Empire of Dreams

by Braschi,Giannina

  Let’s see. Everything that is made up. Look at the busybody and the knave, at the cistern and the army ant. The ant’s kingdom seems to me like a soccer player. And like a porcupine. And a cistern. The child who cannot heave her heart into her mouth. Explodes. Explodes in a different way. She has a cherry that looks like a heart. It’s not a heart, of course. It doesn’t listen, doesn’t hide. It blasts. And blares. Like a trumpet. It makes a curious, queer sound. But what a jumbo ear. It looks like mine. I have an elephant’s ear. And a dunce cap. I won’t leave anything empty. There’s a hole here. It’s not deep, it’s not a bucket, and it’s not a well. There’s a wound too. And it’s not an ear. I spoke of the eye placed above my nose. And above is my forehead, and my hair too. The ear is a lie detector. The mouth is so big and so small. And what about the tongue. Even the ant has a tongue. And the little earthworm is red. No one walks as wrinkled as a caterpillar. It’s a pity that a dancing serpent doesn’t amount to much. I prefer a snake a thousand-fold because it has fangs. Sneaky dog. Just like a fox. Don’t hide the flower. Be the hidden serpent. Stick out your tongue. Make a face at me. Porcupine. You rhinoceros. I have yet to meow. It’s not enough to speak.

  Everything keeps changing on us. Suddenly, a heart appears. I see it, watch it. And see it’s not round. It has no blood. It has a pulse and a star. It has everything I want you to be. I want nothing, except what I want. And I want the heart of the boat. I like the boat because it’s wide. Because both of us, the ant and the thunder, fit inside. Let lighting explode. And let an egg appear. And let the sunset spill over. It’s the yolk, the yellowest part of the heart. It’s thick. It’s like a boat. It reminds me of a white cloud in the shape of an old man. It’s like an old man in the shape of a star or lightning. It’s a monkey, a chimpanzee. An acorn hiding a cloud. And the cloud will give birth to rain. And, of course, to the acorn and man. And man isn’t a boat, isn’t an oak, isn’t sun or star or lightning. Although the white beard will always be a blue cloud and have stars, it will also be the blue beard or the rain, and when it rains it will never be lightning or thunder. It will suddenly be the heart.

  Everything is yellow because everything is red because it has lightning and puppies and because it has a sky, a stork, and a penguin. Everything is black because it’s yellow because the cloud bursts and because rain falls because you laugh and because you lust and groan and own a violin and a trumpet and a king and a crown and a prince and a courtier and a harlot and a bastard and a water boy and a tit and dick and a nose and a mouth and a tongue and a day and a ray of sunshine and a cold night and a rascal and a knave and a waif and a brat and a scrag and a goalie and a fried egg and a pygmy and a tapster and a preacher and a king and a smile and a happy face and a world full of joy. Everything is yellow and everything is noisy because it’s silence and it’s orgy and because it’s lightning and morning and sunrise and fall and spring and summer and squall.

  The world is a billiard ball. It’s the egg and the yolk, and it’s the reign of the pawn and the court of the king. The world is the courtier and the harlot and the bastard and the pygmy and the grasshopper and the butterfly and the river and the morning. This town crier and the mother with her puppy and the brewer and that town crier and one moment please and do-re-mi-fa-so and a chorus of ghosts and the song of the nightingale and the miss and the mister and yesterday and today and whatever lies ahead. And a fuckit and a dammit and a dwarf and a giant and a tit and a dick and a lip and a nose and an apple and a hand and a leg and two ears and my mouth and my tooth and tongue.

  This is different. Here is a question. Here is a sky. An ostrich. A corpse. The world is round. Eyes are round. Round is the busybody, and round is the knave. Round is the ostrich egg. Round is the millet grain. Round is the soccer ball. Round is the sun’s yolk. Round is the bastard’s insult. Round is the brewer’s malt. Round is the drunkard’s tavern. Round is the waif, and round is the rascal too. Round is the whore. Man is so round, and so round is the sky that seems like a bunny and seems like a ball. Seems like a fried egg and seems like a dead dog barking at the infinite. It’s an aniseed. It’s the prophet of centuries, and it’s the centaur too. It’s a boy galloping on horseback. It’s the king of infinite space. It’s the round egg.

