Poem
Washington Cucurto
Day after day, a trio of women
They follow me all the way to the entrance of my work. What I write at night they destroy during the day.The three black women spy on me through a honeycomb of huge Cocuyo trees.
And you, demonic Dominicanne, the only thing you do is leave me sucked like a fig.
You spend the morning listening to salsa, merengue, chachacha. What?! Your Willie Chirino. What?! Your Jerry Rivera. If I was Willie Chirino I’d give you a salsa of kicks, a merengue of spitting. You and your three libidinous cousins who impudently impose their Senegalese and Morrocan boyfriends, bring them to the middle of the dinner table. Moroccans who morrock them in their bordergoing trucks; Senegalese who spear them in the rooms of the tenne. If making love to you weren’t sweeter than a bunch of very white papayas. If you didn’t squeeze my lemon until the juice ran down my leg and you timidly ejaculate, amidst giggles, little Rhodesia Chocolates and Jorgito Cakes. If you didn’t drive the bulk booksellers crazy when you walk down Corrientes Av. Ah! The ragged Jews, owners of the books, brothers to the phrase.
You,
the only A+ you ever got in your whole
life was under the table.
You,
the only A+ the only A- you got was
drawing doodles of saliva on the
trunks of your educators.
Oh, you my linden blossom!
Oh, you demonic Dominicanne!
And now it’s your turn: your turn for a D, for an F, your turn for them to flatter you, to work in a supermarket, as trainee cashier cashier-in-training cashier trainee, it’s your turn to have your purse stolen - mascara, lipstick, a novel by Arenas. Sad were the nights that we were apart, and ever since I walked the three most beautiful blocks of my neighborhood with you and now I have to forget about that or take the long way around the block. There’s a shelf for you in the supermarket and waiting. Laugh out loud! Nobody gives a peso for what you do and even less for what you are. Books are because paper can take it all. Sometimes you get a crazy urge to fuck on a bike. Crazy girl! You read more than 100 poems by Fernández Moreno and not a single sonnet, not a single flower. And now you’re asking me for flowers, you’re asking me for rhymes... I start to warm up the motor, it regurgitates the Geneva-Font that I’m writing with, and here it goes, the sentence is done: Rhyme rhymes with rose and prose is prose below the balls!
Hey you, do you like Perec? Do you like Perec? Do you like Perec?
Sorry for the hot mess.
© Translation: 2012, Jordan Lee Schnee
Día tras día un trío de mujeres
Día tras día un trío de mujeres
Me siguen hasta la puerta de mi empleo, lo que escribo de noche de día me lo rompen. Las tres negras me espían detrás de un panal de altísimos cocoyos.Y tú, dominicana del demonio, que lo único que haces es dejarme chupado como un higo. Pasas las mañanas escuchando salsa, merengue, chachachá. ¡Qué tu Willie Chirino! ¡Qué tu Jerry Rivera! Si yo fuera Willie Chirino te daría salsa de patadas, un merengue de escupidas. Tú y tus tres primas libidinosas, que impúdicamente imponen al centro de la mesa a sus novios senegalíes y marroquíes: marroquíes que se las marrocan, en sus camiones de la frontera; senegalíes que se las ensartan en las piezas del yoti. Si no fuera porque en el amor eras más dulce que un racimo de blanquísimas papayas. Si no fuera porque me bates el pichiciego hasta que le bota la leche y tímida eyaculas, entre titas, rodhesias y jorgitos. Si no fuera porque cuando paseas por Corrientes enloqueces libreros a granel, ¡uf!, judíos harapientos, dueños de los libros hermanos de la dicha.
Tú,
que el único diez que te sacaste en la vida
fue debajo de la mesa.
Tú,
que el único diez, el único nueve,
te lo sacaste dibujando garabatos de saliva
en el tronco de tus educadores.
¡Oh, tú mi flor de tilo!
¡Oh, tú dominicana del demonio!
Y ahora te toca: te toca un uno, un cero, te toca que te halaguen, te toca trabajar en un supermercado, de cadeta de cajera de cajera cadeta de cadeta cajera, te toca que te roben la cartera un tintel un rímel una novela de Arenas. Tristes fueron las noches en que estuvimos separados y las tres cuadras más lindas de mi barrio las caminé con vos y ahora tengo que olvidarlas o pegar la vuelta a la manzana; que hay una góndola para vos en el supermercado y está esperándote, ¡muerta de risa! Que nadie da un peso por lo que haces y menos por lo que sos, que los libros son porque el papel lo aguanta todo, que a veces te vienen unas ganas locas de garchar en bicicleta. ¡Loquita!, que leíste más de cien poemas de Fernández Moreno y ningún soneto, ninguna flor y ahora me pides flores me pides rimas... Comienzo a calentar estos motores, regurgitea la letra geneva con que escribo y acá te va lo dicho es hecho: ¡Que la rima rima con rosa y la prosa es prosa debajo de las bolas!
