A man brooding on the earth is neither homosexual nor Latin American. Everything is open in a forest, everything is a wing swarming in a forest, a man is not homosexual; he broods, with the speed of the volley, of the waning light (nor Latin American). A man is not a man... he is the fixed idea, a spy in the camera, a wetland on the earth that puts a knocker without opening its eyes...
Jose Antonio Luer
Excerpts from "I Will Leave My Pulse in the Passages"
I see everything in the world through the veil of residual men, everything in the world is borrowed and decaled, my body leased to the excavation, holes that suffocate the sorrow, the blood bottled in the darkness, split, the TV on and an extractive ad, everything annoys me in the invented sound, that sound that wants to colonize me while the birds sleep on my purple shoulders…
Ignited in the world like a gardener's secret, with the lightness of straw, with the maneuverability of sawdust, these unwary men carry me in this illuminated storm. They unravel palpability; sexuality is sold in euros and dollars, drawn on coins when no one wanted it, like when the world drew its mountains upside down and no one saw.
I tell all parts of my body to be free from the market; propose, like the oak, to climb into the most confusing airs of the earth, those airs that push with echoes the padlocks… I should escape from the world, turn time around, give it an order in reverse, make the volcanoes retreat, stop being the lost dove in the row, abandon the pattern that they so well arranged
The spirits patrol tonight with barefoot feeling. They have taken from you what a heart can treasure in a memory. Some will die. They are dying now. I hear them in the phallic screams of alleyways that never find walls to lie down on.
Man who does not awaken Sleeps burdened with dry leaves on his back Like a decomposing animal under the autumn dew Feels the pulse of my forest in the restless Still Say still Do not expect a roar that shakes your taped walls and breaks them with the fury of the paths traced where the man who is neither homosexual nor Latin American burrows into your skin like a corpse into the earth
Before we continue fucking me, let's stay silent and hope that no one screams outside while we moan and rain. Let no one ask for help without being heard. No one can die while we're fucking. I mean, no one can get hurt without us realizing it. Not even us.
Jose Antonio Luer
Fuck me (Before the dogs bark)
As long as the dogs haven't found my convulsed heart beating on the pavement outside the post office as long as the dogs aren't barking because that's what they call death you can think I'm with you hugging you pulling out of my sternum flocks collecting tombstones from our puffs of foam like if we were the impossible or the last thing left in the volatile wave of ash that unravels the path to dawn.
Why keep changing? I like the garlands you put on the window when you don't look at yourself and walk naked collecting the air. I like you when you turn green and use your fresh eyes as a mirror. When you get embarrassed after the rain. You walk through the green house like a spring child, making things green. I put my ear to the curvature of the ceiling. This green roof. I think I'm in love with this green roof that dies every day. You are a field full of solitudes that are like cotton.
I know that your soul is pain and that does not help me. I accompany it to a certain point. For example, only until the path that the night weaves to the Dawn.
Fuck me like the sun fucks the cornfields.
I can see in the architecture of the colonial building the tormented looks of the girls who undress their dolls to recognize themselves in the plastic because there is nowhere to look at the nakedness.
Cologne or this meticulous cultivation of modesty
I. On a rest of the night she does not know where to put her dress. And I don't know what to think of the beautiful. Because I got used to the beautiful to love each other with the sad. As a mother accustoms two brothers to shake hands. Nostalgia is a wicker vessel that rests in the dense paths of blood.
A man's mutilated hand hangs from a branch. Mutilated-Armed-THE HAND. Like a leafless tomb earring THE HAND. Honorable valve arm that was stranded on 18th Street. And then I recognize where the modesty comes from. Where do the scorned eyes come from? Instant fear. The substitute for laughter. The nervous breath. The meddlesome throat in the void.
It is the feeling of not having kinship with the world. To observe outside-outside. And then the people are like the platforms They cross the cities and the inside is not ventilated. They expect to find themselves somewhere without knowing that they belong to the environment.
I have a negative memory. A fish is embalmed in ink. A mirror looks like a fish Around my hunchbacked kiss That declines on that dry cheek That the north of Chile still peels off.
Jose Antonio Luer
memory in negative
The ladder lying on my levitate from that kiss portrays a lifetime blurred in a handkerchief of fog. At that time, Chile was just Chile and I didn't care that much. I could settle for the songs of Violeta Parra. He was happy with powdered coffee and toast in the morning.
The smell of tobacco still reminds me of Tomás and his disheveled bangs. Tomás was Polish. And as a Pole I only had my revolutionary poetry. I still don't remember everything, Because everything is surely nothing.
A slippery hand is oblivious to my burned back, the hand settles. I have a photo of my back as a child also in negative. That back was like the light emanating from an open door. Giving way to a secret garden.
Today the doors are closed. Miguel's kiss hangs on a hook. The fire in the streets with so much gunpowder in words that come from dead men, unrecognizable as alive. Negative memories come out of my fingernails. Negative memories...