Un hombre cavilando en la tierra no es homosexual ni latinoamericano. todo está abierto en un bosque, todo es un ala pulular en un bosque, un hombre no es homosexual; cavila, con la velocidad de la andanada, de la luz menguándose (ni latinoamericano) Un hombre, no es un hombre... es la idea fija, un espía en la cámara, un humedal en la tierra que pone una aldaba sin poner los ojos...
Jose Antonio Luer
Extractos de "Dejaré mi pulso en los pasajes"
Todo en el mundo lo veo a través del velo de los hombres residuales todo en el mundo es prestado y calcománico mi cuerpo arrendado a la excavación orificios que asfixian la pesadumbre la sangre embotellada en la oscuridad escindido la tele encendida y un anuncio extractivista todo me fastidia en el sonido inventado ese sonido que quiere colonizarme mientras las aves duermen en mis hombros morados…
Encendido en el mundo como un secreto hortelano con la ligereza de la paja con la maniobra del aserrín me llevan estos hombres incautos en esta iluminada tormenta deshilvanan la palpabilidad la sexualidad se vende en euros y dólares se dibuja en monedas cuando nadie quiso como cuando el mundo dibujaba sus montañas al revés y nadie vio
Le digo a todas las partes de mi cuerpo que sean libres del mercado; propónganse como la encina treparse en los aires más confusos de la tierra esos aires que empujan con ecos los candados… debería escapar del mundo dar vuelta el tiempo darle una orden en viceversa retroceder los volcanes dejar de ser la paloma perdida en la parhilera abandonar el patrón que tan bien dispusieron
Los espíritus patrullan esta noche con el sentimiento descalzo Han tomado de ti lo que puede un corazón atesorar en un recuerdo. Algunos morirán. Están muriendo ahora. Los escucho en los gritos fálicos de los callejones que nunca encuentran muros donde tumbarse.
Hombre que no despierta Duerme cargado de hojas secas en la espalda Como un animal descompuesto bajo el rocío otoñal Siente el palpito de mi bosque en la intranquila Aún Di todavía No esperes un bramido que agite tus paredes encintadas y las rompa con la furia de los caminos trazados en donde el hombre que no es homosexual ni latinoamericano se te embute en la piel como un cadáver a la tierra
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...