ebrio como poeta en día de paga

ebrio como poeta en día de paga


-Lindsay Cahill, traducción por Francisco Benavides

Pablo Neruda dijo que la risa es el lenguaje del alma…
Lo sé— conozco la obra de Pablo Neruda,
y como su presidente, exigiría una biblioteca de ciencia ficción
que tenga todo lo mejor de los maestros del género: Asimov, Bester, Clarke…
pero no Ray Bradbury…

es el Club de libros de Lisa Simpson—
Poe, Ginsberg, Kerouac.
éstos son mis únicos amigos—
ñoños adultos como Gore Vidal,
y hasta él ha besado más niños que yo…
pero la soledad no ha matado a nadie:
Emily Dickinson vivía sola
y escribió algunos de los poemas
más bellos que ha conocido el mundo…
luego se volvió loca y se murió.

fue la Sra. Bouvier quien hizo enojar a sus amigas
Zelda Fitzgerald y Sylvia Plath
acaparando la atención de los muchachos;
pero no seas tímida— cuando yo tenía tu edad,
se burlaban de mí porque leía mejor que todos…
odié El burrito y yo
es para retrasados.
es la Escuela Ayn Rand para Nenes
donde la A es A, y la Ayuda es Fútil.
y me gustaría recordarles que el libro
“La lotería” de Shirley Jackson
no tiene consejos para ganar la lotería ̶
es una historia sobre conformismo y ambición…

el pavo está un poco seco
¡el pavo está un poco seco!
¡oh no la maldición sigue!
¡qué demonio de las profundidades del mal te ha creado!

¡la verdad es belleza; la belleza es verdad, señor!
pero la verdad puede ser muy amarga ̶
¿cómo puede ser bello algo así?
maldito Walt Whitman—
¡te odio, maldito Walt Whitman!
¡Hojas de hierba mis polainas!

adiós, Springfield—
os digo adiós
y buen viaje al infierno.

drunk as a poet on payday

-By Lindsay Cahill

Pablo Neruda said that laughter is the language of the soul…
I know— I am familiar with the works of Pablo Neruda,
and as your president, I would demand a science-fiction library
with an A-B-C of the genre: Asimov, Bester, Clarke…
but no Ray Bradbury…

it’s the Lisa Simpson Book Club—
Poe, Ginsberg, Kerouac.
those are my only friends—
grown-up nerds like Gore Vidal,
and even he’s kissed more boys than I ever will…
but solitude never hurt anyone:
Emily Dickinson lived alone,
and she wrote some of the most
beautiful poetry the world has ever known…
then went crazy as a loon.

and it was Mrs. Bouvier, y’know, who drove her friends,
Zelda Fitzgerald and Sylvia Plath, so crazy
with jealousy over her good looks;
but don’t be bashful— when I was your age,
kids made fun of me because I read at the ninth-grade level…
although, I hardly consider A Separate Peace the ninth-grade level.
pssht, more like pre-school.
it’s the Ayn Rand School for Tots
where A is A, and Helping is Futile.
and I’d just like to remind you that Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery”
does not contain any hints on how to win the lottery—
it is rather a chilling tale of conformity gone mad:

the turkey’s a little dry?
the turkey’s a little dry!
oh, foe, the cursed teeth!
what demon from the depths of hell created thee?

truth is beauty; beauty, truth, sir!
but the truth can be harsh and disturbing—
how can that be considered beautiful?
oh, damn you, Walt Whitman—
Leaves of Grass, my ass!

goodbye, Springfield—
from hell’s heart
I stab at thee.


More from Lindsay Cahill: http://lindsaycahill.tumblr.com


El lugar más krustdivertido de la Tierra

El lugar más krustdivertido de la Tierra
-Lindsay Cahill

Llamada para el señor payaso,
hay Krisis en el Kampo Krusty
¡Maldita sea! ¡al hidroplano!
cállate y come tu pino.
el programa exclusivo de dieta y ridículo.
ah, los esplendores bucólicos
de un muladar abandonado
convertidos en un orfanato dickensiano:
9 de cada 10 huérfanos no notan la diferencia.

Fuerza. Fuerza. Agilidad.

gracias, muñeca, por tus instrumentos de destrucción ̶
un grupo de espartacos escolapios
ha tomado el campo por la fuerza.

arde, Krusty, arde ̶
su autobiografía estaba llena de pretensiones
y omisiones,
pero nos va a traer comida,
y agua,
y va a acabar con los malos.
no había visto tanta anarquía
desde la caída de Saigón.
el esfuerzo de escribir me ha mareado un poco,
así que me despido diciendo ¡Sálvenos!
¡Sálvenos ahora!

