Pronunciamientos del habla tartamuda


of staples make up my shining lizard body
that’s me
after much after i am the other i am the unhinged writer
of these not-words bound for the shitter
where does the lead urine of a blowup doll go?
let’s inquire with the stones re: the genocides caused with their bodies
let’s ask saint google about all this
saint google tell me how much truth remains to us
saint google tell me who manuel gabriel tzoc bucup really is
saint google what do these words mean war-peace-humanity
saint google i affirm to you that memory and love exist
syphilization came on us
literally, rows of staples spread out on the white floor
with all that, heart violated
don’t look at me
it’s more interesting outside
breathe the dust of the angry volcanoes
drink the hot blood of the wounded volcanoes
in the polar dream my nephews built me a castle of staples
dozens hundreds millions of staples
just images i only believe in images
for example that i’m a pony disguised as a horse (or vice versa)
making my way through the city silence
shadow on the word shadow
shadow on the word beer can
shadows on the hands that click and write about time
opening and closing popups on an infected computer
typing typing
manuel typing uselessly on time


i need to investigate brakeless cars throughout the city so as to get into an accident i’m looking for those violent beautiful crashes and beautiful absurd deaths full of glam glitch and gloss: i’ll die squashed by an enormous billboard advertising plastic surgeries in the middle of the desert or via french fry jammed in my throat I’m at the best point of my life but a caterpillar is eating my brain and the rest of me is carried off by an army of red and murderous ants to the morgue of destiny we steal abandoned bodies we’re kleptos we steal love we steal raspberry pies we abduct the emotions of the weak-hearted

ping pong with my summertime brains
ping pong with my bull testicles
ping pong with my cow tits that give black milk
ping pong with the eyes they took when they tortured me for being a poet and providing publicity service in my works: language therapy amorous liaisons sexual vengeance success in shady business deals word recycling sale of spare hearts, new and used

where you coming from young man, indigenous and a poet
the little green men asked of me
what are you planning
what are you plotting glam poetry youth

but i lied to the little green men i told the whole truth to my right hand she’s the only one who knows the secrets i’m planning i’m going to bury the city in an avalanche of WILD STRAWBERRIES* under a mountain of stuffed pandas i’ll drown the townspeople in blowup dolls with huge tits and big dicks flee the memories that date back to a writer’s preoccupation with the breadcrumbs sprinkled on the table and with the coffee a ninja turtle a pink elephant and an atomic ant are swimming in we defy language or language defying us we fell into disgrace and it was YOUR FAULT and the word’s

*Ingmar Bergman Film


the pen wars began above the beaten nations the homocyborgs write of the memory of the disappeared bodies a pig with a poetry mask came to scare me to wake me up he said : let’s go!!! get up gayboy the crayon war is coming down on us

but yes but no
but no but yes
but yes yes yes
but no no no

we’ll kill ourselves surfing the october waves of an unfinished fractured guatemala, of the eternal compost heap

we’ll set out with a criminal suitcase full of empty books and personal articles: shampoo, bathroom soap, towel, body lotion, hair gel, deodorant, shaving cream, razors, toothbrush and paste, mouthwash, brushes, mirrors, toilet paper and a cheap perfume, part from this some photochromic lenses, a remote control, an apple brand laptop, laptop, 36 gb usb drives, pepsi-cola canned sodas, a latest-model stereo with rechargeable batteries, led-light lanterns, a stuffed bear that tells you “i love you” when you press its belly, surfboards, toy yachts, plastic flowers, plastic chairs, plastic tables, plastic everything, plastic thoughts, tricolor trikinis, binoculars, magnifying glasses, sunglasses of course, a tent, GPS bracelets connected to other people’s hearts, come on gayboy what are you missing… sunscreen for UV rays, a huge touchscreen phone, unlimited data and calling and a 25000 megapixel camera antennas lots of antennas and a golden bathroom where i can see myself shit and some raging winds shut up in a liquor bottle to celebrate the failure of being a modern artist in this wasted, battered territory, we’ll keep at it anyway, of course gayboy, we’ll keep at it
dreaming dim ideas of a country of postal code

yessir gayboy
where we’re headed there’s always wifi


i didn’t wake up
i remained in the night of malignant states
because an intellectual and lyric someone
spoke to me between the 1,000 oneiric windows of dawn

one time in the stadium of 1,000 car seats the brainy kids

my poetic style… what poetic style



my poetic style is my hairy hand of 666 fingers writing this quicker than a fucking cutting edge computer i’ll never give up my little notebook or my finepoint pencils i’ll fill thousands of empty notebooks that’ll hold the rotting aromas disabled words will contain and corrosive pollen particles that will fix themselves on your eyes I FEEL that it’s abusive that ideas should wake me so from sleep if my brain were at least always connected to a next gen machine to register my celestial visions i wouldn’t have to get up to write them with my monkey hand of 666 electronic fingers

