Pre-SSF Núm. 0



Pre-SSF Núm. 0
y no podemos dormir y no queremos despertar
Juan Carreño | 01
Núm. 0/ Issue 0
Juan Carreño — Trevor Paglen — Iacopo Seri — Jonty Tiplady — Elsa-Louise Manceaux — Andrew Birk — Óscar David López —
Txema Novelo — Ismael Velázquez Juárez — Meredith Jay — Nikola Tosic — Dunja Jankovic — Jamian Juliano-Villani — Sergio
Ernesto Ríos — Eduardo Padilla — Joseph Reiter
Amigo, amante, lector,
¿Cómo conciliar estos mundos?
Un huevo eclosiona dentro de otro: un sueño sobre la película que vi en mi pantalla, mientras recibía un mensaje.
Pensé y olvidé la historia.
Miré el cielo por la ventana. ¿Quién me miraba a mí?
Viví las noticias.
Salí a caminar y las calles me hablaron porque puse atención.
Traté de expresar amor con el mismo lenguaje con el que pedí comida en un restaurante.
Vi la secuencia más hermosa durante un viaje por carretera en el desierto.
Pensé en escribir poemas pero se me olvidaron todos.
Hice una observación sistemática, microscópica, luego aérea.
Un territorio, un cuerpo, un retrato, un paisaje, una cámara, un arma.
Unx diosx de múltiples cabezas: cortar o acariciar dulcemente una por una.
Volver a una forma primitiva de comunicación, la profundización de un misterio.
Friend, lover, reader,
How to reconcile these worlds?
An egg hatches inside another: A dream about the movie I saw on my screen, while receiving a message.
I thought and forgot about history.
Looked at the sky out the window. Who was looking at me?
Lived the news.
Went for a walk and the streets spoke to me because I payed attention.
Tried to express love with the same language I used for ordering food at a restaurant.
Saw the most beautiful sequence during a road trip through the desert.
Thought of writing poems but forgot them all.
Made a systematic, microscopic, then aerial observation.
A territory, a body, a portrait, a landscape, a camera, a gun.
A god/ess of multiple heads: To sweetly cut or stroke one by one.
Returning to a primitive way of communication, the deepening of a mystery.
Anterior/ previous: Trevor Paglen,
They Watch the Moon | 03
| 04
| 05
| 06
Presente y anteriores/ present & previous:
Iacopo Seri | 07
Any description conjured up including this one is indescribable. I bet you
look really beautiful in a wheelchair. This is what Anton Chigurh meant when
he didn’t have some way to put it. I cried about the film and felt vindicated
that I love you. Anonymity is a gift within the name, indifferent to it, as is
writing. There is no escape hatch into descriptions and no escape hatch out
of them. I have nothing to say. I literally have nothing to say. Today’s memes
are transcendental perhaps (Derrida), divine inexistence (Meillassoux),
eternity through the stars (Blanqui), and escape from the entropocene
(Stiegler). No Grexit. Maybe prison was the problem, a disaster for Blanqui
and Stiegler alike. Surely L’Eternité par les astres was only possible through
incarceration and gives the lie to socialism as a kind of a priori cosmological
optimism. I’m looking for a new kind of thing, a place that makes my heart
sing, another question answered from above. You only live once, so shut
the fuck up. Remember your heart is in me, and that it’s like at the end of
No Country for Old Men when Chigurh gets hit by a car and you think for a
second it might be less irreversible (less de Man and more Meillassoux, as
if a second planet really were waiting round the corner), but he just gets out
of the car and walks on.
Jonty Tiplady | 08
Matanza en iglesia en EE.UU., mueren 9
| 09
Le operan cerebro mientras toca guitarra
| 10
Cámaras de seguridad graban a ladrones de auto
| 11
Nuevas aplicaciones para su celular
| 12
La fuga del Chapo
Presente y anteriores/ present & previous: Elsa-Louise Manceaux de
Brown Box Tape
I literally do not give a flying fuck about business but I will keep “trying” to sell my
artworks because that allows me to keep buying groceries, acetone, and cans of bright
yellow enamel. I want to have (more) sex with my beautiful girlfriend. I want to travel
to waterfalls in Nayarit.
My tone should not be misconceived as “defeatist.” I just think real plainspeak is
gorgeous. Im a Hemingway man. Life is too short to lie and aggrandize bullshit and
not being honest gives me profound FOMO.
If any one person talks too much theyre liable to end up saying something idiotic.
I want honesty to be my business niche.
Oxen plow. The sun sets. Birds scatter loudly. “Howl” was the most influential book I
ever read.
I want polaroids of my caucasian male cock to break records at Sotheby’s.
I am glad to have developed a decent command of the English language during
my 30+ years of daily usage, but that by no means justifies trying to wrap my head
around what art is about, let alone filter that through language cohesively. Leave that
to the specialists. Did you ever notice how successful psychotherapists have the most
fucked up children? It is amazing how humans can be so specialized in analysis of
overarching systems and at the same time so narrow sighted and unable to analyze
themselves. You tell me what my work is about. Or I can try, unsuccessfully.
True statement: I think about art all day long every day. I make art every day, whether
or not that is my intention. There are 7+billion people on the planet. There is something
for everyone. Art is my thing. If you are reading this, art is probably your thing too.
