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Poems of Exile I

E. Murray

A Hot January

First publication: July 1998

http://badosa.com/p023-en

JE FAIS UN RÊVE /
DREAM OF FRENCH LOVE

I shall write this poem until you get naked

and hold it

in the middle of the night laughing:

what am I doing here

undressed?

I will keep going going with the verses

until you say hang on

and you can not do anything else but feel

the starving flavors

of foods and fruits that stuff

every space in

this ancient body

I will sing without mercy from the balcony

until you ask me please

give me a cigarette

I don’t want to leave

the apples and the coffee were delicious

and the moon is already hiding inside your pillow

I will keep goingkeep        going and

when I fall worn out

in the daybreak I will

silence the darkness

of this clean bed

full of sun

sweat        hunger

and void

I STILL HAVE 5 FRANCS /
POEM ON MY BIRTHDAY

I still have five francs

shabby photocopies and some trips.

What can I do?

with a coin

big        silent / I have

to think think

think and decide what

I’m going to do.

I still have five francs and your picture

bored and tired

so much laughing so much anxiety

like an old auntie

unable to speak

a silence in the morning.

I still

have

five francs and a laugh and

a big mountain where

whitman borges and neruda

wilde and manuel puig slide

depraved flowers

that baudelaire throws

over conrad’s rigid corpse.

I

still have

second-hand clothes and a wild cousin

that loves and cries about her life

and laughs

during the morning

and laughs

when a joy

weights one kilo less

and when she dies

she revives through laugh.

I still have 5

new obsessions and old poems

that say nothing just

sing

to the last god of the old gods

and smell like wine

crying for nothing

and loving within nothingness.

I still have and times goes on

who cares

if

I stand up and go for another beer

and keep on lying down thinking

with my hand into the pocket

what I am going to do with five francs

when

nothing remains

of this empty bedroom

the smell of my body

and

of my voice

a verse.

SHE READ MY LETTER IN THE LIVING ROOM, HAVING A COFFEE

I do not write for you to answer

I do not write

for you to laugh or just

smile about light metaphors

true things

or intelligent expressions.

I do not write to turn you

blush

the skin more brilliant

your eyes dull your hands soft

or for you to choke

on wild emotions

and relentless lights.

I do not write for you to say

oh beautiful

I do not write for you to read

or for the delight of ladies

guys               sad girls

I do not write for you to write

or for you to improve yourself. nope.

I do not even write

for you to say stop it

enough with that shit just leave it there

come over here

let’s write together

other story.

I do not write because

it makes me good

I do not write just in case I die

I do not write to inspire you

or for you to hate me

or for you to feel good

self-fulfilled or

so so.

I do not write to

express myself

I do not write as a therapy

I do not write to show you

love / ideals

passion / grieves

. no.

I do not write to fill

a sheet of paper with ideas

diskettes garbage cans

printers dead photocopies

mails publishers computers

translators shareholders proofreaders

guerrillas. no. no.

I do not write for you to undress

I do not write for you to sigh

looking for eyes within your eyes

the magic in the night

in your hands the

warm breath

of love.

Nope.

I do not write just for you to get offended or

to be shocked

or later in your bed

wake up               thinking

what a stupid I was

I could be happy tomorrow.

no. no and no. I do not write

for you to say

gee I have a friend that writes

for god sake. no.

I do not write for you to fill your mouth

to empty your brain

to soothe your urgencies

I do not write for millions of people

I do not write for yourself

or for myself nor for my children posterity

epitaphs lampoons

no

I do not write for someone

I do not write for anything.

What happens is that

I can’t sleep and everything is closed /

there are still two beers left it’s hot //

it’s hot and the music is       so good.

therefore

I write.

Translation: E. Murray