I thought it was a butterfly
but it was actually
a small blue bat
it came out at night
while I was sleeping
so as not to disturb me
with it’s flapping wings
I trapped it
put it under my pillow
and kept sleeping
and when I got up
Flor, who had been dressing me said
don’t be scared
but there’s a little blue bat
in your hair
it was what I feared
what I most wanted to avoid
but there it was
gripping my hair
like a glowing clip
Translated from the Spanish by Alexis Almeida
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.