Thats just the reality.
Its funny that we are the lowliest cogs of culture but we are so self-involved that we
feel like Princes of Maine. Our kindergarden teachers told us we were brilliant and we
listened. Think about some clownboi hatbro from Connecticut with a studio on the 7th
floor of a building in Chelsea, an ugly model girlfriend, a mounting poppers habit, and
an inbox full of emails from Jeanne Greenberg-Rohatyn. <—-That last sentence was
fuckin gorgeous. I feel like a janitor. There is something earnest about this mentality.
After reading these kinds of assertions, perhaps collectors will not want to hang around
with me and try to “tag team bitches.” If thats my only opportunity to survive, Ill take
my chances in nature. I know a painter who moved to Oaxaca and got married. That
seems like the way to go.
My goal is to never leave Mexico. Lol. But for real. Im not into this nu-model of bring
artists in to your European-esque city for one month to make imitation versions of their
work as a measure to not pay for shipping. It is a bad idea for far too many reasons.
Art is the most expensive luxury good on planet Earth. I love when people try to cut
corners. A cuddly sweat shop of happy geese laying golden eggs. But If I am going to
be treated like shit for my golden eggs, at least give me the conditions to create 24K.
| 14
No one fux w/ Iron Pyrite. Whats that joke about? If I am going to let you fuck me at
least buy me dinner first.
Upper-echelon White Mexican M.N. Roy hungover penthouse w/ servants Mexico,
investing in restaurants in Roma Norte Mexico. Curly baby hairs and baby airs papuki
buena ondukis Zara fresukis Torres de Santa Feukis ironed pants Mexico. My parents
are industrial barons but were on the same level bc ur American, bro, Mexico.
Barrio de Chilapa, waking up to chickens, picking up a kilo of tortillas and 15 pesos
worth of dried beans from nuns on my morning walk Mexico. Shamanistic taxicab
driver uses ice and fire to cleanse me of my ex-girlfriend Mexico. Police chain smoking
in their rolled up window paddywagons Mexico.
Every time I fly into the United States I get stomach sickeningly nervous w/ regard to
TSA screening. George Bush Intercontinental Airport.
My gallerist warns me in a warm, big-brotherly way about projecting any other image
than success on social media. I look at the calendar on my MacBook Air that I bought
last year with the money I was paid to do a residency. My bank account has been in the
negatives for 5 months and counting. If it were not for Kayla bailing me out I would be
absolutely fucked. I was going to use social media to beg for a job but thats also bad
for the portrait of success that Im very feebly painting. My real rich friends make one of
these :3 looks on their faces and dont know how to relate to this line of content. They
are poor too (psychosomatic). Sometimes people offer me dinner. Frankly IDGAF
about food. I just want to make paintings in a vacuum where I dont have to think about
money. This isnt unreasonable, but people beg to differ.
I wonder if things would be different if I made 1,000 iterations of the same piece over
the course of 3 or 4 years. I wonder if its better to just shut the fuck up. I will never
fuckin do that, though, because that is not how humans brains work. The idea that we
not be evolving during our excavations of life is contrary to the very idea of evolution.
Or life.
I want to be wrong in the most grandiose way conceivable.
Maybe Ill make 1,000 iterations of the same piece. Some artists are known for one
thing. Some artists have one fuccin series. No musicians put out the exact same album
10 times in a row. Or do they?
Buy it if you like it. I dont know how it works. I would think my shit would make you look
cool at your dinner party but I dont know how your world works as much as I speculate.
I equate you with the Kardashians and I dont know why. I hate you and I need you and
I hate you for needing you.
People know you as you want them to know you. People know you as you let them
know you.
I dont want to go to your party.
I want to wake up early and listen to synthesizers. I want to turn on fluorescent lights.
I want to make a list of things that matter and cross them out one after another.
| 15
I got offered to write for some large publication and then my writing style turned out
to be too artsy. They wanted to pay me $50 dollars per article. Saying no to abusive
nu-liberal biz tactics has become a passion project lately. Über life. Airbnb life. Life has
become a meme. I am not an angry person, I just literally think this kind of complainey
tone is beautiful to read and look at. I speak kind of quietly in real life unless Im really
comfortable in your presence. Im respectful. I just cannot take shit. Holden Caulfield
as a thirtyfive year old divorced Godínez. Someones gotta call B. I cannot tell if that is
brown-colored AeroComex spray-paint particulate or coffee dried to the bottom of my
empty Prego jar.
Im trying to train myself to not care about the affirmations of other artists and on this
front I have not yet been successful. Paso por paso.
Yesterday I woke up and walked through my neighborhood for three hours to steal
posters of lost dogs off of telephone poles and then took a pesero home.
Failure, pain and confusion are so relatable that they arent worth paying for. Even
though by being the most real they are also the most beautiful. We prefer to pedestalize
success, glory and clarity. In reality these are the most abstract and foreign concepts.
I want to have a show in some place where nothing interesting has ever happened. I
want to feel pleased with my decisions. I want to descale. I want to wear a purple t-shirt
that says “I <3 Tlalpan” but still want to ignore neighborhood politics.