  Eggs are months and days too. The roundest day is an egg. The tip of your nose looks like an egg. And mouth is egg. And tongues suck eggs. And balls too. And apples lay eggs. And seeds too. And roots are eggs. And seas too. The sky. The puppy. And the stepmother is an egg. Fried chicken is egg. And fire is egg. And what is rotten is egg. The plague plagues like eggs. And life tastes like eggs. A boy is an egg, a fried chicken. His mother is a hen. And his stepfather, a cock. If cock plus hen equals ostrich egg, then cock equals cuckold. And crest equals cock. The snail hides his head in an eggshell. I need a house like the head of a cock. I need a hood and a hut and a shack and a shanty and a shell where I can incubate all the eggs of the world. The world is a fried egg. And a rotten egg too. And it’s yolk. And it’s piss. And it’s the world because it smells and lives within the egg and the day tastes like an egg and even a star is somewhat like an egg. And I am egg and always will be, and we are eggs and always will be. Fried eggs. Or rotten eggs. Boiled eggs. Or scrambled eggs. Poached eggs. Or round eggs. Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.

  Listen how they fly, they seem, seem, they are, are, and they are not, and they are, are sexes and beings and they are, are the same, a bird, a thunder, a storm. And they are, look, there they are, in the sky, in the jungle, at home, on earth, in death, in life. And they fly and revive, they are born and they sleep, they awaken, with wings, and they walk and bark and growl, and they get angry and lose patience and make up, or they go and get drunk or look or laugh or walk. And they are frightened and furious, or they get undressed, and love, and sex, and sexes, and creatures and men and beasts and males and females. A sex, an adventure, and a monkey or a zebra, and a day or a bonfire, and a wound or a death.

  The world is invaded by sexes and beings. The world is an orgy of pleasure. The world is robust and healthy, and fat, fat are the males and females, the zebras and ducks. Animals are pregnant with sexes, and women are milking their sexes and tits and breasts and bushes and springs and fountains and forests and groves and growls and meows and howls and bells and sex, and sex is trembling from pleasure and orgasm. Everything is orgasm and bacchanal and orgy. Ape and apple, rhinoceros and pear, jungle, crossbow, wild boar and unicorn, and trumpet, and rifle and ray and rainbow, and sea, and sun and moon, and the primitive dance of SEX.

  The world is a blank. It’s a slate or a chalk. It’s a snake. Or it’s the ostrich. Or the iguana. Or heaven. Or Mont Blanc. Or the sun that looks like a zebra. It’s a great big Z. It’s a giant giraffe. It’s the word and it explodes. Bursts. It’s not the mountain. It’s not hope. There is an X that doesn’t multiply. There is a zebra with stripes. (=), no, it isn’t =. It’s minus X or it’s minus Zebra. And the Z is a hat. And there’s a kangaroo that curses. A nasty word, really nasty. I prefer lies. To lie is to laugh. To curse is to spit. I feel the saliva. It’s the zebra element multiplied in a swamp. It produces a panther. A Bengal tiger. Or a leopard. Yellow. Orange. Brown. Or white. Somewhat ferocious. Fierce means wrinkling your nose. And shockin’em. Shakin’em up. And laughing. And making faces. And scarin’em. Sticking out your tongue. Really long. A gag. A funny face. A sharpener.

  The world is a dollhouse. A purse full of surprises. A lock. A prisoner. A princess. An animal. A savage cry. And a flower, or a mushroom. An aniseed. A brave, brave wave rises like a flock of sheep. And it’s an army, and it’s a war, and a cook, and a barber. It rises seething and mad like a poisonous snake, like a rabid sow, and it’s a poor puppy or a calf. The cow looks like a tit. Muscles or veins are snakes or whales. The kangaroo is in a hurry. A hurry-scurry. The hyena’s little kid looks like a flying ant. And the car stops. And the singer does her makeup and gets dressed. The policeman speaks. And the witch goes into the cauldron. She has many tails, many eyes, many
ears, many noses. You stink like a slimy tadpole, you jackass, jerkoff, lizard. Don’t insult him yet. We’re at the beginning of the month. And we still have a year to go. Being born, that’s as easy as laying an egg. The hard part is mating and growing.

