The Creation

book 1
Mauricio Otero
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Pintura de Jacson PollockHe did not notice

but all possible worlds

in impossible space

slid down his body;

his unconscious imagination

expanded full of light

bathing all the probable.

He without being He,

did not come to understand

his supreme rights;

his jungles of wild beings,

divinities that would take his place;

his casual crestomaty

sipping at the springs of

universal equality.

However, there were those who believed

his logorrhea, and painted their spatial bodies

in ethereal music.

It was the lyre strummed by the Cosmogonist

at the hour of astral dawn:

You, magic bard, do not stop musicking

the cosmos!

ask all the flourishing metagalactic beings.

Look at them, they are swimming there in the


of first and last heaven.

Pintura de Omar GaticaWarm gentleness of unisons

dreams painted in elemental healing.

Small imaginers of the imaginary

spatial beauties in each amorous tone.

He used to walk

through the garden of the cosmos

with the Absolute Aurora crowning his head;

he went about watering

the flowers of the universal Soul

with light;

here, there the stars exploded silently


the wake of his Consciousness beyond Consciousness

was the Science of the sciences;

all star-like, all made God and light

as his bare feet.

It was the dream of Man

it was the cosmic Man made dream,

so that all could dream,


good and evil,

further, being and becoming

Dawn around the head,

dusk at the feet;

and the Spirit shivering in his labile hands.


There in space

the Being of beings

inseminates the early morning

and all his luminescence keeps dancing

in all the magnitude of the stars

he has scattered

When God was the Nothing

he was hopelessly atheistic

he could not believe it when he exploded:

when he saw his metagalactic semen

becoming stars and crossing

all frontiers,

however, he smiled;

and began to spread

his body


the enigma

since then he keeps

swelling eggs

that drop from the depths

of his not-being

Today, now unconscious,

now denied to himself

his children perpetuate themselves

in the closest stars

that are to Him the furthest

Let us return to find ourselves,

cosmogeny, beloved:

the first and only orgasm

still beats in my body and I still

remember and it lasts in me

- says God...

No, it's not possible now

we've both been very far

we have gone beyond the stellar limits

and you are in the secret of the Nothing,

meanwhile galaxies drip from my broken hymen

and, no, the bubbles of my breasts,

have not forgotten your kisses,

Pintura de Basquiatbut they have been dispersed in your first breath,

replies the cosmogony,

leaving the Creator


Now God, nature overturned,

wanders staggering

from universe to universe;

he goes about leaving pools of light in his wake

crying - falling - sobbing

all his blessed



He wants to go home, the epicycle

of the Cosmos,

to rock

in the sad arms of his old lover,


He did not remember his dream;

while sleeping

starry tropical vapours

came from his mouth

that seemed a dream:

it was the beginning

of God

of ourselves

of dancing totality.

Pintura de Isabel Aranda *Yto*The big bang?

it was his luminous ejaculation,

the Astral Dawn in which

the Creator, naked in the forest of

his Soul

flew about

and came back to rub himself laughing

the sweet lemon of the gracious Dawn...

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