A Spanglish blog dedicated to the works, ruminations, and mongrel pyrotechnics of Yago S. Cura, an Argentine-American poet, translator, publisher & futbol cretin. Yago publishes Hinchas de Poesia, an online literary journal, & is the sole proprietor of Hinchas Press.

Friday, October 3, 2008


I, Solomon Jimenez, pompadour and blunt-headed booties, blue thermal with flammable polyester pants, 41 years old and separated from my wife, renounce the demons of alcohol and ask them to exit my body at once.

Yo, parasito de amor, heliotrope of plain wrong, escudo de equivocado, Corona enthusiast, Gritador del televisor, salesman paunch, and barbita de navaja. Yo,
hijo de la gran puta, auto-odiador, fanatico del yo no, escorpion contrario,
borracho de absolutos, peleador de palabras, dragon del desierto.

The demons of alcohol forced my hand the night that Luz Maria jumped in front of the punch meant for her mother, Maria Luz. What was I supposed to do once the punch connected except keep up the barrage. And before I knew it I was beating my wife of 23 years and my 20 year old daughter.

Furthermore, esa puta abogada was just looking for me to chuparle la pija because I saw it the minute I walked in. In her head she was thinking, I am going to get this little Mexican to confess that there are demons in his Coronas, and that only poor people drink 12 to 15 Coronas in one sitting. Moreover, I hate her making me abrogate the exegesis of my weekend, esa cabrona no entiende el puro sabor de una buena borrachera!

It is true that my pants are flammable; yo no niego que mis pantalones son inflamables, pero they accentuate my short little legs and make a clean line with my slip-on booties. Las booties tienen un diseno de un pedazo de humo en forma de cobra de vivora de cazador del desierto con los ojos endiamantenados. Yo no niego que me puse la termal neta azul, por supuesto, y tampoco que me puse tanto gel en el pelo.

Solomon, despierta mi hijo. Estas abogadas te estan tratando de cojer con sus palabras, las dos mas gueritas que fantasmas, crujiente con edad, parecen papas que el horno no se dignado a quemar. Locura, que no toman por que no les haria mal tomarse unas chellitas, las mera cabronas. I am awake now Father of fathers, and I commit my mind to the secret renouncing of cerveza.

To the world it will have looked like I have renounced cerveza but to my self of selves I will have remained a ladle of liquid contempt and nauseatic respite, a flask that chupas life from the labios of the host, just as that host is sucking from it's lip.

1 comment:

foul ball said...

feel like I"m sucking on the devil\s teta. Nice one son