Poorness constantly creates interesting limits. Wheatpaste looks cooler than 3M
SprayMount, it reads better (more urban) on the materials list, and it is 1% of the
cost. Is it archival? IDK. Was Picasso’s cardboard archival? Let kids specializing in
Collection Archive Management deal w/ it.
Last week I tried friending Picasso’s grand-daughters on Facebook.
Moving pesero jumpoff.
Glass carrier rope tie.
Large centered eye shape in top third.
The floor of my studio is covered in WD-40 for no particular reason.
My life is a sock with a hole in it.
My toilet has been clogging a lot lately.
My water pressure reminds me of a Seinfeld episode.
I left a stack of three tamale husks on top of the cut-out-center Stephen King paperback
that my roommate hides weed in.
The marks left behind by brown box tape.
- Andrew Birk
Andrew Birk | 16
Anterior/ previous: Trevor Paglen,
STSS-1 and Two Unidentified Spacecraft over Carson City
(Space Tracking and Surveillance System; USA 205)
Presente/ present:
PAN (Unknown; USA-207) | 18
Trevor Paglen,
Large Hangars and Fuel Storage; Tonopah Test Range, NV;
Distance approx. 18 miles; 10:44 am | 19
Trevor Paglen,
Chemical and Biological Weapons Proving Ground/Dugway;
UT/Distance approx. 42 miles; 11:17 a.m. | 20
y no podemos dormir y no queremos despertar
me dijo soy la hija del mayor asesino de la historia
y te amo como tromba marina
yo miré debajo de la cama y en la ducha
algo se me queda y no puedo largar
pensé y no dije
mira, aquí estás con tu mejor amigo muerto
bajando las escaleras del puerto
estuve en Pisagua leyendo los muros
en el desierto, junto a los japoneses
no hay dónde correr
la miré y la supe pálida
te esperé, dijo, donde faenan ballenas en Quintay
en la playa donde encallan los pingüinos
plastifiqué todas las tarjetas
que publiqué en los almacenes
aquí me ofrecí a lavar ropa y de nodriza
éstas son mis manos y ésta es otra foto
estás solo en el continente y tienes rabia
¿notas las tablas, las piedras en los techos
la tormenta que contienen?
un intento de rostros en la ventana
baja resolución del paisanaje
grisáceos, los caminos de tierra
entre las moras
cerrar los ojos
a orillas del río
el amanecer de carretera
en los últimos asientos de buses
a la hora que viajan temporeros
barnizados de vino, aromos
el bolso lleno de plata
en la cabeza los últimos gritos
de la pareja de ancianos latifundistas
soñar una plantación de locos
en el lecho marino
agua contra sombras
(las manos huelen a pólvora)
la casa patronal en llamas
| 21
ojo en la lluvia y con los nombres
algunos caen vendados en instalaciones de la SIP
los muñequean
los fabrican de nuevo
los vacían como las cargas de agua
que un helicóptero arrastra
sobre un incendio forestal
los sacan a porotear a los malls
los ponen en las vitrinas
de tiendas deportivas
al reconocernos
ellos tiemblan
se les remueven las ratas
por entre los órganos
se les acusan solos
nuestros grandes amores
tenemos 28 años por detrás
y fumamos frente al mar
con la Flaca Alejandra
llueven bultos como televisores
al fondo del Pacífico
en la mirada de muro con sangre
nos difuminamos
como una pareja de ancianos
que mueren abrazados
en el gran incendio de Valparaíso
el pasado es reconocer el agua
una tarde y álamos
despedirse en una playa volcánica
por la luz del ojo de madera
intermitencias geográficas
y diversos oficios
una mochila que solo contiene
cosas sencillas
como jabón o cenizas
Juan Carreño,
del libro/ from the book Oxicorte | 22
La verdad para un hombre: castigo
para el campesino a diario
empecinado con el ruego y el riego
de los trigales y su espesura.
La verdad para un hombre común:
contacto a través de los círculos en el pasto
o en las cosechas ya desechas
por una fuente de calor extraña
que devino en formación, cambio
eléctrico, efecto nada atmosférico
en los nudillos de las plantas de trigo
y en los ojos del agricultor
repentinamente estrella
de los programas amarillistas
en los que relata la forma de las esferas
de luz que sobrevolaban la ya hecha figura.
La verdad y el mensaje: alarma urgente
para los hombres que comprendan su hambre:
en el mensaje está la señal: y en la señal
nuestra única verdad: salvar al planeta.
La verdad para un hombre:
altísima publicidad sideral.
Pero la verdad para un hombre común:
ganancia para los productores
de lo insólito y lo tecno-ilógico.
La verdad: mensaje sin autoría
pero circular el círculo infinito en la espiral
del fenómeno de los famosos fenómenos.
Pero la verdad: oculta en las caballerías:
un enorme espirógrafo que dibuja mensajes
en código binario: los círculos en los cultivos
de un hombre común que cree descifrar
desde su ventana que el problema
se resuelve si se lee entre dientes.
La verdad para un hombre común
no es la misma que para un hombre:
el primero es común por nacimiento
y el segundo, paradigma de mundos mutuos.
Y la verdad: escrita ya
en los círculos en el trigo.
