Asia Argento crosses in a trance the Uffizi’s hall
until reaching that Icarus that was attributed to Brueghel
however it’s not true that it is even hanging there
it sinks into the coastal waters of an ancient gray sea
where a primitive and rough fish swims in circles around her
if one squints them its eyes seem human
terrified to find themselves there in that form
foam constrained or papier-mâché disguised
they finally kiss each other with the love of those who do not feel
the lack or presence of gills because it carries in its own alveoli
the scent of pine trees
the coffee drying under the sun
the huesillos on a tin roof of the Cachapoal valley
their mouths are deformed while kissing
they are enlarged and are impregnated with ink
their silhouettes dilute swelling of varicose veins
the fish moves to another painting
and the woman wipes off the drool and scales calmly
she keeps them as a souvenir
right next to the tiny revolver in her wallet
while a new crack appears
over the pillars of the bridge
*
You ask me to write about blue rivers of fire in the slopes of Indonesian volcano Kawah Ijen
the truth is what they call blue lava
is actually sulfuric gasses coming out the earth
that react in contact with atmosphere oxygen
but only part of them condensates creating rivers
that in turn people try to contain
to sell solid sulfur to make a living
the beautiful blue flames are only visible at night
are the nightmare of those miners working night shifts
not because they are afraid of them
but because each little fire is a loss
I think of all writing could be a commission
instructions we receive by mail and execute them as a character
in a Sophie Calle year-round performance
some of that masochist game suits me
several boxes to keep the orders sent by friends and lovers
turned in rudimentary words
sounds or images descriptions
postcards backs in blank ready to be filled
with feathers wrapped in copper wire newspapers scraps all glued over
cartographic maps of the moon charts for flares and sun storms predicted for this year
velvety suitcases full of ice and the frozen ring finger of a pianist
the heart of the first woman buried in a Queens cemetery dead by a broken heart
the truth is I wish I could grant these commissions as Margaret Watts Hughes did
singing in front of a glass plate making the ink take shape
waves maybe only she was able to decipher
*
Siouxsie & the Banshees, Cities in dust (1986)
it wasn’t difficult to imagine a city adapted to ashes
scarfs protecting their mouths and sometimes their eyes pointed out
foreigners and their accidented masks
clearly uncomfortable always too complicated
columbarium dwellers make of breathing
a password
they inhale deeply and slowly
they know how charged the air is in the morning by its taste
the volcano is sad today they say
there will be someone stopping to work those days without coal raining
to enjoy fresh air and running without preoccupation
but the old people know or they think they know that the best is refrain temptation
because there have been people who couldn’t stand
going back to the routine oxygen deprivation after a field day
would be seen running back to the mountain
never to be seen again
they say ashes reach you
you end up bringing them with you
but there are also people who take advantage of those clear days
being grateful for the rest and directing their prayer to no one
but the song talks about cities in dust
as a metaphor of spiteful love
you wonder what would become of us in such city
we would be like lovers visiting other lovers in Pompeii ruins
we would find there a warning to the ultimate love profession
in melting mouths basalt foam coming out from nostrils
medulla oblongata calcifies our bodies scent
brimming with dirt
Phlegraean Fields’s fumaroles where Ingrid Bergman gets lost
distracted from her wreckage like one entering those steaming openings
a salty tissue protected by membranes
the minute nerve endings of sex
vibrating when skin gets too close
to those metallic emissions
before siren sounds to get us back to the mine
extracting that mineral impregnated in our thorax
which nobody has come to a name