Os pés alheios nos próprios glúteos

Os pés alheios nos próprios glúteos

 
Ninguém
          espera de Medeia
      que engula,
                  digestório, o brio feito broa
                  se o kit-sobrevivência
  dita, às vezes, vingança:
         direciona a proa
                            do orgulho
                  à jusante
            das consequências para Jasão
& que claudique
                       Gláucia,
         furunculose
                   na fuselagem
        do meu ego
                        fusível,
        sem eco
                e sindicato.
       Até eu, Brutus,
         não saberia sem dúvida
      o que Arthur
                   diria, nestes dias
     de infidelidade
                  partidária, de Guinevere.
           Não me importa
                           portanto a balança
       torrencial deste
                            déficit
                ou se
              o senhor promotor
                                        ousa
proferir a sentença de sucesso
             na condenação,
num processo em prol de Troia,
                       das árvores usadas para o cavalo
     de seu calvário.
                    Quando se trata
        de réu, traia
                 quem se toma por troféu.
       Não
                conheço quem indique
onde assino que aceito
                      o ponto de combustão
do meu empalhamento
                         ou o ângulo que auxilie
     a gota-d´água
                          à véspera
               de transbordamento e queda.
Vamos, não choramingo ao fogo
                           que me poupe escamas
                 ou não me lamba o estofo:
       descalço, não
                hei-de sentir descaso nas bolhas
                     que separam, com pus,
as solas da brasa,
                       a derme das cinzas:
                           que me arda
             até que me extinga -
                                 *eu, mucosa
           hidratada
                            a sal de Ló,
         ensinaria a arte
              da perda em loterias
          como hábito e destino,
                         e discursaria
             algo sobre a solitude, ser o
                            terceiro ornitorrinco
            de contrabando
                           em qualquer arca
              de um Noé distraído.
                         Isto sim one art.

 

 

 

 

 

Booted

 
No one
          would expect Medea
      to swallow,
                  digestively, her pride
    as though it were bread
                  if the survival kit
  calls for revenge:
         point its proud
                            head
                  down-
            stream of all consequences to Jason
& may Glauce
                       hobble,
         furunculosis
                   in the fuselage
        of my fuse-
                       ego,
        without an echo
                or union.
       Even I, Brutus,
         would not know without doubt
      what Arthur
                   would say, in these times
     of party switching,
                   about Guinevere.
           I don't care
                           therefore the
balance of shade of this
                            deficit
                or if
              mister prosecutor
                                       dares
pass judgment on the successful
             conviction,
in a lawsuit in favor of Troy,
                        of the trees
used for the one-horse cavalry
     of its calvary.
                    When it comes to
        guilty parties,
let he who sees himself as prize
plot the betrayal.
       I don't
                know who indicates
where I sign the contract
                        for the combustion point
of my straw stuffing
                         or the angle that would aid
     the last straw
                          at the eve
               of burning.
So I'm not whining to the fire
                           to spare me the fish scales
                 or not lick my filling:
        Without shoes, I won't
                feel indifference in the blisters
                     that separate, with pus,
my soles from the burning coal,
                        my skin from the ashes:
                           may it sting me
             until it extinguishes me -
                                 I, ironized mucous membrane
           hydrated
                            with hardtack,
         would teach the art
            of losing lotteries
          as habit and destiny,
                         and would discourse
             on loneliness, on being the
                            third contraband
            platypus
                           in a distracted Noah's
              ark.
                         This is indeed one art.
 

translation: Hilary Kaplan

 

 

 

 

 

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