The Lost Lautréamont ^ Kingdom

We did not find anyone

We did not find our old house

black tears bows

Cicada eucalyptus trees

We found neither gold nor the family horse

We did not find roses in the garden

Or a butterfly sizzling in the air

Or a dragonfly transporting a precious stone to her highness the queen.

We did not find the blue leopard regret

Or the drunken gull of imagination

We didn’t find that canary

guarding the elderly neighbor

from the foxes of oblivion

We didn’t find a god in baggy pants and a foolscap hat

To empty the cloud of my daily misery into his pierced pocket

To take out our prayer bag with a blind hand

We did not find Noah or the Titanic

I did not find a single friend for the funeral of the unspeakable taboo.

I did not find my little lake in your hoarse tone

I did not find a wide-open door to move from doubt to certainty

From the darkness of my residue to the heights of light

The fire of the mystic let me down in the dense basement

And my flowers withered with the arsenic of the money changers.

///

We are killed every day

We are buried every day

The funeral decoration wasn’t appropriate

Mourners could be counted on one hand,

The porter devoured the flock of coffins,

And the hole is very deep.

Oblivion is sixty meters long

dragging the dead chariot into metaphysics.

Instead of widows crying burning wheels,

Instead of the priest’s prayer,

Great Cormorants are praying.

This old land swallowed my brothers with a

edentulous mouth.

And the porter hid the flock of coffins in the madhouse

Dear mourners, listen carefully

To the rattle of widower’s tears.

///

They were in the last night watch of madness

The train will fall into the trap

And travelers will fly to nowhere

Instead of the sun, a deer in the casino has shone on

They eat my heart with golden spoons

Cheetahs don’t think about the uproar of guns

I lost God in the war

And I carried water on my back to please the corpses

I found your mask, O shadow

Your stained face with mud and crime

I discovered the lineage of nothingness

Dust fighting the soldiers of visible

Oh you, nothingness that snatches neighbors in cold blood

O Great Spy!

ــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــ ^ Comte de Lautréamont: was the nom de plume of Isidore Lucien Ducasse (4 April 1846 – 24 November 1870), a French poet born in Uruguay. His only works, Les Chants de Maldoror and Poésies, had a major influence on modern arts and literature, particularly on the Surrealists and the Situationists. Ducasse died at the age of 24.