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Cocaine, Kate
it’s not looking great!
Chanel bid you adieu
Burberry’s iced you!

you need a wet nurse!
addled anorexic
atheistic nicotine maniac
your career’s gonna burst

stop fawning that piece of shit from Strokes
your daughter’s name is Lila Grace!
you’re on your own now
doing rehab in Arizona

your out of the Pleiades!
as curvaceous as Karolina Kurkova
Diana Dondoe
devastating, on the cover of Vogue

the myth of fashion made flesh
chameleon beauty of
Amber Valletta
Giselle’s diamond bra

All’s ruined, Kate
go straight to hell
or get to a nunnery
no credit cards to cover you

H&M has passed you by
for Mariacarla Boscono
sexy bella ragazza
from the calendar of Pirelli

who get blown in the park
so get used to it!
Givenchy’s and Cavalli’s ragazza
and don’t forget Stella McCartney’s

So you feel like “Dracula”!
You cosmopolitan flame!
Cocaine Kate,
it’s not looking great!

for Arkadii Dragomoshchenko

Almost no one sees
What I see in the words
byzantine iconoclasm
the clock reads midnight or mid-day?

Susi in a trance
hearing music
sha doo bie doo
scumbag theater

the sun shining through the trees
on a clear autumn day
Brazil is a jungle where snakes
devour cake on the streets

zmei ediat znanie
where male whores stroll naked
under the shade of the samauma
trees and use wood

to make primitive rafts
a dirty wall: the VIP room
Chernobyl’s corroded sarcophagus
a beggar polluting the street

feet on garbage bags
kapok falls from the city sky
an Infiniti FX
whizzes by


My pa & mine ma
no ones


jagged shards
that, now
by act of accumulation
I rejoin


Stinking of cigarettes and of myself
I cross a street
at twilight
sirens, cars

muffled voices
wide, rough street
on a cross street
the body of a dead dog

hit by a car
metal wheels grinding slow pace
stinking of sewers and of myself
stinking a bit of the lighter’s flame

stinking like that rotten apple
stinking of stupid songs
sung nowadays
and of myself

collected garbage gives off
a distinct smell on the street
stinking of shoes and of myself
of mice, of neon sweat

of chairs and of myself
of useless news and of myself
stinking under the moon
my nose stuffy from carbonic gas

the noise of the bus engine
stinking of the same shirts
stinking of myopia and of myself
stinking of street corners

giving off smells
stinking of hopes
which suddenly end
in the next strophe


Sailing in a frigate
made from old bottle glass
old copper, iron, and brass
A saxophone

made from antimony
echoing on the deck
a single-note song
“an unbearable

attacks kill insurgents
assaults, car bombs
someone hangs himself in a cell

a missile, clandestinely,
burns the woolen jackets
of furtive guerrillas
And the methane emanating from the trash

left on the streets,
year after year, in this very place
crouching rag-pickers chat
on the street

it was not just the birds
who died in the bombing
the flight of roach-winged samaras
was also interrupted

by an explosion
and the subsequent fire
a message in a bottle? no

a bottle hurled against a mirror
and meanwhile
the summit discusses the place of burial


Upside-down ants
and two-headed turtles in puddles
trees in drawers
upside-down ants
the dry earth in slow motion
TV evangelists
request the heads of ants
except of Aztec ones
and of those surviving in gardens, on stones
upside-down ants
with arithmetical arguments
in summer overweight
tread on other ants
tracing trails on road lanes
limping ants, faded jungle flowers
upside-down ants
lacking fables
showing claws
trafficking in termites
at times, with a dull rhythm
they walk with upturned legs–
scent of death in the debris
they hate stems and crumbs
they suck on broom tips in sewers
their nests form thick clouds
upside-down ants
termites on their own terms
hegemony of identical ants
to the nth power


At the end of the tunnel
at one of the exits leading
to the avenue lined with tall buildings,
where there’s a painted
corner of a wall
a detail of Migrants by Candido
Portinari, oil on concrete
no ceiling light
cars constantly roaring by
a woman and a child sitting
on a wooden crate
next to
the neck of a
headless female mannequin
a gray shape,
gray perhaps from the paint of the child’s
skull on the mother’s lap, decorates
a waiting room at midday
a couch, a real one
two wooden crates form a chair
and table at once
where carbon monoxide is
shared, here, a vagrant
idles away
people in cars hurl
cigarette butts
on the jeans and pink blouse
from the loose planks of a wardrobe
the full moon in the picture
another skull, on the father’s lap?


