Existirá música

On “Prometheus: The Poem of Fire” of Alexander Scriabin

I am so very small, mientras

la cruz hirviente no me se pertenece.

Way too many conquests

Way too old poems.

Me lo dio el mundo como si fuera suya,

un juguete donde silencio más morado que furia

¿Qué demonions le debo

a tiempo?

He named “death” somebody else

So I took love as another fancy blasphemy

Penetrate me through this bone-like nude

Make sure nobody return.

As

I am yet to be heard

by myself

Father lives horror

Mother drinks dream

Me se burla mi costilla

Olas tras olas,

olas de caras

sin ojos

acaso tampoco orejas

sectoriales

alargados

definitivos

desde dentro

hacia fuera

La soledad intacta

To my right,

emerging one sanguine ant eye

 from this churning darkness.

To my left,

looming one emerald beam

 over this constellation of fire.

 I predate every genesic downpour,

because only my right index finger

and that sierra-begetting piano

are of the same God.

Now, everything begins,

God has half of his mouth bitten off,

so people take his laughter as roar

God, and

many fright me

But not Scriabin.

Un piano tocandose sí mismo

“¡ Ni pienses de besarlo!”

Un hijo olfateandose

su madre de ese piano.

Piano, madre, Scriabin.

Yo.

Uno contra tres.