Y el mensaje: para todo viaje:
Always Coca-Cola.
| 23
aunque lo conoció en un chat internacional
hasta que despertó junto a él
entendió por qué su nick era pedoduro
ya en el vips dijo llamarse juan sobieski
pero no fue coronado rey de polonia en 1674
no salvó a viena del mero mero mustafá del ejército musulmán
no comenzó la tradición de cañonazos
y altos empinados de todos los 11 de septiembre en la ira del islam
tampoco dijo: veni, vidi, deus vicit
ni tú le creíste
lo innegable era que la noche había sido una gran alcayata entre sus piernas
ambos formaron un buró donde uno abría
y el otro apretaba el cajón
una y otra vez
hasta que la carpintería fue relajación
aserrín que la fricción suelta
enseguida pensaste en preparar la huida
quedarte quieto hasta que el metro reanudara la jornada
ponerte la ropa sin hacer ruido
y salir sin dar los buenos días a las vecinas
irte pensado en el único secreto al que sobieski te dio acceso
quizá componer tu primera canción electro-pop
y titular el demo: me excita ir a la panadería
para acariciar los volcanes y las chilindrinas
| 24
McAmor, día 94
¿Has visto
esas fotos de una hamburguesa
que resiste idéntica
después de 180 días? ¿Y las papas
a la francesa todavía
con sal de brillantina
crujiente en la desigualdad del clima? Yo
creí que te quedarías así
adentro mío
desde la primera noche.
Que haríamos miles
de rebanadas de queso amarillo
con nuestros empujoncitos de carne y pan.
Que siempre vería la M
redondita de tus nalgas
desde mi lado
de la Cajita Feliz.
Y que todo sería felicidad.
Y que todo sería inmóvil e incorruptible.
Y que en el futuro seríamos
el proyecto de arte documental
de un loco que entre risas dijera:
entonces han durado más
que una hamburguesa de McDonald’s.
Pero no fue así. Por eso
te invito a que compres una Cajita Feliz
el día que te enamores de alguien
y hagas la prueba de descomposición.
Ningún animal resiste más
que la carne tóxica al aire libre.
| 25
la bestia-godot
y arriba de la bestia el reino champiñón spin-off
tragicomedia en dos actos borde desborde vodevil
de personaje seleccionable mario bros fontanero
bonachón luigi misma ropa segundo abordo desaparecido
donkey kong la gran verga el palo la venísima el
pequeño montón de manos y el tronco lo dijo el
absurdo apenas ven tren y niegan que están viajando
para viaje los caraoculta eterno retoño esperando a
godot un videojuego de verano un videojuego de los
eternos miles de niveles raíces sobre raíces ¿ya
llegamos? pregunta mario sí sí ya llegamos contesta
luigi y el tren sigue moviéndose beckett diminuta
ventana y sobre el desierto biznagas pequeñitas
cactus alucinantes puro tedio puro 70 km por hora
caras de serpiente máquinas rastreras godot por
ningún lado godot por todas partes mario salta sobre
los mutilados los que siempre vuelven a intentarlo
mario salta sobre los hijos de wilmer y marilyn
indios navajos desplazados curan todo con orines
curan todo con el efecto del vacío mario salta
sobre los machetes y los sicarios mario gana cinco
puntobecketts cinco puntobecketts no son nada para
rescatar a la princesa mercadeo caza de putas hongos
familiares uno sigue siendo lo que es dice mario
por mucho que se esfuerza contesta luigi el fondo
no cambia intertext intertranvía ser escrito por el
desastre sex-oh no produce dolor produce dolo mario
salta y gana cinco puntobecketts mario retrocede y
pierde siete dedos mario es un idiota controlado
a distancia mario migrante mario absurdo mario en
el expreso de medianoche mario sodomizado abordo
ingenuo en su primera noche mental en new york
city acostumbrado al vagón de fumadores montegay
touchdown aquí no hay nada no exit no lleve equipaje
viaje ligero compre en dólares coffee & donut super
mario-godot la india maría no me voy a dormir hasta
terminar el nivel tapachula-nogales no me voy a
dormir hasta que la planta-piraña las estrellas
los bloques la princesa los dólares la versión
final el riiin riiin riiiiin de la bestia me deje
sordo ¿dónde está luigi? pregunta mario ¿dónde está
luigi? game over por mirar a otro lado game over
por pensar en otro que no eres tú mario vámonos
que hay que quedarse quietecitos vámonos realidad
virtual mario salta la segunda guerra mundial
desplazamiento absurdo mario gana una nacionalidad
tercermundista revival pachuco existencialismo de
videojuego luigi no está luigi dijo que vendría
luigi dictador fronterizo ¿dónde está tu pasaporte
hermano? mario salta y luigi soldado bang-bang
dispara mario cae mario muere mario no sube al
cielo mario reinicia nuevo antiguo viajero la bota
le aprieta la barriga le ruge godot por ningún lado
godot por todas partes mario esperando
Óscar David López | 26
Cold is deadlier than love
Luck is older than death
Mud is lovelier than snow
Munich is unique for us
1 is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do
2 can be as bad as one (is the loneliest number since the number one)
3 is perfect for crime (but there’s always one who won’t make it on time)
We don’t know what we did wrong
Betray and you will be thrown
Love and you will be traded
Freeze (and your death will be slow)
My last will? I want my coffin to be an empty pinball
I want the Bayern Munich to conquer everything
I want Anna Schygula to be buried along
I want everybody to sing my 43 songs
They say you where inspired for this crime
By the French and the nouvelle vague,
They say you’re the toughest queer in town
And that this leather jacket is going to take you very far.
