Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Santiago Vera

All of this is reporting

All of this is reporting. Journalism and history
And history and repetition and narration and anecdotes

Not even what evolution has made of the foot is sufficient anymore
For fleeing en masse toward someplace that offers no occasions for fashioning lies

Storm or bombardment
It’s all reporting

It now occurs to us that there’s no place where an association halts the total destruction of the planet 

A depth, a breadth that barely exasperates according – I mean it –
To the needs of an ordinary twist and turn

The character of time elapsed is the reporter of the future
He builds his house in the corners of parties, of schoolgirls’ celebrations
Where he rushes to grind up seeds that fatten him
He does it all at once without ending up annoyed

A plain, a muscle threaded of insipid anecdotes,

Too many houses too many marriages too many poor people too many dates on the calendar Oh, such abundance!

All of this is reporting

Numbers stink too and there’s too much excessive narrative weight that no one wants to tell and too much perforated food resulting from an extinct language

It’s always been said that the good old days are what make us want to die
There are so many that a massive wave sweeps away our dream of being young. And a light of
illness cooks the energy that death deposits in our info sheets

Too much death, too much history we’re too light in the air—I mean it,
too many individual lives alarming light, beautiful skirts too swished by the wind

We’ve reached the point when no one imagined ever saying at the start hey, look, let’s be men, what do you say?

The future reporter has become the visionary of ordinary epidemics
He grinds those seeds impregnated with all possible silences all silences lower themselves down from the howlers and gymnasts all the squares and gymnasts from the parallels and the orthogonal gymnasts of the spirit
slip 
like magnets of the void struck down by elevation

A cosmic laziness throws light on us not knowing what it darkens when it does
Contemporary toy stores of vast proportions, too sad for war games 

Infinity is sick of us

Are there really so many of us? And stupidity disarms us in a conflux

A pile of seismographs for sale:
all of this is reporting

The perfect tendons under the skin, a perfect life and a feminine
will toward concealing the most evident god crawling around the blindness

The sun, the bells, the trees, the images of the sun, the images of the bells, the
images of the trees

Infinite scales and possibilities we use to project this. Slippery ones, the standards we judge by, the flags flapping ahead of the landmarks, the galaxies swaying in the wind, those huge steel balls that populate our imaginations when we reach a crossroads, the sidewalk, the light, the final gust, you, these, never better put, that, me, the last rung before no nothing

All of this is reporting

A fictional universe alternately inflates and deflates. It’s a lie. It wanes Today
We notice

Dit alles is reportage

Dit alles is reportage. De journalistiek en de geschiedenis
En de geschiedenis en de herhaling en de vertelling en de anekdotes

Wat de evolutie van de voet heeft gemaakt blijkt nu niet eens meer voldoende om
Massaal te vluchten naar een plek ongeschikt om leugens te vervaardigen

Zware storm of bombardement
Alles is reportage

Het overkomt ons al dat nergens enige vorm van verbond ertoe in staat is de gehele vernietiging van de planeet onmogelijk te maken

Een diepte, een omvang die amper radeloosheid veroorzaakt in de mate ‒ ik meen het serieus ‒
van een gemeenschappelijk labyrint

Het personage van de voorbije tijd is de verslaggever van de toekomst
Slaat zijn tenten op in de hoeken van de feesten, meisjespartijtjes
Waarin hij haastig wat zaad fijnmaalt dat hem dik maakt
Hij doet alles tegelijk zonder boos te worden

Een vlakte, smakeloze anekdotes geregen aan een spier,
Te veel huizen te veel echtparen te veel armen te veel datums Ach!
met zovelen!

Dit alles is reportage

Ook de getallen stinken en veel te onmetelijk is de vracht aan verhalen die
niemand wil vertellen en te veel voedingsmiddelen doorboord door een uitgestorven taal

Er is altijd gezegd dat we willen sterven om de goede oude tijd
Daar we met zovelen zijn, ontrukt een enorme golf ons de droom dat we jong zijn. En een ziekelijk licht
kookt onze energie die de dood in onze databladen deponeert

Te veel dood, te veel geschiedenis te veel lichte wezens in de lucht ‒ ik meen het serieus,
te veel individuele levens, angstaanjagend licht, mooie rokjes die te veel zijn opgewaaid in de wind

We zijn op een punt beland dat niemand zich in het begin kon inbeelden toen hij zei, ja, kijk, we gaan mens worden, wat zeg je ervan?

