This thoughtless anoesis of yours can very well
A history of fiction—
Into sickness by any means—even Nietzsche
Would balk at if he were alive:
How he hates that recipe for ruin, this self-transparency!
Your tasteless Manichean twofold.
Ah! That cunning confession of poverty
Behind which a desire of yours slinks
Like a guilty spider
Imagining herself as a tourist.
And heaven forbid!
This desire to be helped. This showmanship
More dreadful than autocracy!
One would suppose Vallejo knew Nietzsche—
A meeting between a communist
And a confused armadillo
Staring in awe at the pangolins of savanna.
Come then and take this insult.
Where did you get those tough plates?
Did you ask the stars why can’t you
Even recognize your face?
But it’s not your ferly face.
It’s not even those hideous eyebrows.
It is rather this—
The face of your nightfall isn’t Diotima’s.