Gabriela PACHIA



The dark-green-slate-blue would serenely melodise,

though, without a license, can’t ever beget iridescent Paradise.

The ivy strains itself… Theoretically, it won’t hurt !

Like most strangling spirals – a heavy-climbing spurt –,

it looks with a jaundiced eye, sticks another coiling leaf-placard…

“Upon my word ! This airheaded tree has got some pure leaf lard !”

It looks outside – nobody’s around – it bites dilatorily

the harlequin maple corymbs, almost coriaceously,

the anthumous, the posthumous toils of kites, comets,

conquests, walling and fencing, nostalgias, favour diets…

It looks inside, with hyaline creeps – most pleasing –

saffron, laserwort roots, lunatic enchantresses bemusing,

widow pansies levitate among locks of truth,

the mural bioethanol fireplace sighs with uncouth ruth…

The first symptoms show up : the henbane flowers lionise,

the red-yellow-blue lupin spikes and beans overdramatise,

the dragonheads turn blue and faint, immunity decays

in hawsers, consanguinity misplays, official tearaways

lacerate the skyline musicality, durabilities stagger, the alterity

of life’s perennial murmur, psychalgias spill abracadabrability…

At first a mere gastralgia, a carousal, then an ideational icterus,

some eratic-pneumatic loathing of Pericarpathian impetus,

the dromedaries of the cardinal points get ozonised,

petty sublingual ultra-Western delights swarm tantalised,

academic polenta balls, gold digital dumplings pullulate,

the garrulous free radicals thoughtlessly recede and fibrillate –

a hairy hydra, the female homeopath gulps chlorophyllic peaks,

urushiol obliterates sapiential menisci, the stiffest obelisks…


An audacious branch obstructs its way – the ivy’s coriolic –,

ruby valleys groan in its sapping embracement, so vitriolic…

To this most bucolic end, all senses phreatically march…


Away, viridian snake, lest you wreck my lines in triumphal arch… !


English version by Gabriela PACHIA


Move and Win !


The abyss moves and wins !

Viruses spurn the frescoes of your soul,

werewolves embolden them with feldspar women –

scrumple it up hotfoot and throw it

to the recycling bin –

the superhighway frets over supreme telematic worries…


The bile moves and wins !

Viruses spurn the dopamine of your visions –

whirlwind amorous glances substitute for sublime vertigoes,

holy days abort their primordial wombs,

men thrust themselves into the transitoriness of history,

dressed up in stout suits of green gold armour…


The edges move and win !

Viruses spurn your honey rhododendron,

your pureblood horses, your vulcanised twilight,

your gems, oblations, heavy cavalry visors, orthodoxy –

a size 12 Garamond love, bold, unjustified,

abhorringly smears your oneiric cherry eyelashes…


The North Node moves and wins !

Viruses spurn the undulations of your fields,

death dilates within your foggy files –

the anomic guide has led us straight to the museum

of the lonely people, by the rondeau of immaculateness…

Gravitation, covetous of evermore parables, is tight-lipped…


White moves and doesn’t win !

English version by Gabriela PACHIA