By Luna Miguel.
Mine is swine flu and malign.
Mine is Cow flu and mad Bird.
Mine is Nietzsche so poorly translated.
Watch my swollen veins,
inside I keep Panero’s slobbers.
Inside, the heart of a Kinder Egg
with no surprise:
Sylvia Plath Dead,
David Foster Wallace Dead,
Virginia, swimming butterfly, Dead.
Attention. Purple flag.
The flu of souls.
The flu of smoke.
The flu of codas and plucked
Attention. They spread.
(From Poetry is not dead)
to the last eyelash
of this monotonous nightmare.
Punk imitation of a dead poet.
If Pizarnik raised,
will you do it,
you idiotic suicide,
who look from the reflection?
cunt or heart?
Does it matter since both smell of life
since both bleed and stain with love?
Everything shaved to feel the ice better.
Everything very cold and beautiful.
Everything empty, for the last time.
Translation: Ángel Arqueros, Pedro J. Miguel and Kika Martínez
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Luna Miguel (Madrid, 1990) has lived in Spain and France. She now studies Journalism in Madrid. She is a columnist of the Public diary and collaborates in several magazines: Vice, Quimera, and Koult. She is the authoress of several poetic notebooks: Síntomas (2008), Cruzo un desierto (2009); and the coming poetry books: Estar enfermo (2010) and Poetry is not dead (2010). She has also written the short novel Exhumation (2010), together with the narrator Antonio J. Rodríguez. Addicted to Facebook, a prologue writer of the Diaries of Félix Francisco Casanova, flyer-girl for the Zombie Club and occasional photographer.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, September 19th, 2010.