  I’ve just turned life into a proverb. I’ve just killed it. So that I may advise you. Mind your own business. Hatch eggs and bear pups. Hang out in bars and get drunk. Walk backward and you’ll regret it, you’ll really regret it. Don’t stop at corners, stop midway. Men are better off when they’re done with their booze and whores. Then they cry. And horses neigh. Dogs bark. And the moon vacations in Alaska. Snow is not white. A rainbow is blasphemy writ large. Twilights never last until dawn. Least of all today. There is an eclipse. The great bear left my city. I’ve just turned myself into a proverb with the stars. A meteor banished me from life. Beware. Night is falling. Be careful, walk on the shady side. A man is not a man until he makes ten mistakes. Then he starts walking and falls. He looks in a mirror and finds himself handsome. Then he discovers that he has ears. And listens. Sometimes he talks. Something worries him. And he knits his brows. Then he gets angry. And shouts. He goes on walking and doesn’t arrive, doesn’t arrive. He never arrives and returns. Life loves him. The sun warms him, burns him. Man yells. It’s life. It’s pain. Just a moment. Walk in the shade. Man was stitching hope. The green thread broke. Well, where is it? Did it show up? Where did it go? It’s not my problem. I don’t care. Don’t hatch eggs. Get ready. Learn. Grow. Understand. Understand. And die.

  This is the Child Mother of the circus and the earth and the penguin and the big snouts and the flowers and the child whose belly is full of earthworms and lizards and pigtails and lions and panthers and pandas and elephants. The Child Mother had such beautiful children. I bore the earth ten times and the sun twenty more. I bore knaves, barrels, and wine casks. I bore oil and vinegar. And I bore the hot and the cold. She grew like hens. And chirped liked baby birds. And was the ugly duckling. And was the black swan too. The Child Mother is giving birth. Out in the street. Throwing pots, pans, bowls, barrels, and junk on the ground. I throw everything on the ground. I want to feel the noise. I want to smash everything. Blow everything to smithereens. Detonate the machinery of the universe.

  I bore it because I had to vomit it all. And I had to piss. I bore it on the ground, in the mud, with my fingernails filled with dirt. And I caught a whiff of urine, and felt that mud and dirt were inside my belly. And my belly button was a well and there was a huge cavern inside and a child walked naked amidst the storm. And I was naked and newly born. And I yelled—screamed and laughed and pissed and wailed. Then there was a wave of dirt. Everything was full of mud and everything was pure and had lice and ticks and bedbugs and middays and peaches and ashes. And peaches and moles were clay. And the bastard and the whore had slaps and had leopards and pomegranates. And I bore it. I wanted to bear it and my belly had ducks and hens. I didn’t think I could bear it. That’s why I puked. And spat. And screamed. And laughed. And slept. And rose. And I was thirsty. And needed bonfires. And needed diapers. And mothers. I had to bear it. And that’s why I pissed. And danced. And gathered the shards of the world and threw them even harder against the ground, and heard them fall. And I exploded. Exploded. Exploded.

  I haven’t finished saying it, and I haven’t finished living, or spitting, or pissing either. A knickknack could be full of me, but if it lacks some little tick or tack, it won’t be a knickknack. And so the train moves on the rails of my clutter. And there aren’t any diapers or kerchiefs that are umbrellas, that can suddenly stop a rainbow. And sometimes a fire kindles without the rubbing of two stones. And sometimes it starts without the striking of a match. And other times I find myself alone again, thinking. Never fall in love. Never cry. Piss. And burst. Look underneath the world. Look underneath things. Look at the surface of the lake. Look at the mirror and its reflection. And look at the sun. The meteor. The sky. The puppies. The moon. The she-duck. The he-goat. Wake up naked. Get dressed and undressed. And look. Look a lot. And drink a lot. And if you can fall asleep, sleep. And wake up. And forget it. Forget it. And remember it. And don’t remember and don’t forget it. And look at mountains too. And bark like a dog. And become a dog. And stork and snail and fire and keep things inside you, and keep the sun in mind, and the stars too, and the swings and the seesaws will help you go up and will help you go down too. And up and down.