Bottles and cans tossed on debris piles
white lily, roses
lilacs suddenly thorns
there are whores on the next corner

vanish in the broad
shadow a tree
casts on the

concrete wall
of the metro station’s
air shaft
(further back

a tall building with windows
opened by the spring)
Don’t kill the beggars
Forgive me for being that way

Never sell your revolt
slouching against doors,
lying on the street
where they also urinate

and stash away the pipe
they sometimes steal a bag
a jewel
sometimes they beg


Where to until when
being, being, being, being
to live beyond

to live beyond the wall
a bedroom window
a bathroom window
a pine tree and the sky

beyond the wall
clothes on a
clothesline block the view
from here, to the street

someone climbs a ladder
to change the billboard
gulp down small chunks

and ordinary asterisks
and smoke, inhaling deeply
also the sooty dust
and carbonic gas

and smell the smell that any
old garbage can gives off
writing on filthy walls

watched by the sleep-filthies
stop walking on all four
stop that
la lectura ex-laughter

the scent of the wall
meaningless messages
those numberless days

in which you are an associate
of yourself
the slogan on the wall
“always and never “

to live beyond the wall
at the top of the building
a metal nest
a womb


boca às moscas
desovar presuntos
fava, favela
gente às avessas
kiss of death
levar vantagem em tudo
mendingo, mendigo, mêndigo, mendrugo
papas na língua
que se fodam!
seu sujo, sanguessuga
traficantes quebram as asas do uirapuru para realçar a beleza de sua coroa azul
zebra, zero à esquerda

with Charles Bernstein

Brazil is located on the southern tears of the Americas

Brazil is a jungle with snakes who eat cakes

Brazil speaks Lebanese, Portuguese, Japanese, Guarnaríse, Tupiese, Inglese

Brazil is an adulterating medley of intoxicated syncopations

Brazil has no relationship with itself because it has a relation only to itself

Brazil lays its cool hands on your hot head

Brazil was colonized by Indians who turned the Portuguese into natives

Brazil’s Tolstoy is now doing tricks in a favela

Brazil is a land of palms and psalms

Brazil is the model of a model

Brazil is a charm bracelet that has become the necklace of the continent: São Paulo more European than St. Paul, Brazillia more bureaucratic than Geneva, Rio more alluring than Boca

“They’ve got an awful lot of coffee in Brazil”

In Brazil, the cuckoo sings “macaw, macaw, macaw”

Brazil is private property of no man’s God and no woman’s Fury

The patron saint of Brazil is its dreams, just as is its Devil

Brazil is a carioca not a polka

Brazil is Carmen Miranda’s Tutti Frutti hats, Caetano Veloso’s all-weather tropicalismo, Bebel Gilberto’s number on the charts.

Brazil is the Elis and Tom “Waters of March” International Airport and Spa

Brazil is caipirinha with feijoada (caipira with fedora)

Brazil is home of the cassava or tapioca, what you call yuca, or mandioca or aipim or moogo or macaxeira or singkong or tugi or balinghoy or manioc

Brazil is the black mask of the PCC inscribed with the words traitorbetrayer

Brazil is 186 million stories, 186,000 poems, but only these definitions

Put your stocks in Brazil and your bonds in China, or is it the other way around?

Brazil is a figment of the imagination of the Amazon

If Pelé is poet laureate of Brazil, without ever writing a word, then Ronaldo Gaúcho

is the Nijinsky, without ever having set foot in the Ballet Russe

Brazil is not emerging it’s proliferating

The official religion of Brazil is not just samba but macumba and umbanda, tarantella and churrasco

Candomblé is the Brazil wood of world philosophy

Brazil is Fred & Ginger Flying Down to Rio with Dolores Del Rio

Under the veneer of its vivacity, Brazil is violent, a vile viper playing a violet viola.

