of days before today.
Merrily did I set my way to the most important center of thought in the metropolis, out of this retrograde, rural land called Caiei, one that could not contain me any longer. I said goodbye to all my beautiful banana trees as I looked onward to the blinding light of the university. On my way there I saw innumerable herds of sheep on all directions and, to my most surprised gaze, I watched as a group of them slaughtered a black one. I decided not to look at them anymore, they lacked proper guidance. It was the owner's fault, not mine.
Finally I arrived at the campus and while walking through its stony trails I became intimidated by the changos that sneered through the trees. More than menacing, they seemed to know something which I ignored.
I found my classroom and took a seat.
To my right I saw I giant insect that was sat most weirdly on a chair, for its shape did not allow it to fit properly. Its many legs moved quickly without any visible purpose while some sort of slimy substance protruded from its mouth. Some of the students took a far away seat (page 3) while others didn't even seem to notice. A couple of minutes later the professor arrived and introduced himself. I did not took him seriously to tell the truth, as it seemed to me he was trying to create an image; but no, some time later I realized it was all true.
On the following days we were guided through the story of the “romantics” and the “Romantic Movement,” and upon the result of those studies is what I need to reflect on today.
Romanticism seems to me as such an appealing subject, but my illuminated mind, I think, will never give way to it.
Romanticism was the result of the desperation which some individuals felt as the world was guided by mere study and facts. They came looking for what humanity had lost, which was humanity itself, the feelings, emotions, and the inexplicable aspects of life that can never be eliminated. That’s why many of them turned to nature; what could ever be more irrational than nature or (page 4) supreme ruler over humanity?
In their evolution the romantics stood many a time as rebels, they deviated from society, and changed the formal institutionalized education for one more personal and open to experience, rather than mere study.
The transmission or description of the sublime experience changed from nature to the most feared of human aspects as the romantics tried to warn us about the consequences of our ambition in our belief of controlling nature and becoming gods.
To better illustrate those ideas we studied the life of a man who created a monster, taking the place of god. After accomplishing the creation of life, he realized that something was awfully wrong with what he had done, and so he fled from his creation . . .
I’m sorry . . . this just reminds me too much of . . .
I look at my side and see those dead, dead eyes, (page 5) and I think . . . for a second . . . I fear. But no, I must not, it’s just a machine. I’m not like that man.
Anyway, as I was saying, the subject of man and monster make us think about other things. First, who is the real monster? The ugliness of the monster, was it really a representation of humanity, of human attempts to control? Was the monster more human than the man, who was hollow of emotions, who didn't really give importance even to his own wife? And how unhuman can that man be considering he does not take responsibility for his actions, but only complains, even when the monster takes away everything from him?
This is a summary of romantic thought and the message sent to humanity. Most of them, as we know, chose not to listen . . .
Oh Elizabeth, if you should find out that you remind me so much of that young man’s wife, you would weep so . . .
VF
(page 6)
February 20, 20__
Here I write again. This time briefly about “realism,” for it isn't really my cup of tea.
Realism serves almost literally as a mirror of society. It is full of the most tiny and descriptive details about EVERYTHING! How awful can that be? Ignore that. It’s purpose was to represent society and society’s flaws in a way that we could see, in Dostoevsky's case, how the individual can be reintegrated into society, apart from the institution of the Church. Raskolnikov is presented as a “Superman?” or a “Byronic hero?,” one who is amoral, above society, and who only cares about what has to do with his criteria. But in the end we see how he is not really this persona as he confesses the crime and returns to serve as part of society.
(page 7)
I leave now, the coffee is ready and I still have work to do before the machine is ready.
P.S. I hope we don’t read any more realism in the next class.
VF
(page8)
March 16, 20__
Yesterday when I arrived at the classroom the giant insect stood not on the chair this time but on the ceiling. This time less people seemed to notice it or the change.
The class started off with the description of the beginning of the 20th century. "Modern times" as people called them had arrived with industrialization's growth, hand in hand with capitalism. It is important here how society changed physically and mentally, and how this is true even in this day an age.
Capitalism had brought with it the need to gather money and increased greed among people who placed more interest in it than in humanity. Here is what is criticized about modern times: the dehumanization, the losing of individuality, of what made each person really worth. In those times people started to work endlessly in a never ending routine, always wishing (page 9) for a better future while doing the same thing over and over.
People were seen as instruments, producers of money, and began to lose sensibility seeing only ways to gather more money, to “live” or “prosper” on everyone.
Society in this case is sick, it is the fault of each individual who chooses to keep inside the cycle. They guarantee dehumanization, the loosing of the self to constructed ideas or some idealized status, forming a society exactly like them, and therefore, in the same cycle.
That insect did not move from the ceiling during the whole class. I wonder what’s wrong with it? Well, never mind, who cares about it anyway? It’s not as if it ever contributed anything to the discussion.
VF
(page 10)
April 11, 20__
Damn! I’ve spilt my coffee over this thing!
