English translations of articles from the anarchist aperiodical from Italy, Machete. This site is anti-copyright. Use what you like freely as you see fit.

Friday, September 18, 2009


The midday sun skins the specters that couldn’t hide in time alive. Their bones turn into violins and grate on the ears of adventurous men lost in the forest, imitating a Roman emperor’s decadent court.

Tongues of fire, flashes of breasts, reflections of blue pass through the half-light full of vampires. One can walk. The ground has the air of a brain that would like to appear as a sponge. Silence weighs on the ears like a gold nugget on the hand, but the gold is softer than an orange. And yet, the man is from that side. He has opened a corridor in the green, and all along this corridor he has stretched a telegraph wire. But the forest quickly grows tired of embracing this cord that gives nothing back but a human voice, and the plants, thousands of plants, more enthusiastic and insatiable than the others, have rushed to smother this voice under their kiss; then silence falls back over the forest like a rescuing parachute.

There, more than anyplace else, death is merely a temporary way of being of life, which disguises one side of its prism so that the light is concentrated more brilliantly on its other faces.

The skulls of the ruminants offer cover, among the great trees threatened by thousands of creeper vines, to the nests of birds that reflect the sun on their wings, the leaves on their throats. And fleck of blue sky throb on corpses that metamorphose into a mound of butterflies.

Life fights with all its might, in all its time, marked by swarms of mosquitoes on the water’s face. Life loves and kills, caresses what it adores with a murderous hand. Seeds sprout like trip-hammers, implacably nailing the ants that devoured them, and to which they may owe their terrible power of germination, to the ground. Blood calls the sobbing flowers back, and the flowers kill better than a pistol. They kill the pistol.

Where genesis has not yet said its final word, where earth only separates from water to generate fire in the air, earth and water, but especially where earth and water, terrorized by celestial fire, make love night and day, in equatorial America, the rifle drives away the bird that it doesn’t kill, and the snake crushes the rifle like a rabbit.

The forest has fallen back before the ax and dynamite, but between two railway crossings, it has thrown itself on the tracks, addressing the train’s engineer with flirtatious gestures and tantalizing glances. Once, twice, he will resist the temptation that will follow him all along the route, from a verdant railroad tie to a signal hidden by a swarm of bees, but one day he will hear the call of the enchantress who has the look of a beloved woman. He will stop the engine for an embrace that he desires in passing, but the embrace will be endlessly prolonged in accordance with the perpetually renewed desire of the seductress. Though mute, the siren still knows how to draw her victims irretrievably into the abyss of no return.

Thus, the slow absorption begins: piston rod after piston rod, lever after lever, the locomotive goes back into the forest’s bed, and from voluptuousness to voluptuousness, it moistens, quivers, moans like a lioness in heat. It blackens orchids, its boilers give shelter to crocodiles’ playthings that blossomed the day before while legions of tiny birds live in the whistle, giving it a chimerical and temporary life, since quite quickly the forest’s flame will swallow it up like an oyster, after having licked its prey for so long.

In the distance, slow skyscrapers of trees will erect themselves to express a challenge impossible to gather.

No comments:

Post a Comment