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Literature feat. Music Illustration: Alejandro Cuervo

The musical car

In memory of Raimundo Valenzuela 

and their carnival orchestras


Not the car with the fire covered, here the sound.

Valenzuela has watered twelve orchestras at the Park

Central. A plethora of Phrygian lanterns, caressing kiosks

of blue flannel, changeable tears of Compostela.


They jump out of the nap and get their waists ready,

to fly with the habanero impulses of the flute.

The flute is the string that follows the waist in the dream.

The waist is the flute uncovered by wasps.


Like a general buries his big voice and gives away cigars

at the sentry boxes, Valenzuela was walking the zodiacal marks.

Each star taught his orchestra at a table

casino, Valenzuela populated them with sugar.


Sugar with thorough blood, grapefruit with cinnamon warped,

lapis lazuli sugar, his frock coat did not need taffeta,

did not warn by jumping out of his car, he loitered in music commands.


He stopped with the pipers, with the ash-ironers.

At the end of the day, the secret key, the offers, was rendered.

They were showing him a sample of a pair of centifold pants,

with the cloth in his ear, he recognized the unfinished hand.


Frogface, the Governor, Segismundo the cowboy,

they entered the bailete with goat's buttocks,

with twisted key chains chewed by dogs.

A candle, a bullet, and a mask, gave the moon in the nets.


Around the Central Park, the twelve orchestras

of Valenzuela. Four under four trees.

Another four in the compostelan hall of tears.

Three at snorted corners. One, in the one of San Rafael.


Already said the suffocation, the ember that illuminates the reeds,

the sucker in the skin of a river badly entered,

juvenile rib with taffeta funeral bands.

He woke up, jumped into another orchestra, as if on a trapeze.


Between her dawn and sleep, the orchestra like a majá.

What he says is written in a column that rings.

The column that each man carries to fish in the river.

Ay, the marrow with a lightning flash aljofarado, also aljamiado.


When an orchestra is turned off, the reinforcement ribs arrive.

He gives the key to the other sound pyramid.

On top of a banana tree, a pheasant. A star

in the corner of a handkerchief given to her by White's dear one.


The dragon, the bowler shout the drowned tiles,

that like a mortar rubs the pineapple's creations.

The bugle sets the lollipop bees galloping,

melt when the oboe plays them with its fur tip.


The party-goer, a fifteen-year-old of terror, pulled back the sheets,

the trinchante corchea sweats it, wolf of foam.

Like when a seagull followed a seagull on the beach embankment.

He came out of the dream and the coal whistle swung him over the sea.


The spinning top that sugars it, is the one that soaks it,

is still incongruous to take his column to the river.

Look at the haunch and it is confused with the horse's haunch.

The frogs' legs interrogate him like the vegetable king.


They take him by the hand to lead him into the orchestral tromba,

but it cries. The thunderstorm is an ice floe where the child pulls the tail

of the plutonic salamander, then it covers him

eyes with river stones, with holed stones.


Look, look, and it's swept away by a stumble;

touches, touches and an antruejo fills it with water.

Grunt as a pang received in the indentation of the mirror,

When he is about to hit, a laugh ties him up with his corkscrew.


Like a candle carried in a car,

Valenzuela restores the wet numbers.

A winged mask now transports him to the tears of Santiago de Compostela,

and with the rhythm, which is imposed on it dark, it removes stones from the blood.


He is discovering the eyes that go numb for him

the skin that sweats to break the lizard's roughness

that looks down from the stones of a century fallen from the planet.

The lizard that separates the stones trodden by a horse with tetanus.


The car with the candle fanned the marble cushion,

then the hand that took him from the whirlpool to the cloud.

He went from the dream to the whirlpool, from the whirlpool to the river,

where the king's otter washed the Egyptian diapers.


Wet numbers is not an allusion to the Pythagorean odd,

but ran to a doorway when the wetness arrived.

When he stomped on the mask, it was the end of the river.

She bled naked on a circus horse.


The horse lent him a staff of corn and hedgehog,

the horse was pushing it with its legs, like a bandurria

rotating is the beginning of Clown Sunday,

green and black, chinese ceramic, historicized by the tightrope walker.


Here the man before he died did not have to exercise himself in music,

nor the shadows advise the rhythm when descending to hell.

The germ was already bringing the measures of the breeze,

and the shadows fled, the number was told by the light.


The dawn brightened the taffeta of Valenzuela's coat.

The couple was now inside the car giving away the Pythagorean warnings,

the candle also inside the car swam the undulations of sleep,

governed by the courteous tricorn of the Havana flute.


The couple reigned in the naturalizing supernatural,

had emerged from sleep and remained in the Orplid of recognition.

Cigarette butts, dead leaves, spittle, feathers, are the flow.

If in the flow they put an inflated finger in the belly of the mojadita.


After four seasons, they were no longer going to the whirlpool test.

The ballroom was part of the supernatural derived.

To dance is to find the unity formed by the living and the dead.

The one who dances the most, plays chess with the blond Radamanto.


On the back of the star bear the constellation of pipers,

but the habanera flute abbreviated the taffeta ribbons.

It is the same car, inside a noble mulatto.

Long salute, in the fire, to the melting ledge.


* This poem is part of Giver. Private edition. Impresores Úcar, García, S.A, Havana, 1960.

José Lezama Lima More posts

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