In Brazil, anything goes for a chance, for a price, for a piece, for a dance, for a fight, for a night; jeitinho brasileiro is born free but everywhere in chains

Brazil’s face never shows its heart even when they are identical

Brazil stars Bob Hoskins, Jonathan Pryce, and Robert DeNiro

Brazil was written by Terry Gilliam and Tom Stoppard

Brazil is concrete and syncretic

Brazil is impenetrable and forgiving

Brazil is cannibalizing and carnivallizing

Brazil is a baroque barcarolle with a bossa nova beat

Brazil’s Lula is a little loco, but not as loco as Lucy

On Ipanema beach, at the very moment when dusk turns to night, you can hear Orpheus singing for Eurydice; he sings an elegy called Brazil

In Brazil, the real is the only currency that counts

All translations by Odile Cisneros except for the poems It’s not looking great (Charles Bernstein and Maria do Carmo Zanini) and Blue Tile (Charles Bernstein). The New Alphabet was translated by the author.

Copyright © Régis Bonvicino



Apestando a cigarro y a mí mismo
cruzo una avenida
al anochecer
sirenas, carros

voces sofocadas
avenida ancha y áspera
en una calle transversal
el cadáver de un perro

ruedas metálicas en ritmo lento
apestando a cloaca y a mí mismo
a un poco de fuego del encendedor

apestando a manzana podrida
apestando a música estúpida
de estos tiempos
y a mí mismo

la basura amontonada exhala
un olor nítido en la acera
apestando a zapatos y a mí mismo
a ratas, al sudor del neón

a poltronas y a mí mismo
a noticias inútiles y a mí mismo
apestando bajo la luna
la nariz tupida de gas carbónico

el ruido del motor del autobús
apestando a idénticas camisas
apestando a miopía y a mí mismo
apestando a esquinas

exhalando olores
apestando a expectativas
que terminan
en la próxima línea


Loca calentura
que me da calentura
mi lengua se desliza
por su sexo erecto

acariciando la entrepierna
sin intérpretes
su pene arrogante
entra y sale

de mi garganta
después su cuerpo
sin tumor o inhibición
por atrás en declive

revienta los anillos
de mi ano
manos pegajosas

en su espalda
justo por delante
penetra en el mío
como reptil bruto

aplastando el cuello
de mi útero
donde en este canto agudo
súbitamente Dios se torna útil


Mula de kleins, valentinos
guccis, missonis
cavalga en un camello
en un gato y en una limosina

para los lentes de Testino
mula de Versace
haciendo sexo sáfico
con Sadie y Davinia

siempre en posiciones
imposibles para dormir
andando a caballo
con Marianne Faithfull

oyendo las guitarras bárbaras
de “Sister Morphine”,
ahogada en charcos de perfume
guiando a los amigos

también despreciables
obnoxios, parias
que hacen swing
musa del thatcherismo

bomba borracha
usa disfraces
para revelarse
al comienzo, transportaba

en bragas y ajustadores
en valijas de Klein
se deleita con manjares servidos en bandeja
I hate Kate

I push Bush
pasó cuatro semanas inmovilizada
por argollas fijas
rejas puntiagudas

en un cuarto oscuro
en permanente eclipse
y fue lavada con agua sucia
para que reflexionara

el hambre arranca las entrañas
el sonido revienta los tímpanos,
botas de terciopelo
Alexander McQueen – negras

otro soldado entra
al cuarto la alarma se dispara
y multiplica el suplicio


El lobo guará es manso
huye ante cualquier amenaza
es solitario
renuente al día, tímido

detesta las ciudades
para huir del ataque
cada vez más inevitable
de los perros

cruza carreteras
donde casi siempre lo atropellan
omnívoro, con sus flojas mandíbulas
come pájaros, ratas, huevos, frutas

a veces, cuando está perdido,
escarba en las calles latas de basura
se atraganta el masticar botellas
de plástico o plumavit

se corta y o muere al morder
lámparas fluorescentes
o engullir cables de luz
muere al lamer insecticidas

o restos de tinta
o al tragar remedios vencidos
o jeringas y agujas

dócil, sin astucia,
es fácilmente capturado y muerto
por traficantes de piel
entonces aúlla


Cocaine, Kate
it’s not looking great!
Chanel te pagó con la misma moneda
Burberry te dijo adiós!

