by Roberto Bolaño, trans. by D. Matus
My literary works, April 10, 1980. Obsessed
with legs in bedrooms where everything is feminine
even I, who killed an air conditioner and mummifies
hounds. No writing in the rhythm of my days
without money, or love, or looks; only dark
bedroom secrets where I'm surrounded by silk
stockings, canaries, and slices of the moon. However
when I write I can say entertaining things
that interest people. Abstract pianos
in silent ambush, my own silence that
surrounds the writing. Maybe only the indiscriminate,
arriving at the terminal where "my talent"
expresses itself through the combustible cracks
of my neck in the snow novel.
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