Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Translation Issue—Issue 51, March 2015)

Wilson Bueno
from Paraguayan Sea
Erín Moure, Translation

You’ve got to have the release of water: drunken, extremely tipsy, a few glasses of silver, others of purest ash. What a farce it all is in the beach town if at three in the afternoon everything fries in agony, suffocating sans soleil, the afternoon hot as blazes à Guaratuba, before the Rain lets loose. Drunken yes, tipsy yes, but never with the pale hypocrisy with which the women shut themselves in mourning and their desire to love kept in the display windows where their ancestors of fog and photo and quicklime move, dance of suspended verre in the fineworked fenêtres where you can see, even if it’s fleetingly, the suspended drip of the fatal poison, translucent on the edge of the glass—like the grizzled ancient pronouncement that says living is an astounding thing, and because the heat’s crazy and the trees drenched in electricity and the whole sea gently ruffles up, that sea, paraná, panamá, the sky of lead and no wind at all, me drunken for the third day, I enter naked in my flesh into the waters of this sea—wave-touched as in fairytale islands, sea et sea, drunken I confesse I’ve lived, these waters, me swearing at the putain bitch who gave birth to the mother of that bar-owning woman or I rant at the cuckolded cossack husband of the winebar where I almost always without fault begin my ethylated journeys or when I least suspect, the terminus nearly irrevocable of these stopovers at cliffs, abysses, jeux de cognac et white killer vodka, one shot après un autre in the city centre, me here, null et naked, without nez or net, avec these tits already drooping to my belly, God suddenly controlling my destiny and the result is I’m as voluminous as a grosse elefant, but never no did I abandon my necessary and irreplaceable vices in exchange for some aesthetic foolishness or whim, like my unhinged drinking of every possible alcoholic breuvage or that other sea—the boy, the boy with a Medean and essential fury. And—deplorable j’admets—my honed and meticulous irritation with the oldguy as if he’d said to me, what a hunk of trash, that I’d keep on living after he’d gone, but with his obstinate vengeance that turns me, day by day, into the biggest dollyface, the biggest bit of trash in Guaratuba, and at first I suffered fron the death of things, the weight, the flabby tits, and la death du oldguy grinding irremediably on and on puts a pall on everything, that scandalous frontsman who only with moi et with mon aide can keep in front and then only insofar as I am capable. The oldguy parti, I couldn’t tell ass from teakettle. The deep truth is that we always needed each other and if death for him was but pain, for us too it was unbefitting—him dead, and our monstrosity’d be lit up alone, and if we were to die before its final construction, it wouldn’t hold between such sudden collapses, et that drool, yet—testament absolu to his regression to l’origine of time. Dollyface, yes that’s me—I want to yell my lungs out, my breath suffocated by the vagues of that sea, I’m mute and null but for the weight of my deflagrated corps, frappé par les waves, and I spot the lightning and bestial fury of the thundering thunderstorm, the fervent boiling of the sea, sky of sinister flashes. It’s like orgasm, your body struck and thunderstruck by sweltering breezes in these waters of augeries and oceans, I wailed for him, for the boy, drunken and all in goosebumps, that I might possess him more than he did me, all the waves and tout the dollyface désir for sun—semen and water, weddings and dusk, I’d hold him like a giant mère and immense Macunaiman madonna, indian, pajé-prophet, tupã, me and my tellement crazy glitterings given that, with him, l’ecstase was emphatically recaptivated par l’amour of the sea, rag dollyish, gone straight to the head, moi the dollface dolly of this beachtown, spew it for you, may your seventeen years clobber me, you born with your face to the sun, mane and bareback rider, péché et pompe, your thighs and muscles, green glint in your eyes, the serpent, le serpent, the viper. No one catches sight of us in flagrante in this enchantment of sexe on sex, decrepitage versus the jubilant dark blood of those who are, every one, at this very moment, being born into the terrestrial profession, moved even if only by the conflagration of their adolescence of deaths and deception. Demain I’ll sing a dollyface chanson of harpies sad as is the wee glint of eternity if in the sea all grieving I am the souveraine madame of the boy—near his skin turned worn oyster by the sooty smear of time and of les jours under the acid bleu of these scalded skies, now full of rain as they bawl all over the beach resort and salvage us from what might be the tragedy of having no guarantee of surviving such a thirst. The water burns and I, into the sea, go drunken like those shipwrecked bottles bobbing with a message inside.

All I know and barely is that this living wears on us and I hold out the oldguy as the most exact confirmation of this sad fate, achy, this earth burdened by evil and karma, our earth made of unhappiness and fright, golden earth charred by anguish and the evil hour, this here and now that almost makes me die, at each bone of day or at the tailend of the minute and its needled seconds. There’s no flourishing in this achy vallée achy de achy teardrop achy. I piss the panic of life into the clock, through all the clocks that life walks past and walks and walks and walks et surtout wears away. Achy. L’oldie, even moreso than the boy, is guilty. Eighty-five years, on top of everything else I’ve not mentioned de his existence ever sordide et fragile. Now that he’s not going to exist, will no longer existir, J’imagine myself with a pain of birth and mother, the pain that aches with the sole fact of continuing to live—as if I had no right to such a huge privilege. Our world, I realize, our world is achy and pulls right through hell those threads where I will pass the aguyje encounter, aguyje so magic aguyje of our new rencontres yet another time. Who know then I’ll sleep mboiraĩhu, mboiraĩhu—silente et unruffled in the throne of the lap of the oldguy, like a dove teenytiny and fleeting. No, achy, non, achy. This can sometimes be what is unbearable. From aguyje to aguyje all I’ll allow myself is the simple contact of my flesh with the waters of the sea—tupã and not the karai of flamme that tournes us, again and again, into explicable ashes.