lo que tú necesitas es una nana!
Distraída, anoréxica
fumadora, atea
atizaste fuego en tu carrera

para de adular a esos mierdas de Strokes
tienes una hija: se llama Lila Grace!
estás sola
hoy, en una clínica de Arizona

fuera de la pléyade!
las curvas de Karolina Kurkova
Diana Dondoe en la portada de Vogue

the myth of fashion made flesh
la belleza camaleónica de
Amber Valletta
el corsé de diamantes de Giselle

Todo acabó, Kate
vete al infierno
o para un monasterio
rasga tus tarjetas de crédito

H&M te cambió
por Mariacarla Boscono
bella ragazza sexy
del almanaque Pirelli

que chupaba pollas en los bosques
la raggazza de Givenchy y de Cavalli
ahora también de Stella McCartney

Sigue sintiéndote “drácula”!
Mosca cosmopolita!
Cocaine Kate,
it’s not looking great!


Un semáforo
no cabe en un párrafo,
cómplice pasivo
de mendigos

presentes en el velorio,
puerta del garaje,
de cuatro ratas asesinadas
por pigmeos difuntos

fanáticos de tánatos
Una negra posterga su semblante
En la alvorada seca
y parabólica de los edificios

– Jesús es un recurso abstracto
que ella carga bajo el brazo –
jardines de aspérulas
flores de blancas cabezas

en la acera un contenedor,
objetos abandonados
Ni un Hermes de dos cabezas
entendería a aquel hombre

reposando en la butaca
sobre escombros y basura,
callejón sin salida, página huérfana,
nunca, imitación de vida


Botellas y latas tiradas en los canteros
lirio, blanco, y rosas
lilas de repente espinas
hay putas en la otra esquina

se pierden en la vasta sombra
de un árbol
que se proyecta

en la pared de concreto
del respiradero
de la estación del metro
(más atrás

un edificio alto con ventanas
abiertas por la primavera)
No mates a los mendigos
Discúlpame por ser así

Nunca vendas tu rebeldía
recostados a una puerta,
acostados en la acera
donde también orinan

guardan la cachimba
a veces roban una bolsa
o una joya
a veces piden limosna


Duermo despierto
despierto durmiendo
la mañana no es mañana

despierto de pronto
sueño entre dientes
con jarrones de férulas
sobre el velador

duermo matándome
despierto con resaca
el estómago tragándome
no duermo

el sueño no llega
la cabeza deletrea
escucho la música

de un banjo
de lata opaca
duermo con miedo
de no dormir

despertar de repente

vivo en estado de vigilia
insomnio nacido de sí mismo
me fertiliza como a un narciso

el insomnio es vicio
pulsos cortados

cuchilla, comprimidos
irrumpe un suicidio

cualquier cosa me invade
el sueño no existe

tengo que fumar

otro cigarro

musgo viscoso de la memoria
uno por uno escogido
la memoria me molesta
desleal, pesada

el sueño es pisadera
duermo despierto
despierto letargo
y la noche pisa en mí

para Nayra Ganhito

Traducciones: Idalia Morejón

Traducción: Odile Cisneros

Nine out of ten computers are infected
Leminski murió
de uso continuo
de un coctel

de alcohol cigarro y drogas
a veces
de alcohol puro y Pervitín
pupilas dilatadas para encarar la nada

la víspera de su muerte
camiseta agujereada y zapatillas
harapos la piel

verde como vómito
arañando la guitarra y traduciendo a Beckett
getting a tan without the sun
que el futuro lo diseque

( … en otra década,
guerrilla en las favelas,
Kaetán murió de una sobredosis
de dólares

éxtasis de cheques,
agitando el abanico
un séquito de adeptos)
nine out of ten computers … are infected

Traducción: Felipe Cussen

Mi padre y mi madre


trozos ásperos
que, ahora,
en un acto de saturación

Copyright © Régis Bonvicino


Léon Ferrari, 2007, Valeria Del Mar


Louco tesão
que me invade de tesão
minha língua desliza
em seu sexo ereto

alisando sua virilha
sem intérpretes
seu pênis arrogante
entra e sai

de minha garganta
depois seu corpo
sem íngua ou inibição
por trás declive

arrebenta as barbatanas
do meu ânus
mãos pegajosas

em suas costas
pela frente justo
penetra no meu
como réptil bruto

esmagando o colo
do meu útero
onde neste canto agudo
súbito Deus é útil