Cuatro poemas inéditos de Aurora Borealis
por Augusto Munaro
ceci n’est pas un poème
by mixing black
see the restless rainbow translate itself?
shut your eyes and pretend you never been born
identify the shapes of pigmentations
repeat this exercise 103 times
on any sunday morning
while throwing away the ripped
i’m telling you: mickey is a cat, not a mouse
(you just look hard enough)
virgin mary was actually not virgin nor her name was mary, but ursula
-you gotta trust me on this one
beer is tab water with melted mexican spirits
floating in the glass
have some faith
know that evil is right
(and not vice versa)
what you don’t
see, and you’ll
history is but a tale for fools
and comic books teach us that childhood is (but)
adulthood in shorts
whores are virgins (try to visualize this)/ nights are days
fat is thin / dry is wet / 1 is greater than 9 / “wrong is right”
nothing is what it seems
is a lie that god exists
that wars cannot put to an end
that president kennedy’s head was blown off
by two communist snipers (creeping through a tree branch like pissed
off mandrills)–pure baloney!
for those who don’t see this:
poets are born not made
i’ve spotted a yellow mercedes
is it a bargain?
haven’t you died?
no one had the decency to inform you?
or at least show you how bad you screwed up?
that you are a product of my/
come to your senses!
keep a solemn face!
no use, i know
gettin’ dizzy as fuck
thinking (over-thinking) about the same god damn loss
“you copy me?, over”… “hello?, over!”
outside the asylum oranges are to be picked by the sane happy children
the yellow mercedes is driven by old uncle moe, I could stare from the tower/
and he will never guess it
silence is a castle of tickling speculations
everything is possible once you step inside
“don’t be shy, give that first step, boy”
mom and dad are drooling babies/ world war 1 has never ended
meaning that you haven’t been kissed by all those nasty kids, kt
therefore we still have another chance
cause –get this straight- nothing ever happened
(not even us!)
we are destined to play our own sore life once more
for the jolly crowd
see the policeman smiling at us?
how about sam the undertaker?/
(always by himself/
at the darkest/
corner)/spot his shadow?
let’s not ruined it this time…
on the count of ten:
1 and: thrrrrrre!
trust my instinct
i am the walrus of spooky tooth!
don’t push it
let’s see now: it’s god’s will
that you (at the verge of 40)
are not a pater familias yet…
some are better off by themselves
seeking for myrth at each dusk or
staring beyond the buried sun among the rotten perfumes
of/ the hunting past
into the pure decaying fragrance
empty, i stare into the pit
why do we always choose the
it’s god’s will i tell you
on the last day of december
(eyes closed) i pretend i’m at a hostel
having butter tea and tsampa
a disoriented & youngish dalai lama
is sending flowers to his
look at him/
look at his cool slow walk:
a bald jesus
the wind, pure, serene,/
sounds the cristal hour/