William Agudelo
What is Jazz?
Charlie’s hands like spiders
knits the yarn in the guitar for his woman
who – transparent high-heeled shoes –
sings with vibratos in her rasping voice
while the black man hugs his double bass
as if exciting a woman with his finger
whitens his eyes sticks his tongue out
gnashes his teeth like a hanged man
whispers obscenities tender grating of the brush
hands on drumhead flapping bats
the monkey-face one on his walnut and chrome
steed and all of a sudden madness bits
of bronze and torn-up pelt the god
and his eight arms the feet stuck
to the pedals with leviathan fury
the stomach fluttering trembling
like the flanks of a frightened horse and Charlie
pressing hitting strange progressions like the fish
of marine trenches his bald head like a
Kraft cheese under the light of the coliseum
the black man bends sweating down to the high notes
and jumping anxiously and sure grasping
the deep notes near the pegs obsessed
with a varied repetition until Charlie adds
wedges of chords between sound and sound
and the drumsticks return with their mathematical
helter-skelter tapping while the girl next to them
sighs noisily and adjusts her bra what the hell
“. . . if you have to ask about it you’ll never know.”
¿Qué es el jazz?
¿Qué es el jazz?
Las manos de Charlie como tarántulastejiéndole en la guitarra la trama a su mujer
que – zapatos transparentes de alto tacón – dále
con los vibrattos y voces rajadas mientras
el negro abrazado al contrabajo como a
una negra haciéndole ton ton con el dedo
blanquea los ojos saca la lengua como un
ahorcado rechina los dientes secretea
obscenidades tierno lijar de la escobilla
manos sobre parches murciélagos aleteantes
el cara-de-mono sobre su corcel de nogal
y cromo y de pronto la locura pedazos
de bronce cueros desgarrados el dios
y sus ocho brazos empalillados los pies
en los pedales con furia leviatánica
revoloteándolo el estómago nos tiembla
como ijares de potro asustado y Charlie
dále con las progresiones raras como los peces
de las fosas marinas un queso kraft
su calva a la luz del coliseo el negro
que se agacha sudando hasta las notas agudas
y da un salto ansioso y seguro agarrando
las graves junto a los clavijones obsesionado
en el repetir variado hasta que Charlie mete
cuñas de acordes entre ton y son y vuelven
los palillos con su ratratarata matemáticamente
atropellado mientras la muchacha de al lado ruidosa
suspira y se ajusta la cinta de su bra qué carajo
“. . . si tiene que preguntarlo nunca lo va a saber.”
From: Nuestro lecho es de flores
Publisher: Joaquín Mortiz, Mexico
What is Jazz?
Charlie’s hands like spiders
knits the yarn in the guitar for his woman
who – transparent high-heeled shoes –
sings with vibratos in her rasping voice
while the black man hugs his double bass
as if exciting a woman with his finger
whitens his eyes sticks his tongue out
gnashes his teeth like a hanged man
whispers obscenities tender grating of the brush
hands on drumhead flapping bats
the monkey-face one on his walnut and chrome
steed and all of a sudden madness bits
of bronze and torn-up pelt the god
and his eight arms the feet stuck
to the pedals with leviathan fury
the stomach fluttering trembling
like the flanks of a frightened horse and Charlie
pressing hitting strange progressions like the fish
of marine trenches his bald head like a
Kraft cheese under the light of the coliseum
the black man bends sweating down to the high notes
and jumping anxiously and sure grasping
the deep notes near the pegs obsessed
with a varied repetition until Charlie adds
wedges of chords between sound and sound
and the drumsticks return with their mathematical
helter-skelter tapping while the girl next to them
sighs noisily and adjusts her bra what the hell
“. . . if you have to ask about it you’ll never know.”
From: Nuestro lecho es de flores
What is Jazz?
Charlie’s hands like spiders
knits the yarn in the guitar for his woman
who – transparent high-heeled shoes –
sings with vibratos in her rasping voice
while the black man hugs his double bass
as if exciting a woman with his finger
whitens his eyes sticks his tongue out
gnashes his teeth like a hanged man
whispers obscenities tender grating of the brush
hands on drumhead flapping bats
the monkey-face one on his walnut and chrome
steed and all of a sudden madness bits
of bronze and torn-up pelt the god
and his eight arms the feet stuck
to the pedals with leviathan fury
the stomach fluttering trembling
like the flanks of a frightened horse and Charlie
pressing hitting strange progressions like the fish
of marine trenches his bald head like a
Kraft cheese under the light of the coliseum
the black man bends sweating down to the high notes
and jumping anxiously and sure grasping
the deep notes near the pegs obsessed
with a varied repetition until Charlie adds
wedges of chords between sound and sound
and the drumsticks return with their mathematical
helter-skelter tapping while the girl next to them
sighs noisily and adjusts her bra what the hell
“. . . if you have to ask about it you’ll never know.”