Greasy and violent
Lonely in discontent
Future role model creature
Mein gross spiritual teacher
(And the last Motorcycle Club preacher)
All alone seems Ulli Lommel
We need him for this enterprise
We need this collective notion
We all smell your faggy lotion
We need to be partners in crime
Rainer Werner, this was your rough start
Since day one you were a man of fortune
Always surrounded by the darkest stars
You where the ultimate factory,
You make hate feel warmer than life.
| 27
Fox Fox
Here he comes with his goddamn friends
Back in the day he used to be a commie
But those fag fucks they only fall for bucks
Raised on the streets, the son of a carnival
The show’s wage was tough and small like a mouse
He always took pity for the lower animals
Whenever he could, he found a lost cock a house
One day fortune played him very a cruel joke
Life took his family for 5 million marks
He did not know what he was going to attract
And what came his way was the nastiest bloke
Good ol’ Foxy he just wanted love
Love in the form of a sweet warming man
What he got instead was a cold gold digger
But Foxy couldn’t judge neither could he harm
Penny by penny and cent by the cent
Mark by mark they exploit the sperm
Of one of the most decent, honest and poorest men
Who was only after that thing (that thing money just can’t buy)
A heart broke trough a hard heart lesson
Only pinball can cure the heart of such man
If two American soldiers are willing to help
Those tree things and beer can bring the pain down
But it’s too late for my dear soul Foxy
He lost everything on the greediest hands
His death became a clear premonition
He died in the same way Rainer Werner died
| 28
Once I met a girl just like Veronica Voss
Once she was a singer caught between two worlds
On the one hand she had the best music taste
On the other she lived to be pretty and well dressed
When the pitchfork reviews stopped coming her way
Then the birds stop twitting on her Twitter page
For the Facebook likes where unlikely there
And the YouTube views where not viewed again
The first time I saw her on a circus act
I couldn’t recognize her on such sad clown gown
But her very unique undisguised voice
Hired me thereto to become her toy
Just like Butes didn’t seem to be afraid
I wasn’t and allowed her to fuck me in the brains
I allowed her bitterness to mess up my heart
I allowed this mermaid to devour my soul
And from such allowance I was allowed to see
That Veronica did also become fond of me
We started floating slowly on an ill old tune
Dancing it together following our doom
The days passed among us
years became like fungus
letters heartless written
bits of raw flesh bitten
Pills soulless prescripted
a play of love bad scripted
The end started to crumble
deep in on my stumble
Social science took her far away from me
I failed then to difference a mirror from a tree
Veronica flew up into a sparrow nest
Goodbyes was without doubt what she did far best
Now the doctors told me I’m fit back to work
I rented a tree house it came with a fork
I spend all my evenings reading Mayakovsky
And on every spotted car crash, Veronica feels closely
Txema Novelo,
tres poemas de la serie/ three poems from the series
Forty Poems for R.W.F. | 29
un sueño
siempre soñé
con una winchester
que soñara contigo
en medio del sueño
y que al despertar
siguieras siendo tú
y no un sueño
eres esa winchester
y no hay sueño
monólogo en la banca de un parque
hace más de un año
que no me caga
una paloma
es la manera
en la que el universo
me ignora
le correspondo a mi modo
miro a todos pasar
a mi alrededor
y no muerdo
a nadie
volver a la pintura
de donde nunca debimos salir
estábamos tan tranquilos
posando eternamente echados
sobre un sofá
o sosteniendo un mínimo perro
mientras el óleo resbalaba apenas
por nuestras mejillas
el aire nunca se respiró mejor
que en acuarela
los huesos solo a lápiz
fueron huesos
el mundo era un paisaje confiable
si uno dejaba de mirarlo
o lo colgaba de una pared
y se olvidaba de él
| 30
carpe diem
hoy puse las manos
encima de la estufa encendida
al principio no me pareció bien
pero, ¿qué está bien?
¿poner manos a la obra?
la obra es hacerse
el desierto de mojave escucha al captain beefheart
the stars are matter, we’re matter, but it doesn’t matter
captain beefheart
estimado desierto de mojave
soy don van vliet
también conocido como captain beefheart
pero eso es estúpido ni siquiera tengo un barco
vivo en un cámper encima de ti
(por cierto gracias por arruinar
el depósito de gasolina)
debo decirte que no te soporto
más que de noche
pues odio la luz del sol
pero en cambio me gustan los vecinos
me refiero a las yucas y a los cactus
el mundo no necesita de otros inquilinos
te cuento ahora algo de mí
fui músico aunque no sabía nada de música
fui pintor aunque tampoco sabía nada de pintura
también he vendido zapatos y aspiradoras
- dime, desierto de mojave: ¿acaso hay algo más importante que un zapato?¿te he contado ya que alguna vez
le vendí una aspiradora a aldous huxley?