Al menos puedes ir a un campo de concentración.


-“Traducción” por Francisco Benavides



The Krustiest Place On Earth

-Lindsay Cahill

Urgent call for Mr. Clown,
there’s a Krisis at Kamp Krusty ̶
oy gevalt! to the hydrofoil!
shut-up ande at your pinecone:
the exclusive program of diet and ridicule.
ah, the bucolic splendours of
an abandoned mule Connery
turned Dickensian workhouse:
9 out of 10 orphans can’t tell the difference.

Size. Strenght. Agility.

much obliged, doll, for your implements of destruction ̶
a group of school-aged Spartacuses
have taken the camp by force.

burn, Krusty, burn-
his autobiography was self-serving
with many glaring omissions,
but he’s gonna bring us food,
and water,
and smite our enemies.
why, I haven’t seen such unfettered
hurly burly since The Fall of Saigon.
now the effort of writing has made me lightheaded,
so I close by saying Save us!
Save us now!

It’s going to be a D-lightful summer.


More from Lindsay Cahill on:  http://lindsaycahill.tumblr.com

Sing For Those Who No Longer Sing

Sing For Those Who No Longer Sing


I wonder if Trumpet sings in this gray winter, cold as the embrace of a betrayal waiting behind the door, a gale of omens and sorrows. If he’s still spilling into gold feathers, if the mountains still feel moved by his singing. I wonder if I’ll ever hear him again. If he’ll return someday, if my tears will no longer remember him. If he still sings upright on the abject men, the faceless ones. If he only knew that he was singing, the meaning of his song. To sing because you’re happy, because you’re sad. To sing because they did cut off your wings, your legs, your hands. To sing even though they cut off your tongue, although your voice became a grotesque gurgle. To sing that they did cut off your tongue already, to sing because of that. To sing because they have cut off somebody else’s, to sing because the other can no longer do so. To sing for those who departed, for those who remain, for those who want to leave.

Let us go then, but singing.


Before You Open Your Eyes: Catastrophe



The shadows were running away
            screaming, terrified in unison
            some say they were escaping from their bodies.

Cobblestone streets of blood, insulting signs
with warnings of death. The Palace of Hell.
Welcome home , excuse the mess. We’re cleaning up.

Don’t look at the tiled bodies
Don’t look around you
Don’t ask stupid questions
Beware of the dog
of the gun
of the badge
of the tie
of the badge
of the badge.

Don’t you touch anything. Do not answer,
even if you know.
Do not ask what’s behind.
God’s doors are tied with pulleys:
perhaps is better not to try to open the windows.
Walk slowly, if possible , without advancing .
You know the system, right?
I’m just doing my job.
I’m sorry.
They will be fine.



The shadows were running away
            screaming, terrified in unison
                          escaping from their bodies.
The day they tore our eyes off
How the tailor laughed not knowing what he was doing!
Not enough tape to measure Catastrophe’s waist,
Catastrophe became angry.
Until there were no more tailors.



Where’s the one who asked for the weaver?
Do you remember that movie where The Fates were weaving
the evening dress that Catastrophe used to wear
to take cocktails and lives?

Eevery night, after quenching her thirst,
her dress faded.

It was Catastrophe, narcissus actress in love
who believed herself the moon,
she used to appear cruel and naked
at the night owl theater, spectator
with sad eyes and a saddest top hat.
Catastrophe, whose dress faded away
every night after quenching her thirst
used to play every night
the same part.

The shadows were running away
            escaping from their bodies.



I asked you not to turn your head right over.
All birds are vultures here
all bodies are carrion.
There’s no singing bird
that doesn’t take the truth with its black legs
to ink it up with fear.

There are no bars, as you shall see
the landscape is dressed in purple:
the plants under your feet are just arborescent bodies.
There’s a spring very close to the eruptions,
stay away from it.
You don’t want them to rip off your face before it’s time,
take the fear necessary to stay right where you are.
Alas these souls, where are they going with no crook, no future and no shade!


Turn on your candles, mourning Night.
The air smells of fresh fruit, of dead bodies blooming.
The spring splashes of rage.
Seas of hungry mouths emerging, betrayed.
The army of constellations gets ready.
Orion prepares his arrow.


Catastrophe was born from her mouth,
she slipped from her skirts and made it to the foam
and let her shoulder blades to immerse themselves
like swans.

A certain night, under the stars
she felt the eye of Orion upon herself, pointing at her.
It was not the end nor the beginning:

Once upon again.