Poetry of Science Fiction

book 2
Mauricio Otero
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Pintura digital de Isabel Aranda * Yto*Before birth

I was dead

and I lived in this world of death

dreaming of the very life of the other dead people who existed there.

How not to die then?

For this I was born unexpectedly

from death into life!.


I sail in a city that sails

through the skies

I left behind every landscape and every other city

and was opened to the space oceans

Freed from prejudice and dogma


Time hurled cities at me

which dropped

on my


seas of buildings arrived

vacant and miserable

I ended up driving a Hotel

down a sidereal highway

- where the men were going

I knew not

nor nobody

in the nothing

spasmodic solitude


The buildings are walking over the clouds

they swim

in the sea of the sadness of being

- the forgetting of birth and dying


Pintura de Roberto MattaI see diamond trees

bathed in a drizzle of light.

  • chlorophyll helps the evanescence of my dream
  • of another world,

O, ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.


Ah, sea of stars!

The future love will fish for libidinous


that make it rain

in the curved universe of your mouth!.

But now, scared without you

to be in blessed heaven

Ah, sky draped in sadness!

But what happens

it comes already,

death again

even though this time it will die

in the warm tide of your white breasts

and we will be infinite singing heavenly praise

in the unlimited space of our Love!.


I was born on a day when the skies were sailing beneath my feet. Someone was attaching them to the memory of a better time. And it was the birth too of the purple seas, which came and went through all feelings (without anyone but me feeling them)


The sea is not the sea, it is the sky:
stairways of frozen sea in space

there, where I am not I

and the world is now not the world-;

black starry amazement, b





Ah! The nothing


Fire rains in the




has gone;

Pintura digital de Isabel Aranda * Yto*we are alone

now nothing calms us

everything makes us despair, so much, so much!

The sea is alight with rage,

and already black metal ravens are coming

To devour anxiety.

Battalions of demons are coming

infuriated skyscrapers

they whip the eyes of the last prophet,

the prophet of Despair:
he said one time: "Everything will die, even man."

And we can see what our fathers did not see:

The soul dying of Evil!

But Evil is the only thing that does not die

its eyes of earsplitting madness

make sparks leap from Burningland.

When they had to listen

nobody did

when they had to fight

nobody did

when they had to die

everyone died.

Now alone in the world

the antichrist of the rich

teaches his dreadful weapons.

Everything was consumed

while governments shouted "quiet, quiet!"

At the present moment, past of the future,

God should scream far far away, so that his shouts like astonishing arias reach no one.

The last prophet cried tears of dust,

Destroyer, tears of slow passing

What did he do and what did he stop doing to make the Underworld

kill the (now black) morning


The world's skyscrapers wander through the cosmos,

uninhibited and forgotten

we saw them raised

in the maddest urbanity

The infinite went with them

our loves

  • that now have no faces -.

Now, the dreams of ancient human beings

are poured on the shoulders of the universe

what was this thing about 'humans'?

We tried to make ourselves eternal

and that was our ending:

connected to the machines of space-time

but not light;

ourr memory was wiped

from the mother computer.

and we erased ourselves because

we wanted to continue being,

what we were suffering,

what was killing us endlessly.

The eternal life of our minds

Goes beyond all disinformation

from the lost world

What for?

to end up losing ourselves

in this new galaxy, void.


Pintura de Omar Gatica(Dream of rock,

spirit of the dream

mate with the fossilised vegetation of our feeling.

Waken the soul in the rocks

in our lichens


the not-death

of not-life

The landscape answers us

with the oscillations of the pendulum;

ah, blessings of becoming

Ah breast of change!

seeks my origin

beyond the disparate

mirror of the nothing

weeping of stones!

Sink my soul

in the calm night

of a super God the good-for nothing layabout of the ages

Demented genius of sin

sex of mountains and the deepest seas;

give us the burning clarity

of the lank faces of the angels;

let us see everything from

behind the spasm:

Eyes of the pubis

hands of the temples,

Squeezing the juicy fruit

(now wrinkled)

of the central heart of divinography.

Observe the beating of the natural

gesture and the catatonia of the healthy man

-both the same thing! -

"I" talk with buildings, language of gestures, attitudes of speech,

finally reunited,

so that the interplanetary cities will touch down,

on the tongue

(before, mortal,) not alive. So that men-trees bury the sky in so much accumulated sadness;

and between you and me the apparently silenced language of the flower

Spirit of the woods, incarnate yourself!

Nnnnnnnoisy men: sssshhh.sssshhhhh

hear how the natural elements talk

amongst themselves and tomynavel;grmmm, grmmm.;

get off your feet don't step on this life that saves me

(An Omphalos God saves me)

"when the buildings were extinguished

I was ready to be born,"
a fern with flowing green hair whispered to me.

(Is there anyone- listening- round here? Apart

from me-)

Let everything join together

and sing, sing

so loud that men shut up forever!

Pintura de Roberto Matta


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