Tag Archives: literature

Guerra de Elefantes (Elephant’s War).

21 Abr

A veces por las noches en Buenos Aires los elefantes salen a matar.

Las calles se cubren de sangre borroneada por las trompas filosas de esos animales. Las personas corren sin entender hacia donde van. Las avenidas se cierran en barricadas humanas.

Un hombre con altoparlante grita desaforado, nos persiguen, nos quieren matar por los años de injusticias y desazón.

En camionetas pick-up, soldados jóvenes miran desorbitados ojos unos a otros, con sus rifles en mano. Escuchan como sus jefes de escuadrón vociferan órdenes sinsentido.

–Atacar. A atacar que el soldado debe cumplir con sus órdenes. Sino no tendrán su ‘nuevo’ por día. Su ‘guevo’ por noche.

–Atacar a qué? –Ataquen al mamus que corre por la calle.

–Dejate de joder. Nos va a matar.

El elefante con sus ojos inyectados en sangre logra escapar a través de los bosques de Palermo. Cansado, parapeta sus pesadas partes a tomar agua del lago.

La escena dantesca ya no tiene freno alguno. La gente muerta descansa eterna en el asfalto de Buenos Aires y los soldados atan a sus jefes con tanzas de carnicero a la baranda de la pick-up.

–Atacar conchitumá.


Tocar aquí para ver el video.

Esto es un video experimental sobre la matanza de los mitológicos elefantes blancos. Una guerra milenaria entre el hombre y el elefante.

Touch here to watch this video.

This is an experimental video about the killing of the mythological white elephants. A millennial war between man and elephant.




30 Dic

40-bis (El mismo cuento en español)


Malbrough is going to war

Mironton ton to mirontaine

Malbrough is going to war

Doesn’t know when he’ll come back

–He’ll come back for Easter

Mironton ton ton mirontaine

He’ll come back for Easter

Or for Trinity Sunday

Ha Ha Ha!

Ha Ha Ha.

Charlie sang to his brother as the night became silent. They had to go to sleep because they had school the next morning. Charlie sang to his brother that night because neither of his parents had come to their room to say goodnight.

Almost every night dad sang songs, they stuck their noses under the blankets and bed covers until the dream of night and rest crept under the pillows. The bed covers were ones of battles between Spider-Men and Batman, many of the drawings and adventures that scattered on the soft embrace of the fabric were bothered in the stale night by something. Under the tiny mattress the tension built up that night because something happened that changed the tradition of tucking up and dreams of night and rest.

Behind the wall they heard a strong and silent discussion, like furniture moving from one side to the other side of the room. The wooden floor panels creaked with rubber soles, back and forth until it stopped dead. They listened to a sound of doors closing last, a thump that did not mean to wake anyone. Sigue leyendo

The praying prophet.

2 Dic


The Praying Prophet.

He awoke from a dream, a recurring story behind closed eyes, floating, suspended in deep space.

There it was, after walking a few steps, the trail that he left few meters away from the previous stop. Without memory, like an elephant´s heavy footsteps with each new step, he kept walking.

The stones got stuck under his boots, pointy, sharp, toothed carnivores like a praying mantis about to mate.

The countless hours that had passed since his last communication with the central were, as every step that further alienated him from where he came, as long generations descending from a single tree that withered and was going to stop growing. The ancient peoples, their memory branched generations-trees, each following a different family name, each of the branches a true story of wars and survival, recounted to the last vein from the leaves.

He was the last offspring of a large grove, already condemned to extinction. He knew that there he was, lost, dying, in the long road to nowhere. Turning, in revolution around a center that was not there.

The next steps proved to be crucial, thought-arrested, he had to decide what to do with the meager provisions they had brought in emergency. He had packed his survival bag with some books, a pack of gum, an army knife, a small flashlight and fifty packages of superproteic syrup. Enough to last a hundred days if he could find water, which he only carried a liter of drinking water in circulation, renewable but not infinite in his biosuit. Nonetheless, he knew that under those conditions he could not survive more than a handful of days in the dust exposed nostrils, inhaling thousands of particles that clogged his airway and would achieve their purpose if not prevented.
Sigue leyendo