De verslaggever van de toekomst is de visionair geworden van de ordinaire epidemieën
Hij maalt de zaden die zwanger zijn van alle stiltes alle stiltes maken zich los van de schreeuwers en gymnasten alle rechthoeken en gymnasten van de paralellen en de rechthoekige gymnasten van de geest
ze glijden
als door de hoogte dodelijk getroffen kompassen naar de afgrond

Een kosmische luiheid verlicht ons zonder te weten wat ze verduistert door dat te doen
Moderne speelgoedwinkels van enorme omvang, veel te treurig om oorlogje te spelen

De oneindigheid heeft haar buik vol van ons

Ach, zijn we met zovelen? En met een tikje ontwapent de stompzinnigheid ons

Partij seismografen te koop:
dit alles is reportage

De perfecte pezen onder de huid, het perfecte leven en een vrouwelijke
wilskracht verbergen de zichtbaarste god die zich voortsleept in blindheid

De zon, de kerkklokken, de bomen, de beelden van de zon, de beelden van de kerkklokken, de
beelden van de bomen

Oneindige trappen en mogelijkheden waarmee wij dit projecteren. De glibberige paden, de criteria op het uur van beoordeling, de vlaggen achter de piketpaaltjes, de melkwegstelsels, opgewaaid in de wind,
die immense ijzeren ballen die onze verbeelding bevolken wanneer we op een kruispunt staan, het bankje, het licht, de laatste adem, jij, deze lui, nooit beter gezegd, precies, ik, de laatste trede voorafgaand aan geen enkel niets

Dit alles is reportage

Een fictief universum blaast zich beurtelings op en loopt leeg. Is een leugen. Springt uit zijn vel Vandaag
Beseffen wij

Todo esto es reportaje

Todo esto es reportaje. El periodismo y la historia
Y la historia y la repetición y la narración y las anécdotas

Ya ni siquiera lo que la evolución hizo del pie ha resultado suficiente
Para en tropel huir hacia un lugar que no se preste de ocasión para labrar mentiras

Tempestad o bombardeo
Todo es reportaje

Ya nos ocurre que en ningún lugar asociación alguna hace imposible la destrucción entera del planeta

Una profundidad, una amplitud que apenas desespere a la medida – lo digo en serio-
De un vericueto común

El personaje del tiempo ido es el reportero del futuro
Alza su casa en los rincones de las fiestas, celebraciones de muchachas
En las que muele de prisa unas semillas que lo engordan
Todo lo hace a la vez sin acabar molesto

Una llanura, músculo enhebrado de anécdotas insulsas,

Demasiadas casas demasiados matrimonios demasiados pobres demasiadas fechas Ay, ¡tan numerosos!

Todo esto es reportaje

También los números apestan y hay demasiado peso inconmensurable de narración que nadie quiere contar y demasiados alimentos perforados a causa de un lenguaje extinto

Se ha dicho siempre que es por los viejos tiempos que se desea morir
De ser tan numerosos una inmensa ola nos arrebata el sueño de ser jóvenes. Y una luz de
enfermedad nos cuece la energía que la muerte deposita en nuestras fichas técnicas

Demasiada muerte, demasiada historia demasiado livianos en el aire- lo digo en serio,
demasiadas vidas individuales estremecedora luz, faldas hermosas demasiado mecidas por el viento

Hemos llegado al punto que ninguno imaginó en los comienzos al decir ya, mira, vamos
a ser hombres, ¿qué me dices?


El reportero del futuro ha devenido el visionario de las pestes ordinarias
Muele esas semillas preñadas de todos los silencios todos los silencios se descuelgan de los aulladores y gimnastas todos los cuadrados y gimnastas de los paralelos y los ortogonales gimnastas del espíritu
                              se deslizan
como imanes del abismo fulminados por la altura

Una flojera cósmica nos ilumina sin saber qué oscurece al hacerlo
Jugueterías actuales de inmensas proporciones, demasiado tristes para jugar a la guerra

La infinitud se ha aburrido de nosotros

Ay, ¿somos tan numerosos? Y la estupidez en un tinco nos desarma

Ruma de sismógrafos en venta:
todo esto es reportaje

Los tendones perfectos bajo la piel, la vida perfecta y una voluntad
femenina por ocultar al dios más evidente arrastrándose por la ceguera

El sol, las campanas, los árboles, las imágenes del sol, las imágenes de las campanas, las
imágenes de los arboles

Infinitas escalas y posibilidades con que proyectamos esto. Las resbaladeras, los criterios a la hora de juzgar, las banderas a la zaga de los hitos, las galaxias, mecidas por el viento,
esas inmensas bolas de acero que pueblan nuestra imaginación cuando nos hallamos frente a una encrucijada, la banqueta, la luz, el último soplo, tú, estos, nunca mejor dicho, eso, yo, el último escalón previo a ninguna nada

Todo esto es reportaje

Un universo ficticio se infla y se desinfla alternativamente. Es mentira. Se desalma Hoy
Nos damos cuenta
Close

All of this is reporting

All of this is reporting. Journalism and history
And history and repetition and narration and anecdotes

Not even what evolution has made of the foot is sufficient anymore
For fleeing en masse toward someplace that offers no occasions for fashioning lies

Storm or bombardment
It’s all reporting

It now occurs to us that there’s no place where an association halts the total destruction of the planet 

A depth, a breadth that barely exasperates according – I mean it –
To the needs of an ordinary twist and turn

The character of time elapsed is the reporter of the future
He builds his house in the corners of parties, of schoolgirls’ celebrations
Where he rushes to grind up seeds that fatten him
He does it all at once without ending up annoyed

A plain, a muscle threaded of insipid anecdotes,

Too many houses too many marriages too many poor people too many dates on the calendar Oh, such abundance!

