Si usted es lector@ de Roberto Bolaño, le pueden interesar estas cartas que el susodicho envío al poeta Waldo Rojas entre 1983 y 2001:
http://issuu.com/revistamultitud/docs/de_blanes_a_paris?mode=window&viewMode=singlePage
Varick Street
At night the factories
struggle awake,
wretched uneasy buildings
veined with pipes
attempt their work.
Trying to breathe,
the elongated nostrils
haired with spikes
give off such stenches, too.
And I shall sell you sell you
sell you of course, my dear, and you’ll sell me.
On certain floors
certain wonders.
Pale dirty light,
some captured iceberg
being prevented from melting.
See the mechanical moons,
sick, being made
to wax and wane
at somebody’s instigation.
And I shall sell you sell you
sell you of course, my dear, and you’ll sell me.
Lights music of love
work on. The presses
print calendars
I suppose; the moons
make medicine
or confectionery. Our bed
shrinks from the soot
and hapless odors
hold us close.
And I shall sell you sell you
sell you of course, my dear, and you’ll sell me.
(Elizabeth Bishop)