neither would i have to shoot all the movies filmed in my dreams only i will know the stories and I’LL BE EGOTISTICAL WITH THE WORLD


poetic disturbances sound in my head:

ruckus… the knife-sharpener’s sirens
won’t leave me alone
the portrait of my parents scares me

the blue pigs land on my left shoulder / dressed as plated flies / the thing is, one day we’ll be there / far away / on that ferocious and distant star / within the reach of the failed eyes and the broken hearts / hugging and kissing the blue pigs and plated flies / there’ll be time to rest in a blender and fragment love / or better still to cut the eye of the pubescent porcelain doll with the 20cm knife i keep in my dolce & gabbana purse / next to the EVA brand pad

my fault
my fault
by the great fault of andy warhol’s banana peel
i fell into scandals
but: the most refined ones


what the drugs will do with so much night

Dream 0: smash a tender brain full of great ideas with a golden hammer

Dream 1: M’s sky is upholstered with wax paper, broken mirrors, and pornographic stickers

Dream 2: face of a crossdressing boy showing me a field of damp and dilated dildos

Dream 3: i’ve fantasized crossing the street at top speed against a red light in a grey van full of friends and being hit at rush hour at nighttime hours where there are no witnesses to help us and pay for the freakshow

Dream 4: i eat drink and fornicate at a crazy mennonite party, the farm links up with the sexual banquet all night long


every single artist died yesterday, every one…

how is it possible that he LOVE the text and hate the writer or it might be BACKWARDS

not sure

but i think that lots of my friends are herons smoking weed or labeled plastic ponies running happily through vast white fields, no, better i think of them modeling haute couture latex suits in an ANomaloUS fashion show

the final campbell’s soups for me and my artists friends are expired conquered by time sold rotten to a gallery where we go to exhibit and fuck calmly

ahh!!! what will have become of TRUTH… without my friends the pelican poets blowing their brains out with an ultra-sharpened mirror knife and all for what… to add one word more to their WISH to sleep —at least— this one outraged night


-guess what i am, migraine boy
-i’m a ninja, i’ve got my chacos and my throwing stars
-you’re not a ninja, you’re a kid in a ninja costume
-look, now what am i migraine boy
-i’m a poet, migraine boy
-you’re not a poet, you’re a ninja in a poet costume


they ask if i write, no, i drool emotion over graph paper notebooks
they ask again if i write, no, i jab my body with syringes to get the good blood to the poetry
they insist in asking my if i write, i told you no, i take my heart out i cook it with spices and toast the other diners with it
they persist in asking me if i write, i said it already stop fucking around, i masturbate each word to get the bad nut out for the metaphors
fucking christ, do i write? no fuck no i lie while i write and like wild cherries with maple syrup for real i swear to you by the power of the word, i don’t write, i wash my hands of all this


Poem of the day / Parasite Man’s order of business

-wake past noon
-observe the roof and walls of the room for a long while
- think on nothing, absolutely nothing, look only at all the
-turn over in bed
-get up and put on pajamas
-go to the bathroom, wash face and hands
-dry face and observe bags under eyes
-turn on tv
-change channel with remote, put on nothing
-eat cereal with milk and bananas for breakfast on the sofa
-turn on computer
-open suitable archives, poetic manuscripts
-read a passage from time to time from 4 different books thrown on the bed
-go to bathroom
-revise unpublished manuscripts, read, re-read
-write own line on computer screen
-get up to wash mugs and glasses from last night
-back to bed to masturbate thinking about last fuck
-put on an experimental playlist
-turn off tv
-write a few more words in the poem
-eat a few bites
-get up and pace some in the room
-open door / close it
-open again and descend stairs
-stand on last step thinking on nothing
-go back quickly & frenetically
-resume a book and read poem out loud
-30 minute nap
-get up get naked and look at self in mirror for long while
-return to computer, lose shit over the text
-slam head against keyboard various times
-head with certainty out to the street on bike
-put on headphones and press play on chemical brothers while
[he pedals and tries to remember last night’s dreams
-close eyes and FEEL the dirty wind
-return home and there FEEL it more until skin chars
-resolve nothing with his text with his room


PO… there’s a sumo match playing on the tv of my eyes / channel 21 where a teacher scolds her elementary school student and assigns homework for tomorrow to write 1 million times in cursive in his notebook the phrase: “I SHOULD NOT WISH TO BE AN ARTIST WHEN I GROW UP” better to change the channel where you see a war of fireflies dressed in alien suits or a porn channel projecting scenes of fat old ladies, 400 lbs., fucking our youth …EM

Translated from the Spanish by Noah Mazer.

MANUEL TZOC BUCUP is a Maya-K’iche’ poet and interdisciplinary visual artist from Guatemala. This work was originally published as Constante huida: crimen de un corazón que no recuerdo y/o pronunciamientos del habla tartamuda (Catafixia Editorial, Guatemala 2016).

NOAH MAZER writes and translates poetry in Mexico City.