Roberto
Piva
Paranoia
in Astrakan
I
saw a beautiful city which name I forgot
where
deaf angels go through the dawns dying their eyes with
invulnerable
tears
where
catholic children offer lemons for small pachyderms
going
out hidden from the burrows
where
wonderful adolescents close their brains for the sterile
roofs
and they burn boarding schools
where
nihilist manifestos distributing furious thoughts pull
the
flush on the world
where
an angel of fire illuminates the cemeteries in party and the night
walks
in
his breath
where
the Summer sleep regarded me as madman and I beheaded the Autumn of
its
last
window
where
our scorn made being born an unexpected moon in the white
horizon
where
a space of red hands illuminates that photography of fish
darkening
the page
where
zinc butterflies devour the Gothic hemorrhoids of
pious
women
where
the dead fix themselves in the night and they howl for a handful of
weak
sorrows
where
the head is a ball digesting the disordered aquariums of
imagination
…
Vision
of Sao Paulo at night
Anthropophagic
poem under Narcotic
At
the corner of the São Luís street a procession of thousand people
lights candles on my skull
there
are mystics speaking bullshits to the heart of the widows
and
a silence of star leaving in luxury wagon
blue
fire of gin and carpet coloring the night, lovers
sucking each other as roots
Maldoror
in cups of high tide
in
the São Luís street my heart chews a piece of my life
the
city with chimneys growing, shoeshiner angels with their slang
ferocious in the middle of joy
of the squares, ragged girls
definitely fantastic ones
there
is a forest of green snakes in the eyes of my friend
the
moon leans on nothing
I
lean myself on nothing
I
am granite bridge on wheels of subordinate garages
simple
theories boil my driven mad mind
there
are green banks applied in the body of the squares
there
is a bell that does not touch
there
are angels of Rilke giving the ass at the urinals
glorified
kingdom-vertigo
specters
vibrating spasms
kisses
echoing in a vault of reflexes
faucets
coughing, locomotives howling, hoarse teenagers
driven mad in the early
childhood
the
rascals play yo-yo in the door of the Abyss
I
see Brahma seated in flower of lotus
Christ
stealing the box of the miracles
Chet
Baker whining in the gramophone
I
feel the shock of all the threads going out through the doors
broken of my brain
I
see pimps whores old coins towers lead plates chopps
showcases men women pederasts and
children pass by each other and
they open in me as moon gas
street trees moon fearful waterspouts
collision in the bridge blind
man sleeping in the showcase of the horror
I
shoot myself as a lotto
the
head sinking in the throat
my
entire life rains on me, I suffocate I burn I float myself
in
the guts, my love, I carry your scream as a sunk treasure
had
wanted to spill on you all my epicycle of freed centipedes
yearning
anger of windows eyes open mouths, whirlwinds of shame,
straps of marijuana in floating
picnics
wasps
walking around my yearnings
naked
abandoned minors at the corners
angelical
tramps shouting between the shops and the temples
between the solitude and the
blood, among the collisions, the birth
and the Boom
…
Praça
da República of My Dreams
The
statue of Álvares de Azevedo is devoured with patience by the
scenery
of morphine
the
square takes bridges applied in the centre of its body and children
playing
in the afternoon of dung
Praça
da República of my dreams
where everything turns into fever
and crucified doves
where
beatified ones come to agitate the masses
where Garcia Lorca waits for his
dentist
where we conquer the immense
desolation of the most sweet days
the
boys had their testicles stuck by the crowd
lips
clot without mess
the
urinals take a place in the light
and
the coconut palms fix themselves where the wind messes up the hairs
Delirium
Tremens before the Paradise glabrous bottoms sexes of paper
angels laid in the by lime
covered flowerbeds smoking water in
the toilet seats brains marked
by gestures
the
veterinarians pass slowly reading Dom Casmurro
there
are young pederasts soaked in lilac
and
whores with the night walking around their nails
there
is a drop of rain in the abandoned hair
while
the blood submerges the corollas
Oh
my visions memories of Rimbaud praça da República of my
Dreams last wisdom bent in a
holy door
…
Report
from the Magic World
My
feet dream lifted in the Abyss
my
scars split in the crystal clear belly
I
have not but two glazed eyes and I am an orphan
there
was a flow of sick flowers in the suburbs
I
wanted to plant a cue of snooker in a fixed star
in
the door of the bar I am confused as always but the galleries of
my skull hate no more the batucada
of the bones
colleges
and funeral cars are deserted
along
the sidewalks long deliriums grow
handfuls
of skeletons are thrown in the trash
I
think about the scorpions of other and I am joyful
the
bright ones sing in the roofs
I
can open the eyes for the moon to use the fear of the clouds
but
the purple sky is a supreme vision
my
face turns pale with the alcohol
I
am a naked solitude tied to a post
telephone
wires cross each other in my esophagus
in
the isolated pavements my friends build a fugitive manikin
my
eyes blind my mind splits against a hubcap
my disjointed soul passes away in
spins
…
Meteor
I
will say the most terrible words tonight
while the pointers are dissolved
against my power
against my love
in
the shock of my mind
my eyes dance
in
the Lapa's high the mosquitoes suffocate me
what
imports to me to know if the women are
fertile if God fell in the sea if
Kierkegaard asks help in a
mountain
of Denmark?
the
telephones shout
isolated
creatures fall in nothing
the
organs of flesh speak death
sweet death carnival of street of
the end of the world
I
want no elegies but the lilies
of iron of the enclosures
there
is an epic poem in the clothes hung against
the gray sky
and
the luminous ones stare at me from the hallucinated space
how
much handsome boys did not I see under this light?
I
was roaring as crazy as astounded as cracked
holy
narcotics oh blue cat of my mind
Oh
Antonin Artaud
Oh
Garcia Lorca
with his eyes of abortion reduced
to portraits
souls
souls
as
icebergs
as
candles
as
mechanical manikins
and
the fraudulent climax of the sandwiches lunches
ice creams controls anxieties
I
need to cut the hairs of my soul
I
need to take spoonfuls of
Absolute Death
I
see nothing more
my
cranium says I am drunken
tortures
genuflection neuroses
psychoanalysts sticking my poor
skeleton on holidays
I
was holding tight a tree against my chest
as if it was an angel
my
beloved ones begin to grow
cadillacs
pass with no blood the helicopters
moo
my
soul my song open pockets
of my mind
I
am a hallucination in the tip of your eyes
from
Paranoia / 1963
translated
by LdeM
outras
traduções para Piva
Paranoia
/ 1963
