Raymundo Silveira |
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tale
TELL THEM THAT
I AM NOT HOME
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Raymundo
Silveira |
Tell them that I am not
home. Intransitively. If
they demand an abject object,
tell them that I am a rascal.
If they demand complement,
tell them that it was fixed
in the catalyzer enzymes of
my sordidness. If they
nevertheless ask where I
went, answer that I left
aquaring Februaries of
vagrancy my life away. I am
not for the salesmen nor for
their collectors, tiresome
phone calls or false or true
love declarations, for men
stuned of thunders or women
radiating of lightnings, for
children crying with hunger
or crying out of pain, for
their afflicted parents
covered by the mantle of
misfortune and re-covered by
the canopy of misery, for
bankers, scoundrels, saints,
speculators, agitators,
pacifists, beggars, lottery
prizes, automobiles (of the
year, of the month, of the
day, of the hour or the
minute), helpful friends or
fearless enemies with
affectations of friendships,
for silver moonlights or
elaborated drinks with the
nectar of the Olimpo gods,
for gentlemen, rotters,
noblemen, or rascals like
me, for the Pope, for the
bishop, for the priest and
for all the clergy, for
Dalai Lama in his red-orange
vestments and for the dalai
mud dressed with moss green,
for the ones crazy of
passion or of madness itself,
for the drunks, for the
drunkards of ambitions and
the sobers consumed by the
flames of the burning waters
of obligatory abstinence,
for the most shameless whore
or for the nuns covered from
top to toe by the habit of
charity, for ladies dis or
for lords give, for princes,
or for ragamuffins, for
immaculate beings smelling
sandal, or lazars exhaling
in life the stenches of
cadaveric decomposition.
Tell “Mr.” nobody that I am
not home. Tell everybody,
except Mrs. death.
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