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ROBERTO BOLANO
Horde
Poets from Spain and Latin America, literature's most
Infamous, surged like rats from the depths of my dream
And strung their squeaks together in a chorus of minim voices:
Don't worry, Roberto, they said, we'll make sure
You disappear, neither your immaculate bones
Nor your writings which we spit out and ably plagiarize
Will surface from the shipwreck. Neither your eyes, nor your
balls,
Will be saved from this dress rehearsal of sinking. And I saw
Their satisfied little faces, solemn cultural attachés and rosy
Editors-in-chief, manuscript readers and poor
Copy editors, poets of the Spanish language, who go by the
name of
Horde, the best, the pestilent rats, well versed
In the cold art of surviving in exchange for excrement,
Of public terror maneuvers, mass market Neruda
And Octavio Paz, cold swine, an apse
Or scratch on the Great Building of Power.
Horde holding title to the adolescent's dream and to writing.
My God! Under this fat greasy sun that kills
And belittles us.
translated by Laura Healy
Horde
Poets from Spain and Latin America, literature's most
Infamous, surged like rats from the depths of my dream
And strung their squeaks together in a chorus of minim voices:
Don't worry, Roberto, they said, we'll make sure
You disappear, neither your immaculate bones
Nor your writings which we spit out and ably plagiarize
Will surface from the shipwreck. Neither your eyes, nor your
balls,
Will be saved from this dress rehearsal of sinking. And I saw
Their satisfied little faces, solemn cultural attachés and rosy
Editors-in-chief, manuscript readers and poor
Copy editors, poets of the Spanish language, who go by the
name of
Horde, the best, the pestilent rats, well versed
In the cold art of surviving in exchange for excrement,
Of public terror maneuvers, mass market Neruda
And Octavio Paz, cold swine, an apse
Or scratch on the Great Building of Power.
Horde holding title to the adolescent's dream and to writing.
My God! Under this fat greasy sun that kills
And belittles us.
translated by Laura Healy
__________
TPB's notes: from the book, THE UNKNOWN UNIVERSITY -full collection of RB's stuff, see below.
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DAMBUDZO MARECHERA
I Used To Like Tomatoes
I get tired of the blood
And the coughing
and more blood
I get out of that flat real fast
to some cool quarrelling bar
and talk big to bigger comrades
washing down the blood with Castle an’ Label
shaking hands about Tsitsi bombed to heaven
trying to forget I don’t like cooking in dead people’s
pots and pans
I don’t like wearing and looking smart-arse in dead
people’s shirts an’ pants
(They said yoh mama an’ bra been for you
said these are your inheritance)
I’m soon tight as a drum can’t drink no more
It’s back at the flat on my back
swallowing it all red back hard down
I woke up too tired to break out so bright red a bubble.
I Used To Like Tomatoes
I get tired of the blood
And the coughing
and more blood
I get out of that flat real fast
to some cool quarrelling bar
and talk big to bigger comrades
washing down the blood with Castle an’ Label
shaking hands about Tsitsi bombed to heaven
trying to forget I don’t like cooking in dead people’s
pots and pans
I don’t like wearing and looking smart-arse in dead
people’s shirts an’ pants
(They said yoh mama an’ bra been for you
said these are your inheritance)
I’m soon tight as a drum can’t drink no more
It’s back at the flat on my back
swallowing it all red back hard down
I woke up too tired to break out so bright red a bubble.
__________
TPB's notes: Dambudzo Marechera, Cemetery of Mind, Which of you Bastards is Death?
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