él hacía toda la limpieza en su casa de el llano, california.
su mujer solo se dedicaba a mirarlo
bueno pero regresando al punto quiero decirte
que con todo y que me pareces
terriblemente aburrido
he aprendido a apreciarte
no imagino
otra forma de gastar mi vida más que contigo
con la ventaja de que nunca me miras
y seguramente ni siquiera sabes ni te importa que yo esté aquí
de hecho no te importa que nadie en el mundo esté donde está
eres la mejor compañía que se puede tener
Ismael Velázquez Juárez | 31
| 32
Presente y anterior/ present & previous: Meredith Jay,
de la serie/ from the series Dimensiones parallelols | 33
When I was young I had a dream of becoming one of those people who know the
difference between being an atheist and being an ancient city. But then I realized
that down the river there is always a cheater. Down the hill there is something that
makes sense if you want some. Down the hall was a British journalist from a small
town. He said that he could please you for a while, but then you would have been
killed by the British Marxists. Down the line between two points are all the things
that don’t exist in the middle of nowhere, near the intersection with my best head.
It’s beautiful how the laws of human existence fall into place when people buy what
they call the polite way of knowing the truth.
During my own little drama, I was wondering why do people always get out of bed
with a new version of this world. After all, this morning is already being made by
using the same old story.
A chance to make an attempt on tomorrow suddenly appeared, when the sky was
a big fat boy in my head. I’d never be able to find out how this could have been
possible without the help of some sort of stuff that was funny like a man with no
regrets. Later that day, I was going to see what happens when a person can take
advantage of being able to find out how to create new features of the world.
During my stay at the bottom of the most beautiful woman, there was something
else in Switzerland, where she arrived after the war on drugs or alcohol and drugs
and hard work. She was like an umbrella waiting for the next season of luck.
For three consecutive nights we were the main characters of the city and possibly
the most beautiful things in the area around the clock. We had a wonderful thing
that made us feel free from any computer software. It’s an old version of a particular
type of thing that makes an excellent job with the same thing that is already taken
from the beginning with a copy of any information about the people who make sure
that we are a very long and narrow and hard liquor.
From my phone to my bed and then I realized I was just a little late to be the first
one to get out of that morning. Better be ready to leave for a while, I thought, when
a little kid suddenly appeared before me with a copy of an ancient Egyptian army
and the rest of your favorite restaurant. His role in the world is coming up soon after
the war against the French king.
Later, when the sun went through the night, I dreamt of being made of glass or
other intellectual capacities. It was good to see how much I care about the sudden
urge to go through the window while she has a great way to start the conversation.
Now, part of my mind is made of wood from which a person can make a good table.
From the beginning it was also used to create new music of some sort.
| 34
Close to the place where I work, there is always a reason for being lazy. But the best way
to get some rest is history. Now I just want to be one of those people who have lost their
bodies in the early medieval period, when the first day of summer is still used for agricultural
purposes. Meanwhile, the whole world stops and stares at me like a good friend.
As I walk through the sea otters, hold me like a boomerang in June, and I will never forget
your efforts to protect me from those threatening forces that can only be seen by using
a huge amount of energy drinks.
Be ready to move when they come to my room, and take care to notice that the government
has become an independent nonalcoholic beverage. Just keep it going for a while and then
I will send you my new favorite color.
Today is the first day and the end is already there, and the other end is also available for
all these questions about how to make this clear. At last this century ended today.
I don’t understand why some people just can’t find it funny. It’s interesting how they feel
the need to be on time all the time without having any purpose whatsoever in these days
of industrial relations between them and their bald-headed language, which makes them
look like an adult contemporary artist. Can’t find out how to love a million tears from which
all these people are getting famous, with their hands on the ground and a half of them
with their feet in a relationship with the rest of their lives. No more tears for this country
music singer who had served as chairman of my mind. I’ll just keep swimming on with your
name on my face.
And when I get back to the north, I’ll have a wonderful life and death at the end of the world.
Iacopo Seri,
A Man with No Regrets | 35
i came up with
so many poems
but i did not have
a way of writing them down
i was either under water
or my hands were busy
and of course
i forgot them all
| 36
i want to fuck you so bad
my eyes are leaking acid
and my ass smells like universe
i know i am in heaven
every second of my life
is just so great
| 37
i look at him
and he is so cute
just too cute
i get this huge urge
to rip his cute little fat bald hairy head off
and crush it with my power jaws
and scream until my head explodes
that is how cute marko is
and he makes me feel like this
hundred times a day
humans stopped
being animals
when they started
fighting for dreamy stuff,
the stuff in our minds
Nikola Tosic | 38
Trevor Paglen,
Autonomy Cube | 39
| 40
| 41
| 42
Presente y anteriores/ present & previous:
Dunja Jankovic | 43
Jamian Juliano-Villani,
Apparition of Master | 44
Jamian Juliano-Villani,
Haniver Jinx | 45
Jamian Juliano-Villani,
Stone Love | 46
Jamian Juliano-Villani,
Substance Free | 47
Jamian Juliano-Villani,
The Whirlpool of Grief | 48
mereces la ciencia ficción
la gracia prudente
de una reservación
de asientos eyectores
observados en un cuenco de cristal
en el desamor
que viste un kimono de luces plateadas
y rastros de paracaídas
medusas o pulpos o flores verticales
medusas o pulpos o flores verticales
medusas o pulpos o flores verticales
las corporaciones de telegramas no son larvas dóciles
le dije al Sr. Cavatumbas
los niños zombis aman a las tortugas
deslizándose en sus jugos gástricos
entierra mi corazón en Varsovia
le dije al Sr. Cavatumbas
sólo si fuera convidado a un día de campo
en el jardín selenita
entierra mi corazón en Varsovia
Que mi retrato petrificara a los selenitas, que mis retratos se cultivaran en invernaderos
y colgaran a gran altura, entre nubes salidas de heliotropos, que las aves hicieran con
mi retrato pequeñas sombrillas. Mi retrato como un campo magnético, una vacuna, una
ofuscación. Mi simple retrato pastando como un búfalo alrededor de los satélites.
