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.
