In the solitary dawn
through drifting secondhand smoke
and sidewalks sticky with spit
I go out walking
to escape the nocturnal silence of my own room
seeking bright lights
oh, those neon friends who always ward off
my internal wolves
my hungry demons
(my Vallejo ancestors).
I go in search of something
losing myself in the narrow streets round the harbor
looking for company,
oh, the sweet drugs that since Baudelaire
have run along the gutters of cities at nighttime
—London, Paris, New York, Madrid—
oh, the unknown flesh that stirs, aroused by a look.
Finally I find it: some sleazy joint that’s still open
a prison cell of solitary pleasures
a peep show hidden between the trees:
a bookstore open all night
where I can wallow among the books
luxuriate in other people’s verses
and finally reach orgasm
with one of Allen Ginsberg’s self-destructive poems.
Sunday morning with this poem, “Saturday Night”, by Cristina Peri Rossi, found translated in a great interview with Rossi from 2009 on the @bombmag website. I’ve put the link up top for anyone interested in learning more about this Uruguayan novelist and poet who ended up exiled in 1975 and now lives in Barcelona. I’m having trouble finding many interviews in English - If you come across one, I’d be grateful if you sent it my way!