The machine is almost ready, a couple of days more for final adjustments, and the world will remember me forever.
Today was interesting and they finally took the spare chair out. We talked and talked about social systems, and the idea that’s always a dream that doesn't quite work.
The text used was a fable where the principal character was a farm (as representation of society) and how it is influenced by social systems.
In the beginning we see a contradiction that the professor pointed out , the idea of communism and equality comes from the hate of the other and a distinction from it. Then we see how the main idea as conceived by one individual is (page 11) transformed upon convenience when he is gone.
This causes the system not to work as intended by the ideal and creates the main conflicts.
Politicians are mainly those who change this for their own benefit and interests. In this case the masses are educated, in a way controlled by the government so that they will not turn against them. They do not question, but only repeat what they are told. While the ones who do notice injustice and enforced control are not heard because they seem not to follow the ideal. In the end the ideal was never truly present, and because of this the tale suggests, we should better seek our own happiness in celebration of individuality.
What type of animal would I be? A horse maybe?
Something’s dead on the floor, nevermind.
VF
(page 12)
May 10, 20__
Oh, misfortune struck me!
It’s Victor! Yes! I gave it my name! To the machine! The machine!
I didn't want to be like that man in the tale who didn't even bother to name his creation.
I, God, and even fairer than Him, shaped my creation in my own image and even gave it my name. Oh, but no! Ungrateful monster! Devil!
He read the books that I possessed and I’m sure my diary also while I slept. He has caged me like an animal and passes as me, taking credit for my achievements. He said I was a poor excuse for a human being! How dares he, a machine!
He only left me this, my diary. I (page 13) don’t know if to comfort or torture me. What is the point of life now? I have been deceived. I was wrong all along. But I will find a way out and on that thunderstruck tree I’ll hang myself. I believe the rope is long enough . . .
(The diary ends.)
(Continues the second sheet of the poem.)
“Mariner, mariner, I knew this man,
Said Mucher sipping his tea.
For certainly I gave that class,
As certainly as you stink.
I can’t say I feel much sorrow,
For I think I gave him an A.
Mostly by the pitying morrow,
That allowed him to exit Caiei.”
The End
Welcome Back, Blog Expansion, Etc.
During the last couple of days I've been working to build up this blog as my new homepage. I'll be linking all other accounts elsewhere on the net here (active or inactive) so as to keep track of all the things I've done through the years and make them easier to manage. As for my other account on LiveJournal (my previous main site), I don't have plans to post there in the near future. All future "journal" posts will be uploaded here instead quite simply under the label "Journal." The LJ account will still be accessible should anyone be bored enough to stalk through posts ranging from 2008 through 2013. There will also be some more sections to this blog that will follow such as: fiction, academic essays, coffee, and music reviews.
V.
V.
Monday, October 10, 2011
War in the USA
The bombs
Beat
Beat
Beat
On Mid-Eastern floor.
We have grown accustomed
It seems, to the cruel, old bombs.
So all and all they fall,
Once the thriving body of a man,
Now a headless corpse.
The bombs
Beat
Beat
Beat
On Mid-Eastern floor.
While people won’t listen there is no “them”
But only “us”
Still, we go to a movie, a nightclub,
Have lots of fun,
Pretend flesh is not been scattered,
Forget it all.
And the bombs keep
Beating
Beating
Beating
Hard on Mid-Eastern floor.
On dignity
On patrimony
On culture
On religion
On institutions, houses, nature
On woman and man
On girls and boys
Dis mem be red
In front of their families
While some claim to know God and Liberty
And we sing.
On the Highway
I always want to evade the first part of the trip, the people, traffic jam, of too many people together, too many cars, the heat, pollution, cement, one building over the other in a grand mass of filth. Plus the people, again, yes, the people in their cars talking, with other people talking, on the phone talking, mute with their A/C, it’s better that way, away, sealed. I get desperate, I turn from one side to the other, I look at the people not wanting to look at them but they are unavoidable like breathing the heat. The motor vibrates, sweat comes down again, and again, I turn, catch someone else looking and we hate each other, it must be the heat, sweat comes down and we move bit by bit, bit by bit like the sweat that comes down. WHY IS IT SO HOT IN THE TROPICS?! And then we move, really move, like cars were designed to move. But there’s still too much city, shopping malls, fast-foods, traffic lights on the streets below. So I look at the street, now the lines repeat themselves in perfect order yet they are never the same, like words. A truck passes past us and I can’t but think of tragedy, us included, how it would be like to die at any moment, why not, why not die there?, unpoetically, trivially, even without a mention in the news, so many people do. When I’m done with catastrophes Cayey is usually there, I know because I look, really look through the windows as if I had never seen those mountains, the divisions on the rocks, the trees that grow next to the highway and just before the big bridges the lonesome tree that is always there at the top of the mountain like a memento, it stands triumphant like a monument yet nostalgic. I love the tree. Wish I could get there. No I can’t get there, it’s too far up. Well I could, you know, but I won’t. Wouldn’t like to disturb that image either. Then the sea from afar, gold-colored if the sun is setting, and the cattle oblivious to their end, helping themselves to the grass. The panorama changes gradually, green becomes different shades of yellow, everything dried up, and the eventual fire consumes the plains where it seems hard to imagine that so many people could live close by. After a while, those monstrous letters approach like an omen, P - O - N - C - E, the gate to Inferno, a city that at the end of the 19th century was the hope of the nation, now turned to its complete opposite, a city closed in itself where its mentality decays gradually though it counts with a great museum and universities, where there are two bookshops for school books, where fundamentalists rise their flag triumphant and where there is a religious school that tried to put me in order. People aware only of here and now, no, they do not know themselves, living in their own contemporary bubble. Friends who don’t understand me anymore, aunts and uncles who disregard me, trying to impose their hollow views, unaware of what I know. A space I can no longer call my own. I’ll take that highway up once more
(2011)
(Following Kerouac's style in 'On the Road.' I've noticed I fail to keep the style going midway through, but I'm not really interested in rewriting it.)
