A Comedy
In the corner of the kitchen an egg with its back ripped open looms near the coast of a long night a man who was sleeping stands up on his shoulder sits a cat wearing a hat the man digs a hole for his wife who is dying a pushcart loaded with food and money leaves from the opposite side bed legs and various fixtures clog the road because the man strokes it while wailing the figures of mice dissolve in the cat’s throat like grapes extinguishing the moon straight ahead the trees in the forest turn round from afar before long they are covered in snow calling the man and the cross-eyed cat back to a small room but they do not walk already the man pours wine into a glass in front of the fireplace meanwhile the cat has been running around the attic so the man, who is sensitive to cold, goes after the shedding cat the man averts his gaze from the brightness of the completely naked cat birds peering in from the window at night take the shape of the dead wife’s hair, so he shoots them all down eventually the man lets go of the cat’s legs what those wavelike hands sink into is a crock of intensified yellow butter fascinated by this dangerous microbe culture the man puts on a doctor’s whiskers and begins to sweat inadvertently the cat breaks the glass no doubt at that moment the man was saved the finger in the aerosol spray stops the rise of the amoebas they devolve into human hands so splendorous blood spurts out from between the broken pieces now he feels the need to carry a heavy object the man looks around the room he is surprised to find himself surrounded by scissors and solid furniture then the parts that cannot get hurt feet, face, genitalia and so on, suddenly handled with great care a sturdy leather pouch from which the man never again appears
Confession
What I do not know I do not say to others furthermore I do not walk around the plaster produced by the voices of other people it’s just when I try to touch with a short handled axe which gathers in the force of the whole I get nervous if something is standing I push it on top of a rock until it falls over if something is lying down I jump on it if something is turning I wind it up with my hand until it gnaws into my blackened flesh and then yields a passageway to the exodus of the desolate column of moths and blood vessels if it were a woman I’d toss it back in her eye I’ll wait patiently until she fills with consummate suppleness and a cold lake food I will throw up chopping off the heads of chickens and fish one after the other and tossing them into the darkness beneath the table where bottles and flasks have sunk and disappeared I separate the useful objects from those that are unwanted but errors are within the realm of possibility when that happens I wipe away the foam of feathers and fish scales and try to see what’s happening outside the glass window children jumping rope the mass of a smokestack giving birth to one night finally at the call of the trees sleeping in layers of their own grain I rush out taking the shape of a single nude figure a dark image personifying training and endurance rain-soaked I go of these facts here I can tell the others
The Island
Going ashore on the island the man finds amongst the crags large arched fragments of bones belonging to beasts and fish bleached by the sun as it rotates the shrunken map of a black octopus head the coast of the eyes of the man who gradually becomes horizontal is like the acute angle of the moonrise let us forget now in extremely high-definition the eggs of the seabirds advance why is there no music at a time like this so when the arc of insomnia takes shape the distant hands and feet the man flings out barely move on this occasion from the lower extremity the dimensions of the island begin to narrow this place is most certainly the nest of tomorrow’s setting sun for the phantom birds who do not take flight magnified at the man’s side the entire surface of the eggs exposed to the intense light search as one may, not a trace of even one fingernail of the adventurous human can be found he does not choose this Atlas from the interior of a skinny womb the man squeezes a bit of voice and some blood on the other side the winter waves continue to slip along the insulating material
Legend
The bare feet inside the cat’s fur as it jumps from atop the chair a fleeting moment but we get this now in a huge close-up then it’s all sucked into the deep folds of a flower anyone would be surprised being it’s the first time the four wooden legs limp across the floor for awhile and then suddenly stop in a corner of the room the chair becomes legend now a man who knows nothing of the incident appears from beneath a blanket and sits down in the chair breaking through the circulating heat and odor he begins in earnest to trace the tube leading to the anus but the rubber is uncontrollable and becomes bulky it takes over the entire room wriggling around the pulsing of objects the expansion and contraction of pleasure because it is night the man has been side by side with the cat for a long time now surrounded by the tubing it becomes darker he holds his breath then at the final moment before disappearance he shouts “fire!”