A vos, ¿te gusta Perec, te gusta Perec, te gusta Perec?
Perdón por la maleza.
Poems
Poems of Washington Cucurto
Close
Day after day, a trio of women
They follow me all the way to the entrance of my work. What I write at night they destroy during the day.The three black women spy on me through a honeycomb of huge Cocuyo trees.
And you, demonic Dominicanne, the only thing you do is leave me sucked like a fig.
You spend the morning listening to salsa, merengue, chachacha. What?! Your Willie Chirino. What?! Your Jerry Rivera. If I was Willie Chirino I’d give you a salsa of kicks, a merengue of spitting. You and your three libidinous cousins who impudently impose their Senegalese and Morrocan boyfriends, bring them to the middle of the dinner table. Moroccans who morrock them in their bordergoing trucks; Senegalese who spear them in the rooms of the tenne. If making love to you weren’t sweeter than a bunch of very white papayas. If you didn’t squeeze my lemon until the juice ran down my leg and you timidly ejaculate, amidst giggles, little Rhodesia Chocolates and Jorgito Cakes. If you didn’t drive the bulk booksellers crazy when you walk down Corrientes Av. Ah! The ragged Jews, owners of the books, brothers to the phrase.
You,
the only A+ you ever got in your whole
life was under the table.
You,
the only A+ the only A- you got was
drawing doodles of saliva on the
trunks of your educators.
Oh, you my linden blossom!
Oh, you demonic Dominicanne!
And now it’s your turn: your turn for a D, for an F, your turn for them to flatter you, to work in a supermarket, as trainee cashier cashier-in-training cashier trainee, it’s your turn to have your purse stolen - mascara, lipstick, a novel by Arenas. Sad were the nights that we were apart, and ever since I walked the three most beautiful blocks of my neighborhood with you and now I have to forget about that or take the long way around the block. There’s a shelf for you in the supermarket and waiting. Laugh out loud! Nobody gives a peso for what you do and even less for what you are. Books are because paper can take it all. Sometimes you get a crazy urge to fuck on a bike. Crazy girl! You read more than 100 poems by Fernández Moreno and not a single sonnet, not a single flower. And now you’re asking me for flowers, you’re asking me for rhymes... I start to warm up the motor, it regurgitates the Geneva-Font that I’m writing with, and here it goes, the sentence is done: Rhyme rhymes with rose and prose is prose below the balls!
Hey you, do you like Perec? Do you like Perec? Do you like Perec?
Sorry for the hot mess.
© 2012, Jordan Lee Schnee
Day after day, a trio of women
They follow me all the way to the entrance of my work. What I write at night they destroy during the day.The three black women spy on me through a honeycomb of huge Cocuyo trees.
And you, demonic Dominicanne, the only thing you do is leave me sucked like a fig.
You spend the morning listening to salsa, merengue, chachacha. What?! Your Willie Chirino. What?! Your Jerry Rivera. If I was Willie Chirino I’d give you a salsa of kicks, a merengue of spitting. You and your three libidinous cousins who impudently impose their Senegalese and Morrocan boyfriends, bring them to the middle of the dinner table. Moroccans who morrock them in their bordergoing trucks; Senegalese who spear them in the rooms of the tenne. If making love to you weren’t sweeter than a bunch of very white papayas. If you didn’t squeeze my lemon until the juice ran down my leg and you timidly ejaculate, amidst giggles, little Rhodesia Chocolates and Jorgito Cakes. If you didn’t drive the bulk booksellers crazy when you walk down Corrientes Av. Ah! The ragged Jews, owners of the books, brothers to the phrase.
You,
the only A+ you ever got in your whole
life was under the table.
You,
the only A+ the only A- you got was
drawing doodles of saliva on the
trunks of your educators.
Oh, you my linden blossom!
Oh, you demonic Dominicanne!
And now it’s your turn: your turn for a D, for an F, your turn for them to flatter you, to work in a supermarket, as trainee cashier cashier-in-training cashier trainee, it’s your turn to have your purse stolen - mascara, lipstick, a novel by Arenas. Sad were the nights that we were apart, and ever since I walked the three most beautiful blocks of my neighborhood with you and now I have to forget about that or take the long way around the block. There’s a shelf for you in the supermarket and waiting. Laugh out loud! Nobody gives a peso for what you do and even less for what you are. Books are because paper can take it all. Sometimes you get a crazy urge to fuck on a bike. Crazy girl! You read more than 100 poems by Fernández Moreno and not a single sonnet, not a single flower. And now you’re asking me for flowers, you’re asking me for rhymes... I start to warm up the motor, it regurgitates the Geneva-Font that I’m writing with, and here it goes, the sentence is done: Rhyme rhymes with rose and prose is prose below the balls!
Hey you, do you like Perec? Do you like Perec? Do you like Perec?
Sorry for the hot mess.
© 2012, Jordan Lee Schnee
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