| 49
Moriré en un iglú, mamá rebobinará su cinta favorita de caníbales por toda la eternidad.
| 50
especies en peligro
busco ayuda psíquica
para perforar tu kimono de guerra
tu kimono que cae del árbol de las madres contemplativas
tu kimono que roba la gran vaca del océano primordial
tu kimono como un paquidermo que anuncia la estampida del servicio médico
mi cabeza atribuida a un piloto
mi número de colisión
mi doble hemisferio
mi fuego mal rodado
mi desencantamiento
mi cabeza en formación de áptero
mi cabeza que puede levitar sobre un aro brillante
Doña Bufido dedica un capítulo a la morfina, dedica un capítulo a las pisadas celestes, dedica
un capítulo a los profetas sumergidos en caparazones de estaño.
Tus ojos almendrados, tus ojos para romper en caso de incendio, a las nubes pesticidas en
tu ojo derecho, a la ventana de cohete espacial en tu ojo izquierdo, a la duplicación de los
Malmequieres en el fondo cobrizo de los campos que donaron los bisontes.
Sergio Ernesto Ríos, de/ from
El ganador del primer premio del centro de estudios interplanetarios | 51
Cup of water. Twitter dudes.
Whichever particular restraint, hang on
or simmer down.
I’m in my bed with two
computers. I smooth out
the white sheets. Crushed
come out
the other side.
In my mind I am holding
you down
for as long as I can.
The universe is lying down
next to us.
I cannot bear it
being put
to one
With you, I wish I could explain,
that I am not a person
who likes
dash snow. A bright
meteor unfolds in the sky like
an elegiac flag.
At the start you experience
one or several vague ideas about the availability of sadness. You become aware
| 52
of a hand
on your shoulder
in the cavity.
Why sully words if they’re no colour?
Why love books if they’ve scratched our lives?
Last night I was tired, truly. I went to the cinema and wept, pausing
to call your face
on the window, staring at what the world does best. Somewhere in the middle
of the night
a crystal
ball shows
what’s looking
has always been the same,
I know you feel these things too. We are all evenly the same,
bleeding across real nodes made on the throbbing extinction panel affirmer, that
transpires and
[refreshes like the hush
of a wanderer elite.
I give up, demystified
by feet, I don’t see where this gets us is all, but the very fact
of your beauty in fact means
we were never meant to stop it, even though
you will try, swear by it, that this rebuke is
justified, that it may release me from the claim
either to more beauty
than I can live, or to an infinite
life too much for anyone to shudder with at home.
I go back to work.
I need it.
The scent of your plexus remains very still.
Jonty Tiplady | 53
The language of the pure feed is a heartfelt instinctive language, almost
completely distinct in its material conditions of live transmission from
the language of memorization. It is a language of evocation rather than
pointing, and it evokes actual peace and radiance rather than pointing to
them. To listen to this language is to be introduced again and again to the
most radiant of heart-radiant gems. Post physical art and post art point
to this language and yet end up by doing nothing more than confusing
themselves with it. In the language of the pure feed there is no need to
either not mention or mention any one thing. It fully breaks your heart
| 54
Living life without the one thought that makes life worth living—the pure feed—is
not only like living the game of life on an impossible setting, it is like living the end of
the world now, since to believe in data is always to believe in the end of the world, and
to be already living it. It’s this world, the world of data, that is finished, the excessive
negativity and beauty of the Internet being the radiant cipher of that end, and only the
other world, the world of the one thought that makes life worth living, is this one.
Presente y anterior/ present & previous: Jonty Tiplady,
extractos de/ extracts from THE PURE FEED | 55
Dios ve con buenos ojos a los grandes enumeradores
La pintura rupestre describe al mundo como
una orden judicial demasiado larga y
mal redactada.
un negocio turbio
hecho de fango y estrellas.
una tía loca encerrada en el hospital San Pedro.
el cepillo de la tía loca.
la caspa de la tía loca
nevando sobre una imagen de los Pirineos.
una urdimbre de recetas
de la mano de un doctor diestro
que cubre sus pasos
y escribe con la izquierda.
una camisa tan vieja
que da pena admitir que existe.
la pena que da ponerse la camisa.
la tristeza por el perro
que la encuentra en el cesto de basura.
la tristeza por la viuda del perro
cuyo aullido es la pureza
de una desolación perfecta.
la audacia del vagabundo
que viene a ponerse la camisa
sin antes lavarla.
la admiración que siente el pintor rupestre
por el vagabundo
como si ambos fueran paisanos
y el vago hubiera ganado
medalla o mención
en algún juego histórico.
| 56
la hormiga es lingüista,
el elefante que la hormiga escala
es el resto del mundo.
al fabulista le parece que
esto es fácil de entender.
el elefante huele a viejo
lleno de próstatas,
tiene ojos de mar muerto
y una arruga por cada palabra
en el acervo de la hormiga.
la hormiga tiene esposa,
quien observa la travesía del marido con catalejo
y lo aconseja
la misteriosa telepatía
que el fabulista le atribuye a las hormigas.