  After morning comes afternoon. And after that the sun sets. The sun sets. And night arrives. And there is a waning moon or a full moon. There are people too, males and females. There are penguins and wineskins and puppies and torrential rains and wise men and fools. There are books, and there are Psalms, and there are Proverbs. There are fishwives who shout. Shout. Shout. They sell dirty pots. And sell reheated soups. And there are wounds. And there are wars. And fireworks. And noises. And men sleep and work. And women sleep. And work. There are trades. Poet. Water boy. Lawyer. Doctor. There are carnivals. Ant there are holidays. There are duels. The duel of the viscount and the abbot. Of water and wine. Of salt and pepper. And of oil and vinegar. There is a river. And there is the bitter sea. And there is black grief. And Solitude is a character. And night is the color of mourning. And morning the color of happiness. And there are giraffes and skyscrapers. And loudspeakers and policemen and elephants. And every night an old man dies. And by dawn a puppy is born. And a grain of sun and an aniseed and a new century. And it so happens that Fridays end. And Saturdays arrive. And Sundays are for going with Papa to the merry-go-round.

  I speak of the foolish world and the wise world. And I speak of its mountains and its lakes. I speak of its landscapes and its paintings. Of Rembrandt. Of Brueghel. And of Van Gogh. I also speak of Rimbaud. And of Shakespeare. And of Goethe. And of Dostoevsky and Lorca and Pound and Artaud. I speak of Plato’s daimon. And I speak from Proverbs and Psalms and Prophesies. I speak from Nietzsche. And from Shakespeare. And I speak of the old man and the boy. And I speak from the grain of sun and from the grain of wheat. And I speak with beggars. With blind men. And with paralytics. And knaves. And jesters. And murderers. And monkeys. And chimpanzees. I speak with idiots. And wise men. And I speak with princes. And courtiers. And lawyers. And misanthropes. And I speak with Molière. And I speak with Rabelais. And I speak with food. In my mouth. And above all with banquets. And with the multiplication of bread and fish. And with astronauts. And horoscopes. And fame. And immortality. I speak with the moment. With my eyes open and with my eyes closed. And I always speak of life. And I always speak of death. And I always speak of the wheel of fortune. And I always speak of mankind. And I always speak of life.

  I speak and will speak of the world. Of Leonardo da Vinci’s circle of man. And I speak with Michelangelo’s sculptures. And I speak of Beethoven and of Goya’s black paintings. I speak of Picasso’s blue period. And I speak of Guernica. And of the fat women of Rubens. And I speak of drink and of Dionysus and the fauns and the horns of plenty and the fat cows and the lean cows. From the Bible I choose the Book of Job. The Book of Psalms and the Proverbs. And of the wise men I choose Solomon. And of the prostitutes I choose the whore who sells herself on street corners. And I speak of knaves and of King Lear’s fool. I speak of the egg. And of life. I speak of love. And I speak of kindness. And of evil. And I speak of Mephistopheles. And of Satan. And of earthly hell. And of pantheists. And of Deists. And of the Holy Trinity. And of trilogies. And of twins. And of belly buttons. And of earthworms. And of Lombardy. And of hotheads. And of bellies. And of pandas. And of bedbugs. And of roaches. And of human misery. And of human comedy. And of tragedy. And of epics. And of heroes. And of those who died in war. And of tailors. And of boilers. And of nurses. Of cancer, leprosy, and the plague. And of disease. And of death. And of life.

  It’s not this or that. But I can’t explain it. Here is the boy with curly hair. Golden locks. With red eyes. And red lips. Small feet. Bare slippers. The minuet. Harlequins, the trumpeter and his nose. Barrels in the wine cellar. Gr
ay sky. The seagull looks like an earthworm. It moves and moves, the sky moves. It moves and moves, the sea moves. It moves and moves, the boy moves. Planes move. Castanets too. And chestnuts crack open. The knave insults the busybody. Just a moment, please. I am the drunkard. What the hell do I care. The bartender looks at him while serving him a beer. It’s the tavern. It’s the dollhouse. It’s the world. It moves and moves, the world moves. Where is the exit? Where the bridge? Where the highway? Where the port? Where the seagull? Where the car? Where the music? I the boy with golden locks. I the telescope lens. I the looking glass. I the EXIT. I the silence. I the outlet. I the door. I death. Wake up. Wake up. It’s late. Wake up. The train. The railroad station. Life. Death. The driver. The road. The river. The bicycle. Death. Life.