Enomoto Saclaco, tr. Eric Selland
Poème Symphonique for 100 Fragments
(Un texte en hommage à György Ligeti)
What is placed there before us is a still life... or not.
No need for concerns about immorality. What is standing before us is not a gigantic Trojan horse, but one reed, so to speak.
Grape vines cling to the wings of the silver-plated fetus of a mythical beast that devours dreams, but the delicate ankles of the merciful shepherd have bloody teeth marks.
Who painted the taxidermy of a certain marriage with coal tar?
Multiple ears grow from the rigid rat corpse in the dark green perfume bottle, but it doesn’t mean as much as a molten bronze neck.
A screw is fitted to a twilight Mars and above the dangling chromosomes the celestial globe blinks, then under the feeble light of a fluorescent lamp cut through by the afterimage of a girl who ought to have grown on an apple tree, the screams of leather shoes can be heard.
On an evening of driving wedges into a number of inconspicuous constellations and waiting for the brandy to be poured, frost alights on the lens of the monocle.
The quietly trembling tail of the rainbow-colored lizard that creeps along the cell wall penetrates the orbit of a wildcat and drowns in the bright urine of a pregnant woman.
The oval shape of something dry and murky whose name I don’t know licks the morning dew which slides gently along the blade of the cutting shears.
The lid of a vessel—perhaps being randomly placed on the sand is the destiny of salt flame.
Was Pegasus born so that he could be heated by the bell of a clock tower?