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Innocenza Istarte
Curfew in Medellín, 1989
If I were to tell you… How we watched from balconies Those silent, white-helmeted Troops baby-stepping, as in a cortege, behind White tanks snaking forth reluctantly; That big, bad city as quiet As the restless ocean; Dogs barking to the sound of transistor radios With their salsa defiant; The down-and-outs flitting like moths Through the street-lights To shake unseen with their children In darkened doorways;
How the next day a bomb Across the road Blew out the windows of our penthouse, Kerchiefed sicarios running out of a workshop To the beat of the rat-tat-tat of pistol fire; Four bodies, covered, later Stopping the traffic; how the glazier, descendant Of some German sect-colony, would Have brightened Hitler’s dreams With his sapphire eyes and hair As bold as the sun of Constantine,
…It would be meaningless.
Hot Dogs
Under the flyover, near the fountain Is the world’s best hot dog van. Security guards and cops Munch on them, mustard Dribbling on chins. Old tarts in tight Easily-removed clothes, Gangster-girls as my eight year-old calls them, Stand across the road outside the club, Its doors bidding you welcome To slot machines and neon-lighting. To the right stand the young ones In scores, offering tighter cunts And sour expressions. James brought two back to the party Last Christmas. They called him With familiarity, “Little Worm”.
Past the fountain pine trees Spume up thin and tall As telegraph poles Into the Andes which Cast their protective shadow Over me.
Vinecure nightclub, Caldas, Antioquia
There is a place in Paradise Where I can go Where even the angels are kind to me. In the foothills of the Andes In a back of beyond village above which We went riding that day and saw The green fingers of the mountains huddle round us As though we were a cup of aguapanela on a cold day, There is a nightclub.
You go up steps From a car park, the attendants In Scottish kilts To a papier-mâché globe A dwarf in an elf’s hat Bids you enter with his eyes,
Geese, their gaggle of shit everywhere, Rush around squawking Like Nausicaa’s maids-in-waiting As you walk around The couch in the doorway, a Great Dane Idling on top as though post- Fornication. You enter the vagina Of the door into a
Womb of a baroque palace A swirl of the owner’s mad art In every corner of the eye. The waiters dressed as brides Or bit-parts from the Wizard of Oz, Arley sporting an English policeman’s Tit-hat. Cowboys with their ponchos Slung over their shoulders Drinking sugar cane brandy As though they’re hanged tomorrow A priest on the dancefloor, Rooms with bunk beds leading off the main To secret rooms stuffed With the maestro’s latest oeuvres.
There the saints stand in khaki; They listen to my wicked-most thoughts.
On the Floor of the Medellín Stock Exchange
If I were a man I would be a baby-immature, Unable to command the respect Of my fellow men Or garner the attention of women, Certainly unable to, In the eye of a market storm, Write up the changing prices On that chalk board, Look down into the pit With its cubicles, Their short desks, round-dial black telephones and lamps, Along with the Astor tea-room in Calle Junín The last remains of Dickens in this world.
The previous night I had lapped up A raven-head’s black cunt; As she pushed herself murmuring into my mouth I thought of the English cricket team: How they were mentally weak.
The robust oak
He said that he did not mind The repetition, The constant rejection of his character The diurnal criticism of his work Always chasing that bit of fluff in the office The morning kiss on his children’s soft faces The jarring train commute at dawn The tardiness of his return in black night;
That the routine offered comfort Like a cryogenic’s compression chamber Or the cocoon of the womb’s waters Around a foetus; That it reminded him that he was not there, Never had been, That everything he thought, said or did Would never impact Another human being
Like the storm on an oak tree.
My mouth enters you
Eve said to Adam, “Women are incapable of love; We are the predators of the species, Always on the prowl For strength. We look not for vulnerability or humour. As long as you possess Status or solidity, Can protect us From ourselves, You may beat us, rape us, Bury as many of us in your back gardens as your needs urge; We will always return.”
Adam replied to Eve, “Take these feeble arms, This inadequacy, This constant inconsistency. Be made whole As my mouth enters you My lips shatter you My tongue gives you Another portion of yourself And speaks to the rib Of your humanity.”
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