A woman and a ball: out of a sudden agreement
the world forms, in its inane rotation.
It begins with the fish, which inhabits the wasteland.
A curve sighs. Nothing swells immediately.
A mathematical point: the sphere,
void, terrestrial, a cloud of breath.
If the chimera doesn’t declare itself
in service and pure verse,
it will wail its words of truth.
The world revolves in an animal rush.
The most humble fish, of all the mud,
mired in the eye, bearing the colure.
A leg, or terror, arises, expands:
the air is the passion of the bather:
light, in recess, flashes and dies out.
A woman and a ball drop from a bristle,
a thin line of ice in which everything concludes,
matter the hand raises into view.
World in the air, simple being and aspect:
algae rising boldly within the descent.
A fish that bites its own tail bleeds mud.
Fabio, this passage and flow and writhing I’m thinking of
is the world: element, eruption: everything, nothing,
in the immense power.
From the rhythm: figures and the first creed,
and happiness, a lesson for the universe as it rolls
into time, pulling along its shell and ancient verse.
translated by Katie Silver and Rick London
letterman taught liberal arts
bukowski master of the open portal
that caught flies and dirty blondes ,
there where no country estates
or manicured ladies in crinolene,
too much hubbub
and relentless spiral of those
who live in such an octopus town,
that solar flares light the street
and guide those whose frail stories
stumble over awkward words
master of bliss
with shimmering teeth
and boiling stench caught on
vigilant for kisses and erotic
severed happiness from tears
and kept each separate,
behind the doors of our octopus
town the withered languish
robbed of enchanted loins
and their tears now crystallized
as rings for deaths fingers,
clotted souls clogged
as choked diaphragms coughed and
hacked sluices of phlegm,
the doors opened for a moment each day
quick enough for a shadow to be
madness was a bomb on every street corner,
diffused as she appeared,
her deceit to entice
womb of silken flotsam
carried nothing hopeful,
yet her heart once orphaned
brought a rising sun
that closed the portal
to bukowski’s dismay
letterman fell aside victim
to iron skies and sanities rent,
heal deep she called
finding it broken
and lambs put together the pieces
with a well chewed glue
midnight had crawled
out of his head leaving the
early hours to do their work,
keyboard screen aglow
in transcript of the mind,
his patience a short tether
to the excitement of creation,
as if dawn light brought revelation
a first fledged sun of
stimulants left aside
progressing in a way he knew best,
a splinter of memory
curdled color at the corner
of his eye,
but only of tiredness,
love remorse or regret
compacting much of the mind
this way and ball it up
upon a printed page
gave it a name,
then abandon it
let it become a piece thrown aside,
to be read again one
at completion a certain smile
few could ever see,
it was written
it was done,
exhale pull away
tremors in the arms
till the next moment.