Cuatro poemas inéditos de Aurora Borealis

por Augusto Munaro

 

ceci n’est pas un poème

think white
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

  phone  bills

 

***

 

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

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/

hallucination?

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…
shall we?
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
of death

 

empty, i stare into the pit

not knowing
not seeing

 

why do we always choose the

wrong words
to explain

deep feelings?

 

it’s god’s will i tell you

---

on the last day of december

(eyes closed) i pretend i’m at a hostel

/in lhasa

 

having butter tea and tsampa

while

 

a disoriented  & youngish dalai lama

is sending flowers to his

self-loved people

look at him/
look at his cool slow walk:
a bald jesus

 

the wind, pure, serene,/
mirror-like-water
sounds the cristal hour/

has come