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(sin título)
Te amo como canto de culebra,
como silvido de los perros,
y te busco por los pueblos de la gente,
en los mítines del cerro.
Te amo sin sentido y sin sentirlo,
como si fueses una flor que exhala
aroma de la muerte.
Te amo a mordidas, como dulce petrolero,
en una fábrica de piedra
que escurre su nectar de garvanzo.
Te amo poco a poco, de a montón
como pozo único en isla perdida,
recurso natural en el oceano.
Te amo y no se por qué
tengo que decirlo, si te amara un poco más
mi tumba estaría llena de gusanos, mariposas.
-Francisco Portillo
Marzo de 1998
The Contemplative Drunk
I felt like having chicken tonight
until the rabbit faced boy down the hall
chased me around with a dead baby bird.
I wanted to cruise by a huge fountain
and watch how its droplets dance in the air
but some baboon apprentice and his muscular mermaid
honked at me as if I would never anger.
I used to have a little white dog
but he died,
choking on corn on the cob.
I still have him forever frozen
as he catches a red Frisbee
in a frame lined with Kibbles n’ Bits.
I don’t want to be buried in a cemetery
with people I never knew
to feel an eerie presence with them
and listen to how the crickets rub their wings
on the golden daisies I just pushed up.
No, I want my body to be dipped in a shiny liquid
of rainbow colored oils, all mixed together,
so that I will be worthy
to sleep throughout eternity
in a hall that showers young flowers.
-Ili Rodríguez
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