What matters isn't what I could feel Comments

What matters isn't what I could feel, but the real existence of the house and that dreams resided there; most are chapters, sections of novels: some hard-to-solve murder, shots fired by the vice-consul in Lahore, Lowry's volcanoes… unfold like atmospheric phenomena, all-encompassing, and despite belonging to literature they emit no sound but luminous epiphanies of pure pigmentation like the installations of Anish Kapoor

when I arrived I hoped to find my sister and brother comrades. No, the house isn't abandoned, between us everything was a cyclone of blood and totem

there are other perspectives, of course

*

if in the building I'll never meet my brothers and sisters of influence, if I can enter and leave, cope with its antarctic desolation, if I know its dreams, what's next?

if I can access what is generated when the construction shuts its eyes, am I this house?

but when I recognized the dreams I was nearby, at the edge

I investigate and expose the map's clandestine direction

as a young woman I went out repeatedly with a man to watch Sam Peckinpah movies. I detested those movies

the clandestine direction comes when the executioners decide

of conjugal union for example

clearly the poem isn't going to reveal the hidden action of its cells

that burst in the skies like northern lights

or atomic fission

**

despite this, night sky still worries me

if I substitute the astral figures that I trace in imaginary lines guided by cave paintings, and with the present in turn guiding the cave animals / I project the copulation of the ancestors in incessant transformation, so that dreams would be Hades and all nocturnal initiations a shamanic voyage

what bursts is the animal, its loss is language
it breaks in the skies and in the void, in the eyes, when the eyes see inside the eyes
it erupts in greenery

from cave to sky and from sky to cave, from cave to womb

we call it spring

***

whoever sleeps returns to Eden and shadow, contemplates their dismembering, the excrement that anoints the word. (star)

just as the mother, assuming the baby understands, talks to it, so the poem addresses us

from womb to womb, in each and all the women ancestors, when only the heart's rhythm was known and the lungs hadn't yet been torn by air

long before your birth, it's your sky of diamonds

I write

****

when we dream, the stopovers in trembling and abrupt transformation are always spring and winter. Persephone dissects Hades

to evoke the garden, luminosity in the plenitude of winter / not only Eurydice but the genitals tauten, the couple encircled by the species, brutally outside the logos

every night, when language shuts its eyes, it descends to the depths. There, by a placid river, in a forest, the body of Orpheus is dismembered by ecstasy

the screen on which we project ourselves is as blurry as the waters; inside the drum, animals live, ancestors that mate and dream of spring and every night the voice we learn fascinated from the mother is shattered by drunken copulation

it's Eurydice and Orpheus who point out North, polarization, stars. They disperse the social, the mother tongue, cavort in a garden, copulate

*

yesterday, an algae green and thick in the current was cobra, drakar, a curl of animality, Medusa, Orpheus, Eurydice
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