La chimenea de Duchamp

Munch, mortality, munch!
Mortality, mother,

munch, as I cross in smoke,
in discontinuity, smoke,
the ultimate frontier, mouth
full of earth, ivories
blank in the wind – o munch,

mortality, traces
of me of you in the others,
from the silhouette the Light
offered finally and first
in your womb’s blind absence.

Drops of fire, at stone’s heart,
a burgeoning of twigs.

Luck awakens me,and I
dive down under and up
the kaminos campi,
Duchamp’s chimney, matrix
of the heavens – on wind
from the northern mountains
I ascend on the smoke
of the patient hearth,
I descend to white ash.

The ogre raised his arms, blind
augury, dance, laughter
hungry of the deaf and dumb.

Things were floating without
succeeding in finding
their place bed toaster two
fans four tables two ashtrays,
one orange seventeen
chairs ten curtains forty
books Granny’s rocking-chair
four carpets my uncle’s
guitar seven ballpoint
pens three combs one staircase
one refrigerator
one door one cardboard box
another hundreds of
little glass articles…

Things only burn truly
ardent or not to reveal
a different colour.

The fire self-interrupts,
the smoke is to silence
as symmetry to axle
tree, the air breathes freer, more fresh.

Munch, Mortality, quiet
and eat what drives you crazy
about honeysuckle,
and throw away what you take
between your fingers, o
Mother, Mortality,
genital filigree,
till your breath almost hurts.

Munch, Mortality, munch,
Mortality, Mother,
munch, Mother, munch, munch, munch…

(Traducción de Jonathan Builting)