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        A READING OF CONRAD AIKEN

Maybe I don't love anyone in particular, she said
looking through the glass
(Poetry just doesn't do it forme anymore) —What?
His friend raised her eyebrows     My poetry
(Garbage)     That void I feel after an
orgasm     (Damn it, if I keep writing this
I'll really feel it)     Cock erect
while Pain is building     (She dressed
quickly: red silk stockings)     A jazzed up
air, a way of speaking      (I improvise,
therefore I am, what was that guy's name?)
Descartes     Garbage     (It's so cloudy, she said
looking up)     If you could see
your own smile     Anonymous saints
Names without meaning

autógrafo
Roberto Bolaño
Translation from Laura Healy


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