esto no es el juego de los muebles 

 

Su pelo era un cuervo surgiendo de una chimenea atascada

y sus ojos eran huevos duros con los extremos aplastados

y su parpadeo era una puerta gatera

y sus dientes eran azuritas o las estatuas de Isla de Pascua

y su mordedura era una herradura perfecta.

Sus fosas nasales eran los cañones de una escopeta, cargada.

Y su boca era un pozo petrolífero desmantelado

y su sonrisa era una operación de cesárea

y su lengua era un iguanodonte

y su silbido era un rayo láser

y su risa era un caso agudo de tos perruna.

Si tosía, aquello era whisky de malta.

Y sus jaquecas eran Incendios Provocados en los Astilleros de Su Majestad

y sus argumentos eran motores fueraborda agarrotados por un sedal de pesca

y su cuello era un quiosco de música

y su nuez era la bola de corcho de una cisterna

y sus brazos eran leche derramándose de una botella rota.

Sus codos eran bumeranes o tijeras de esquilar.

Y sus muñecas eran tobillos

y sus apretones de manos eran víboras bufadoras en la caja del regalo

y sus dedos eran astronautas hallados muertos en sus trajes espaciales

y las palmas de sus manos eran cuadros abstractos

y los dos pulgares eran carcasas de explosivos.

Y su sombra era una mina a cielo abierto.

Y su perro era una garita sin nadie dentro

y su corazón era una granada de la primera guerra mundial encontrada por unos niños

y sus pezones eran temporizadores para dispositivos incendiarios

y sus omóplatos eran dos carniceros en un concurso de cortar carne

y su ombligo era las Islas Malvinas

y sus partes privadas eran el triángulo de las Bermudas

y su trasero era una cámara secreta

y sus estrías eran la bajada de la marea.

Todo su sistema sanguíneo era la grafiosis del olmo.

Y sus piernas eran cargas de profundidad

y sus rodillas eran fósiles esperando ser desenterrados

y sus tendones eran fusiles envueltos en hule bajo el entarimado

y sus pantorrillas eran el tren de aterrizaje de un avión de reconocimiento.

Las plantas de sus pies eran donde habían caído los meteoritos

y los dedos de sus pies eran un nido de ratones bajo la segadora.

Y sus pisadas eran Vietnam

y sus promesas eran globos aerostáticos fluctuando sobre los árboles

y sus chistes eran balones atravesando las ventanas de los demás

y su sonrisa era la Gran Muralla china vista desde la Luna

y la última vez que hablaron, fue del segregacionismo.

 

Ella era una silla, inclinada hacia atrás

con la chaqueta de trabajo de él sobre los hombros.

 

Ellos se lo dijeron,

y su cara era un agujero

donde el hielo no había sido lo bastante grueso para sostenerla.

not the furniture game

 

 

His hair was a crow fished out of a blocked chimney

and his eyes were boiled eggs with the tops hammered in

and his blink was a cat flap

and his teeth were bluestones or the Easter Island statues

and his bite was a perfect horseshoe.

His nostrils were both barrels of a shotgun, loaded.

And his mouth was an oil exploration project gone bankrupt

and his smile was a caesarean section

and his tongue was an iguanodon

and his whistle was a laser beam

and his laugh was a bad case of kennel cough.

He coughed, and it was malt whisky.

And his headaches were Arson in Her Majesty’s Dockyards

and his arguments were outboard motors strangled with fishing line

and his neck was a bandstand

and his Adam’s apple was a ball cock

and his arms were milk running off from a broken bottle.

His elbows were boomerangs or pinking shears.

And his wrists were ankles

and his handshakes were puff adders in the bran tub

and his fingers were astronauts found dead in their spacesuits

and the palms of his hands were action paintings

and both thumbs were blue touchpaper.

And his shadow was an opencast mine.

And his dog was a sentry box with no-one in it

and his heart was a first world war grenade discovered by children

and his nipples were timers for incendary devices

and his shoulder blades were two butchers at the meat cleaving competition

and his belly button was the Falkland Islands

and his private parts were the Bermuda triangle

and his backside was a priest hole

and his stretchmarks were the tide going out.

The whole system of his blood was Dutch elm disease.

And his legs were depth charges

and his knees were fossils waiting to be tapped open

and his ligaments were rifles wrapped in oilcloth under the floorboards

and his calves were the undercarriages of Shackletons.

The balls of his feet were where meteorites had landed

and his toes were a nest of mice under the lawn mower.

And his footprints were Vietnam

and his promises were hot air balloons floating off over the trees

and his one-liners were footballs through other peoples’ windows

and his grin was the Great Wall of China as seen from the moon

and the last time they talked, it was apartheid.

 

She was a chair, tipped over backwards

with his donkey jacket on her shoulders.

 

They told him,

and his face was a hole

where the ice had not been thick enough to hold her.

 

 

 

 


 

Simon Armitage. Not The Furniture Game

Traducción de Henrique Taboada Mir

 

From Kid

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

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