All of this is reporting

Numbers stink too and there’s too much excessive narrative weight that no one wants to tell and too much perforated food resulting from an extinct language

It’s always been said that the good old days are what make us want to die
There are so many that a massive wave sweeps away our dream of being young. And a light of
illness cooks the energy that death deposits in our info sheets

Too much death, too much history we’re too light in the air—I mean it,
too many individual lives alarming light, beautiful skirts too swished by the wind

We’ve reached the point when no one imagined ever saying at the start hey, look, let’s be men, what do you say?

The future reporter has become the visionary of ordinary epidemics
He grinds those seeds impregnated with all possible silences all silences lower themselves down from the howlers and gymnasts all the squares and gymnasts from the parallels and the orthogonal gymnasts of the spirit
slip 
like magnets of the void struck down by elevation

A cosmic laziness throws light on us not knowing what it darkens when it does
Contemporary toy stores of vast proportions, too sad for war games 

Infinity is sick of us

Are there really so many of us? And stupidity disarms us in a conflux

A pile of seismographs for sale:
all of this is reporting

The perfect tendons under the skin, a perfect life and a feminine
will toward concealing the most evident god crawling around the blindness

The sun, the bells, the trees, the images of the sun, the images of the bells, the
images of the trees

Infinite scales and possibilities we use to project this. Slippery ones, the standards we judge by, the flags flapping ahead of the landmarks, the galaxies swaying in the wind, those huge steel balls that populate our imaginations when we reach a crossroads, the sidewalk, the light, the final gust, you, these, never better put, that, me, the last rung before no nothing

All of this is reporting

A fictional universe alternately inflates and deflates. It’s a lie. It wanes Today
We notice

All of this is reporting

All of this is reporting. Journalism and history
And history and repetition and narration and anecdotes

Not even what evolution has made of the foot is sufficient anymore
For fleeing en masse toward someplace that offers no occasions for fashioning lies

Storm or bombardment
It’s all reporting

It now occurs to us that there’s no place where an association halts the total destruction of the planet 

A depth, a breadth that barely exasperates according – I mean it –
To the needs of an ordinary twist and turn

The character of time elapsed is the reporter of the future
He builds his house in the corners of parties, of schoolgirls’ celebrations
Where he rushes to grind up seeds that fatten him
He does it all at once without ending up annoyed

A plain, a muscle threaded of insipid anecdotes,

Too many houses too many marriages too many poor people too many dates on the calendar Oh, such abundance!

All of this is reporting

Numbers stink too and there’s too much excessive narrative weight that no one wants to tell and too much perforated food resulting from an extinct language

It’s always been said that the good old days are what make us want to die
There are so many that a massive wave sweeps away our dream of being young. And a light of
illness cooks the energy that death deposits in our info sheets

Too much death, too much history we’re too light in the air—I mean it,
too many individual lives alarming light, beautiful skirts too swished by the wind

We’ve reached the point when no one imagined ever saying at the start hey, look, let’s be men, what do you say?

The future reporter has become the visionary of ordinary epidemics
He grinds those seeds impregnated with all possible silences all silences lower themselves down from the howlers and gymnasts all the squares and gymnasts from the parallels and the orthogonal gymnasts of the spirit
slip 
like magnets of the void struck down by elevation

A cosmic laziness throws light on us not knowing what it darkens when it does
Contemporary toy stores of vast proportions, too sad for war games 

Infinity is sick of us

Are there really so many of us? And stupidity disarms us in a conflux

A pile of seismographs for sale:
all of this is reporting

The perfect tendons under the skin, a perfect life and a feminine
will toward concealing the most evident god crawling around the blindness

The sun, the bells, the trees, the images of the sun, the images of the bells, the
images of the trees

Infinite scales and possibilities we use to project this. Slippery ones, the standards we judge by, the flags flapping ahead of the landmarks, the galaxies swaying in the wind, those huge steel balls that populate our imaginations when we reach a crossroads, the sidewalk, the light, the final gust, you, these, never better put, that, me, the last rung before no nothing

All of this is reporting

A fictional universe alternately inflates and deflates. It’s a lie. It wanes Today
We notice
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