We are an ex
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The upright position
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The downhearted opposition
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A piece of dead meat, weird dreams and broken objects that protects what is inside all shop windows
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The White Smoke, the stale air inside our lungs, life after words
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We have ex-houses, ex-girlfriends, ex-dreams, ex-addictions, ex-dictions and ex-escapes. And we are an ex-cuse and an ex-periment. A good reason to forget torment, the frivolous and void bad spell of this damned thirsty ointment. To forget life and the desert. A pink ejaculation over the rainbow flag
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We are celebrating recession, climate change, the poles thawing and the warming-up to death
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We are celebrating God semen’s scrawny quotient, the penultimate transmission before that fishy smell and wasted sperm
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We recognize ourselves in the deep wrinkles of our time. We are a century after many other salvages and violent ones. The apocalypse syndrome, the perpetual paranoia of living in an ellipse
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We don’t want any egos that disturb us
We want second-chance suicides
The possibility of life freely falling. Or with a parachute
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We build microbial cases for tiny corpses. We meet at the most inconsiderate vigils of Mr. Death and shoot air bullets against the last breath
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We stoke the embers
We heal the flames
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We are the fragile flapping of a shadow’s wings under a layer of snow. The possibility of an overexposed negative developed in nuclear white
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We are exhausted and given away. But we still believe in miracles, in that thin hope of the milligrams
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We come from far far away. And we are tired. Dehydrated. It has been a sweet and sinister adventure, a melancholic procession on the edges of aluminium and flourished poppies; a remote ramble by the moors of your scrutiny.
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We have crossed barefoot a whole continent. And everything was full of black emperors with the whitest mouths, and they thanked us and introduced us to their gods
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We crossed the odd frontier of Chad and drank a Kalashnikovs juice that improved our diction. We have smoked away the wildest mint that grows on Nigerian cliffs. And now our breath smells of mountain and of disinfectant
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We have arrived on a piece of rotten wood, our ribs exposed, our bones transparent
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We speak slowly, and we watch. We open our mouths and the only thing that comes out is a tired breath. We are the syllable that doesn’t kick in when you invoke it, the sticky steam of the Western ruin, of that stupid sentimental education.
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We have arrived on a boat from far away; we have walked blinded and crossed the desert. There was no water, but your mouths were there.
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We just want to lie on a hammock and read bad magazines on the toilet
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We are a sharpened X, a fake, true and imaginary X that strongly crosses off journalism and draws an X over art and sections the paws of speculation
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We are the injured paw of your neighbour’s sick dog, a bloody teeth brushing with weird reflections on the mirror. We are rear-view mirrors. The dirty mirror where you do not recognize yourself and through which you are about to go
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We want nothing. Or we want you to have everything. We want you to sweep the room away while you fix yourself a salad; we want you to show no mercy in conditional while we disappear in imperative
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We want you to say you find our game funny
And we want to stop you from going to the match
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You are going to lose
You are going to win
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We are everything you want to improve
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Note: This is the only writing piece of this site translated from Spanish to English, thanks to Gemma Deza Guil. Gratefully yours.