The Creation

book 1
Mauricio Otero
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Pintura de Isabel Aranda *Yto*When I woke, for a moment

I was driven to drink at the source

of my beloved cosmogeny,

right between her legs,

caressed by her hands;

it was then that I realized

that it was my desire to be reborn

which asked me to keep drinking,

in all the metagalactic field

of my imagination.

Then far faraway I threw

the crown of lightning holes

when I saw how the cosmogony distilled

its love through the infinite!

that was opening its palpitating eyes,

then the beloved cried with pleasure

So from every tear of its eternity

silvered stars were made!

Because they must become eternal

to seed the cosmic vaginas

with melancholy, starry.

To bathe the dreams of

humans, over there below that space...

So the Universe's own collective imagination

has to cross all the frontiers

of cosmohomogenesis,

and the Sons of the sons of the sons

will go away crying with joy.

The interstellar dust will be scattered

and nobody will be nobody ever,

so now we won't be disintegrated,

everyone will be One Alone

in the Spatial Zone.

It was finally the dreaming without dreaming;

I was waking into joy,

everything had become New

to Live! to live! to live!...

Pintura de Isabel Aranda *Yto*Looking into the cosmic mirror

you could see an eternal image

even if you stopped looking.


The silence... and suddenly commotion!

and again the silence of the nothing;

so that as if for relief

we would awake from the dream

of not having been, and again we would be

sobbing, shivering through the brotherhood.

All beings from all worlds and even

those which are not yet,

all sobbing in the birth

of the cosmogeny:

the memory of the infinovule fertilized in a

constellation by one of the lost

spermatocosmos voyagers,

and the certainty of being and becoming here and now

for ever and ever, eternally looking backwards

and forwards to the unfathomability of the future

of the future, always...

Pintura de Isabel Aranda *Yto*The space of space had to expand,

to give way to new matter

and energy had to tell us its atomic discourse,

amongst the blue bells sprinkled with natural emotion,

in the part of the centre of no parts

of the bubbling universes,

pronouncers of chaos and of the shadows of my being,

that refuses the nothing but

devolving into a corner

of a metagalaxy, seized by the breasts

of the sameness of forever, the first mother of

the mothers of nature,

who watches herself absorbed in the sea number zero

of the foreseen cosmology.


Cosmogony is a bubble

that plays around my body:

she embraces me in rage and strokes

my back and shoulders, and

sleeps in my breast.

Pintura digital de Isabel Aranda *Yto*Then, watching her full eyes

(that shiver)

I kiss her breasts and

leave a light buzzing forgotten

in her eternal pubis,

that breathes our love

of sex.

Ah, inflated ego of primitive passion!

Ah, relief for those who find themselves


I remember the future

the dead stars on the way

they know nothing of yesterday,

but nevertheless they travel on

leaving the tracks of their sad light.

When I was not I

that was before the before of the first of the first before

I travelled from universe to universe, from one

embrace to another,

and swimming over the swimming in the midst

of the stellar ocean:

my body not body left its marks on

the beaches of my being

and my now dry breath was seeded from childhoods

with a sprinkling of vocal dust.

But when my heart had left my heart

and beat after beat had forgotten to laugh

the galaxies collided, intertwined and

orgasmed milk and all moistness

in the first meeting

in the far, far, far away, that I abandon.

But I return to love, like a naked child

facing the cosmography,

blue with dreams and white with hope.

So I have cleared my conscience and returned to birth

but this time when my eyes opened I did not cry.

I was not blinking, absent-minded like the orphans

of the rosy womb, and with the celestial laurels of

universal cosmovision - sweet vice

of wanting to have it all, All Again.

Because they will come to drink the quasars

mounted on the horses of the floating night

sipping it as if this galactic world was a

stranger showing himself,

(cellophane happily sad).

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