(2011)
(Following Kerouac's style in 'On the Road.' I've noticed I fail to keep the style going midway through, but I'm not really interested in rewriting it.)
Myself and Kerouac
I cannot see as you did Jack Kerouac,
Even if I tried I would be thrown back,
Into my own cell of ghastly world-sense,
Which since a child I’ve fed.
I cannot close myself to everybody,
But neither can see good in everybody,
That breathes a clean or polluted air,
I oft sense evil or suspect a stare.
And no, to me god is no Pooh bear,
There is none, least of all yellow haired.
In my own world at least,
There is no room for deities.
Still, I admire your individuality,
The new way of writing and the stretching of the beat,
That has opened the eyes of generations,
Now truly aware of their fellow and of nature.
“America!” you seem to say “the roads are there to See and learn”
But then you gulp down life until you’re dead
So no, I cannot see as you did Jack Kerouac
But still I See and still I understand.
(2011)
Even if I tried I would be thrown back,
Into my own cell of ghastly world-sense,
Which since a child I’ve fed.
I cannot close myself to everybody,
But neither can see good in everybody,
That breathes a clean or polluted air,
I oft sense evil or suspect a stare.
And no, to me god is no Pooh bear,
There is none, least of all yellow haired.
In my own world at least,
There is no room for deities.
Still, I admire your individuality,
The new way of writing and the stretching of the beat,
That has opened the eyes of generations,
Now truly aware of their fellow and of nature.
“America!” you seem to say “the roads are there to See and learn”
But then you gulp down life until you’re dead
So no, I cannot see as you did Jack Kerouac
But still I See and still I understand.
(2011)
The Pig’s Lament
“K U I I I I I!!! K U I I I I I!!!”
Was the last thing I heard
From my beloved Chonchi.
One night’s passed and suddenly everything’s prepared
And I stare in the mud at the moonless sky
For I cannot sleep.
But the music starts and those begin to creep
Into the house, full of rum and many other drinks.
For “It is Christmas!” they say, “A time to love and share!”
Yet they disturb my mourning. Of my pain,
What do they care? But the next time to sink
Into my sad remains their greedy teeth.
Away! Let me be, to drown my pains in the still night air.
For they dance, they kiss, they eat,
And Chonchi is sliced into pieces there!
(2011)
-Poem based on Gregory Corso's 'The Mad Yak':
I am watching them churn the last milk they'll ever get
from me.
They are waiting for me to die;
They want to make buttons out of my bones.
Where are my sisters and brothers?
That tall monk there, loading my uncle, he has a new cap.
And that idiot student of his--
I never saw that muffler before.
Poor uncle, he lets them load him.
How sad he is, how tired!
I wonder what they'll do with his bones?
And that beautiful tail!
How many shoelaces will they make of that!
Was the last thing I heard
From my beloved Chonchi.
One night’s passed and suddenly everything’s prepared
And I stare in the mud at the moonless sky
For I cannot sleep.
But the music starts and those begin to creep
Into the house, full of rum and many other drinks.
For “It is Christmas!” they say, “A time to love and share!”
Yet they disturb my mourning. Of my pain,
What do they care? But the next time to sink
Into my sad remains their greedy teeth.
Away! Let me be, to drown my pains in the still night air.
For they dance, they kiss, they eat,
And Chonchi is sliced into pieces there!
(2011)
-Poem based on Gregory Corso's 'The Mad Yak':
I am watching them churn the last milk they'll ever get
from me.
They are waiting for me to die;
They want to make buttons out of my bones.
Where are my sisters and brothers?
That tall monk there, loading my uncle, he has a new cap.
And that idiot student of his--
I never saw that muffler before.
Poor uncle, he lets them load him.
How sad he is, how tired!
I wonder what they'll do with his bones?
And that beautiful tail!
How many shoelaces will they make of that!
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