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...