A Picture of Winter
There are things in my room invisible to others for instance placed between the bed legs and the wall are the rubber boots I took off a week ago one has fallen over and become bent out of shape while the other remains simply standing only the rain within the secret meeting of my memory is wet and only under my bed of bad habits is it dry and cracked the proprietress of the boarding house visits my room for one reason only this is when the cat comes to have her kittens the thick bundle of fur which is its tail rubs against the floor all night until the following morning the proprietress maneuvers her black broom I become sick completely and below the covers imitate a shrimp the proprietress is one who dwells on land she puts on her slippers and the seaweed trembles she is unaware of the signs of the ocean’s damp starfish opening and closing in the shadows of the rocks she leaves with the six newborn kittens stuffed into a cardboard box I open the bay window leaning toward night just a little this is the most important part of my daily routine the proprietress disrobes and revives the body temperature and resilience of the six kittens sunken in the river and spills the water from the bathtub this is a danger to me for amongst my belongings are the canvases of a painter who committed suicide leaning precariously against the wall which I find along the stairway leading upstairs and down only this can withstand the light those pictures may be the only thing that will protect me from the rose-colored earthquake of the proprietress’ buttocks those compositions of anger painted without reserve by a man who was a destitute painter exhausted stone torsos both distant and near they attempt to embark blindly from the depths to which they have fallen
Simplicity
With no warning the man died his wife having nothing but hatred for the man with the tremendous protruding tailbone considering his eyes his tongue shone coldly and his wife, a woman of ample breasts, could not stand it except for when he ate his movements were extremely sluggish or rather absent you might say especially when he was asleep evoking the sensation of that part of a plant which never bears flowers that man could be dragged away by a spider’s thread and take the form of a gruesome figure on the ground but to his dead wife this matters little she simply tosses food to the dog kept on the other side of the wall day in and day out ceaselessly with her undulating hands this false testimony genuinely prevents the wife from dying the cat who has inherited her sterling qualities is covered in snow on the roof chagrined that she is still alive if only her bellows could sufficiently stretch from out of the darkness and thrust back into the room the man walks around in the odds would be in her favor and because she has become pregnant with a plaster fetus the dog takes personal care of the man fooling around and making him laugh but he cannot perform the sweet operations that ought to follow in order to go on living the man calls the dead wife’s cat back in from the roof where only dust falls and thinks he should train it to perform some tricks rather than worldly affairs he makes the cat up like a beautiful woman and on the first night warms it up in bed causing a moon to rise of a kind preferred by those who have died by drowning dangling a ribbon of lightning summer comes raising a shout that ought to make you appreciate the posture of a naked woman and the disgrace of a half-ripe peach gasping below the leaves will the man die simply because it is proof that he is human his head excites the dog and with the lower part of his body covered in cat hair he is taken from the great nation of sweat to a chilly remote village where he is buried
Solidity
My distorted view is a discomfort to many sometimes I shave the stem of a plant and discover a tragic rose-colored family that does not grow unfolding from the incision drinking no water even the rays of light cannot laugh loud the thin membrane of man and woman the faint sound of copulation pollen soils the wall and bedclothes almost like hard coarse granules to the touch and for this reason the child does not run through the toy car world its playground is its mother’s womb on the lower shelf of a shady sponge cucumber there he glides by I quickly head for the countryside my belief is that things should be solid and stable I and the compound eyes of a dragonfly simultaneously advance on an ax just propped up sparing nothing I copy the entire figure in the running shirt bearing the burden of an asymmetrical rainbow and a mountain’s pyramid of ice I dislike all kinds of soft frogs hard wings or hard rain I will caress with both hands as an experiment I will kick a bottle I come into town in such ecstasy people can hardly believe it I strike a stone wall outside a bombed-out temple this above all is high class entertainment I follow a young expectant mother on her way to the hospital gradually I climb uphill and the color boundaries of the stripes on the stone begin to point inward drawing a thin line as they move along and at the slippery summit when I can no longer stand it I show my white belly this is when the doctors laugh early evening of fire for which bells are rung wildly forceps and moving scissors stretch the skin all around the dandelions of wet seeds which go to meet the head inside the sack are painfully plucked and fat is splattered all over the clean running shirt seeing true solidity I become anxious I overlook the irresponsible soldier of coarse blood advancing along the tracts of the body with fragile underside and so I leave town the wind changes me into frozen person or slippery object that’s why I never laugh and never say goodbye
Recovery
Chewing on pickled scallions that’s the time I’m partial to nestled in the deep folds of a hospital ward blanket I wait patiently neither for treatment nor for death but for the splendor of consumption it is April the bees wiggle their hips in fields and in skin laden with pollen the moon in its final days of erotic desire draws near since my crushed thighbone brings perpetual leisure I listen to the music of blood undergo phosphorization or discharge my vitality and then as a black staff show a scene from a deserted pastoral landscape pushed into a mountain of straw raising no cries of love two crows are made to fly off my sister visits me frequently and praises the malignant disease of the neighboring patient she strikes my lowered head momentarily attracting the explosion of a pomegranate I take a walk in the garden which is always frozen rather than the many cranes and flocks of nurses I approach an ugly woman I agitate her womb with an inelegant dictionary and voluptuous dreams next I take a whiff of an intense drug in a flash I am anointed with the balm of rebirth and assailed by a gradual death the notion of ready-made apparel is lost and I fall on my knees in the form of a camel which the woman believed since childhood to be a disgusting animal annoyances occur in every walk of life atop the stretcher upon which I am carried out it is a dawn in which the chafing of starched flesh and bone begins my thirst is mediated through my eyes and overflows from the swamp of ice beginning to melt I get wet up to my tail like an embryonic fish and all in one gulp drink the water down to the last drop
A Beautiful Journey
The aged waiter clears away the dishes and then leaves rather than exiting through the door he is absorbed by a sphere in the evening glow he leaves behind the blue die of his off-the-shelf trousers in a corner of the brightly polished cabin floor a man and woman in bed are like two tapeworms the tremendous waves of napkins the old waiter will surely die as a result of the intensity of the agitation he rides horseback on a spoon stripped bare of its plating leaving on a journey to a strange land of beautiful minerals rotting meat and vegetables and the supple movements of thin sheets of wood cause the old waiter to fly off into the jagged edges of the shredded sky goodbye mob of nightsticks everyday of sacks ocean of boxes an aerial view gives you a good grasp the melodrama of fire end of the lonely ritual of thunderstorm the old waiter fetches a warm meal with dexterous hands later when his nap goes on too long who will rebuke him who indeed is most familiar with the ways of the dead by chance at the very moment the old waiter gets up gold buttons scatter everywhere and he searches throughout the area where they roll away he takes revenge in spite of himself making a loud noise at the bottom of the sea for the first time in his life the old waiter pees in his pants facing the dead multitude of customers in the shade of the duckweed he reverently apologizes in order to dream the long dream of the future one must endure both disorder and disgrace now a great success the aged waiter grows fat and enters the secret stone pavilion briefly he is dazzled by a golden-haired beauty the moon comes around under the wine barrel this just may be a bad-mannered graveyard
The New Modernism 
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