Borges spankspank
Thinking of Manuel García, one of my ancestors on the maternal side, bandit, whom they called “King of the Cuban Countryside,” while I drink a beer listening to low-class songs or think I’m drinking a beer listening to low-class songs I’m thinking of Manuel García, one of my ancestors on the maternal side, bandit, whom they called “King of the Cuban Countryside,” what would geneticists say, he, he drank as much as he wanted and whole days go by when I can’t afford one single beer.
Germany, 1843
After battling, that abject individual died peacefully, face resting on the wood of the windowframe, watching the snow fall and pile up, over the same ground traveled by the gods.
Circles never coming to a close, us, we go along wiping out our lifetime, on some occasions external men, on others internal men, never the man fine and exact, thus the precariousness of our gestures, circles never coming to a close, someone, at a more propitious moment, perhaps, may resolve this arduous issue.
After battling, that abject individual died peacefully, face resting on the wood of the windowframe, watching the snow fall and pile up, over the same ground traveled by the gods.
Days of 1834
Leopardi spent his final days in the cell of sickness, little mouse eyes behind visors would observe the coming and going of promiscuous servants, by then he had abandoned all efforts and barely responded to the chattering of interlocutors, on the table or strongbox where my own organs are, I hammer away at another scenario of ruination: pantheistic flies, a diary, a letter, addressed to the mentor by rebellious adolescent, before launching a failed escape, on the table or strongbox where my own organs are, I hammer away at a horoscope, with a few lines marked in pencil, two empty glasses and a bottle of rum, ready to be opened.