MEMORY OF NOTHING


Listen:

Drag branches comeback

Across the forest floor:

Knowledge of the rough¡


At water’s edge

I gather some things up:

Memory of nothing.


We’ve the time to give the Babel Tower

A close reading.

Awful good, Tú

As Roy A. Rappaport’s

Ritual... as Communication and as State.

Our preferences might be

Toward more emphasis 

On species places:

Smooth textures of dead wood

Knowledge of our hands on arms

The body-art of bullshit

Drinking cocoa

And tend to the faith

With a Vampire’s short stick

That smells of infinite urine.


History reveals itself to us

In this way:

Poetry, Tales, Essays are pamphlets

Of impossible interest

Multiplying voices-human, voices-animal

Voices-plant

Voice-life of Earth

As Dan O’Neill’s

Holiday for Cynics.




Look, little one

We live this close to disaster

There is no turning back

From the tops of the trees

Which are so dense

Almost no sky is visible

Only the odor dilates the nostril

And quickens the heart

On a marijuana  tortilla.

The buddhists have been tellig us

That the Self (Ego)

As we conceive of it

Is an illusion.

A good tip

Thinking about Gurney Norman’s

Jack and His Ego.


Is it?

It is that we are of a Time-Sexual

Wherein all species has been joined

To the Wo/Man

Of Homo Sapiens

And Life is a single exercise of Cannibals

In constantly elevating towers

Of Bureaucracy.

Nothing in Somethingg

Something in our Nothingness.


DANIEL DE CULLA



 NO MORE LOVE POEM


“”..... Ander her picture when she cut her wrists and so the kid saw the picture and his prick went Whoop Whoop Whoop,,,” Trantino. The Great Blafigria Is.


Please Stop.

I don’t want falling in Love

& being pretty smart

O mamma mia

When the Train is Gone

I throwed in motion:

I don’t hit the nail on the head¡

I’m going wild against the Wall

Slap-up meal.

My brain’s been fucked

When yr love is come

Toot toot

Damn bitch ate my dog.

Then haulin’s yr Ass:

Love is a silly thing

Fancying that

All over the place

And to die

Of a broken Heart, ja, ja ja.

Hey captain¡ Hey captain¡

My arm chaplain is incapable.

Hey Captain¡ Hey Captain¡

I think we’re gonna cum

In the twinkling of an eye:

The end of the love

Lies inside you¡

Do you know

Do you see:

All lovers are

Rapier pigs bastard

Gentlemen of rape

Looking out

At 

 SNOW DANCER


I am azamed at switch the goods

Before so apostolic

And now so different

To one’s mind.

Are you, my milk tooth

A passion-flower nun

Or an old maid

Married with god

With might & main?

Are you making use of decoy

“Snow Dancer”

As an appropiated graphic

Without  mincing words

As other persons do?

Show Dancer

You’re a Sweet Nothing

A Cold Nothing

As the Mildewed Show

But pretty  when the Earth

Is in White¡

I remember that when snowing

It was to the liking

of You Girlfriend & Me

To piss on the Snow

And to do cartoons, ha, ha.

You drawed with my Dick

And me with Your Tongue-lips.

And we together singing

laughing

Dancing, singing

All around:

“Snow Dancer

Is the same to say

“Peace is a Piss””.

Do you know

Do You see:

I like Women too much, Mimosa

More than another Cheeky-Monkey

Of our Specie.

Yr waps’ nest

Make me  to take flowers

And have one’s  fling.

I taste Your female orgasm

Melting into snowing tears.

To kiss the Angel’ s Lips

Is my Eucharistic

Made to measure.


But now, oh¡ oh dear¡ poor me¡

My toucher-balls

Doctor Uric

Says that for the blame of age

I have to do 

An operation for prostate

And just in due curse

I’ll don’t be able

To bring to light

My brilliant point

Measured one’s lenght:

It will break

The liquorice root

The sweet breads.

But yet, still

Being so fucked

I’ll see how well

You dance in the snow

My Snow Dancer.


-DANIEL DE CULLA



 Copla de Ciego  encontrada entre las páginas del Diccionario manual Enciclopédico Ilustrado de la Lengua Castellana. Casa Editorial Calleja, 1918.


- “Porque la verdadera poesía la hace el pueblo”- Antonio Machado.


EL CURA SACRILEGO


Un curita, siendo cura

De la religión de dios,

Se enamoró de una niña

Desde que la bautizó.


Como era en tiempos de invierno,

La niña se salió al sol.

Por allí pasó el curilla

Por allí pasó el traidor.




-Dame de tu pecho. Niña,

De tu pecho dame amor.

La niña, como era joven,

Al cura se lo negó.


La ha agarrado de la mano,

A su casa la llevó,

La encerró en un cuarto oscuro

Sin ver la luna y el sol.


Al otro día, de mañana,

El curilla madrugó.

Ha ido al cuarto de la niña,

Muerta y fría la encontró.