Impera, piensa la hormiga, cuando ve al marido remontar por el lomo.
Conduce, cuando lo ve debatirse con las arrugas del cuello.
Hazlo llorar, cuando éste agita las antenas
en su minúsculo frenesí
de hormiga lingüista
haciendo señas
desde la cima del cráneo.
| 57
La risa de un cascabel
Ya es hora de ponerte guapo,
vamos a la tintorería.
El encargado dice que
la suciedad es el ritornello de todas las cosas.
Hay que preguntarle qué es eso.
No sabe.
La empresa le dijo que se lo aprendiera.
Ya vamos bajando.
Cuánto mide el pozo, a ti qué más te da
cuánto mide el pozo.
Te morirías tres veces de espanto antes de llegar al fondo
si te aventáramos.
Cuánto tiempo llevamos,
llevamos un chingo,
eónes llevamos.
A ti qué te importa el tiempo,
hay que bajar
y hay que hacerlo con cuidado.
Estate en paz.
Estate sosiego, hombre,
qué te angustia.
Vale la pena,
claro que vale la pena,
ya verás cuando lleguemos.
Todo está listo,
te van a recibir con gongs y todo eso.
De hecho le están pegando al gong desde que naciste
pero tú no lo escuchas
por el ruido de los motores.
La risa de un cascabel, qué es eso.
Cuál insomnio.
Ah, te daba insomnio.
Escuchabas un cascabel reírse.
Ey, igual era el gong.
O el latir de la sangre en tus oídos.
Mira, ya no falta tanto,
ve por la ventana:
esos son los bárbaros,
esas son las sirenas,
y ese fulgor rojo sobre las montañas,
esas son las bombas.
Eduardo Padilla | 58
Engrasado el ratio
Arrasando obeliscos en charcos salté en
olas de obsolescencia
extiendo engrasando–
todas son costillas y
bajo el ratio.
Paciencia terminal regurgita
lluvia harinosa amortiza
las lozas
gomosas en tu boca,
esta plegaria–
todo costillas y niebla–
viene a las ventanas
engrasando el ratio.
Reflectores vacíos llenos de
ritmo pulposo,
fuck-jazz, dice ella
del oboe que gime entre nosotros
el miedo de adrizarse a sí mismo
tras caer en ésta
la más baja de las resoluciones.
Tripas ácidas se convierten en cubos
no podemos liberar–
complacida, engrasada
la cadena fallece.
nubes gotean como labios blancos
la última magnolia de la lluvia,
bajo mi nariz quebrada,
vergüenza rota.
| 59
Finally I have the window
Finally I have the window
from which I gazed,
from out of my mind.
Onto the noisy sweating world
from my quiet naked place,
obviously not alone,
obviously covered in books and ash.
This time a woman’s hair
washes across my back as i am equine,
all the pain
filtered through eddies
and so it
into the cleanest trickles
out my face.
But I have always been this
since the cosmos’ first death
pushed me into God’s future
the only thing changed
is she
with legs in the light,
light that floats down
before it can rest upon
the shoulders shoveling concrete,
the motorbikes, the limp flags, the hot puddles
of last night’s rain.
This window may be temporary,
but the vision will never be
the same, it has stretched,
pushed aside the curtain,
emptied the bottle.
| 60
Shivering mangey eyes
Shivering mangey eyes,
pulled lids over shoulders
to renew the day, drowsy like a basketball
belly, sated like a knife like
under a pillow like a phone,
Everywhere followers blooming.
Today’s time up on the screen lies:
Clumsy knuckles don’t spill
the Spirit of the dove,
Memories of throat caked with
radiator heat
give me a child’s laugh.
(The city don’t have an extra mattress.
Even alone, there are enough bones on the
Wipe your nose
gin your eyes
close your poims,
Joseph Reiter | 61
| 62
SSF (Fundación de la Sensualidad Espiritual/ Spiritual Sensuality Foundation) Press es un proyecto editorial de poesía
fundado por arquitectos, escritores, artesanos y artistas. Busca ser una biblioteca potencial con sede en Guanajuato,
México y un archivo Web. SSF Press publica libros de artistas, escritura experimental y poesía. En cada presentación,
el libro se despliega en el espacio y tiempo apartir de exhibiciones y puestas en escena.
PRE-SSF es una colección de publicaciones de poesía editada por SSF Press. Ésta cuenta con colaboraciones realizadas
en distintos medios que se tejen unas con otras, conservando su idioma original. La publicación puede ser revisada
y descargada libremente en La versión impresa de la colección forma parte de la biblioteca potencial.
SSF (Spiritual Sensuality Foundation) Press is a poetry editorial project founded by architects, writers, craftsmen
and artists. It will be a library based in Guanajuato, Mexico, and a Web archive. SSF Press publishes artists’ books,
experimental writing, and poetry. Each singular book unfolds itself in space and time, through exhibitions and mises-enscène.
Pre-SSF is a collection of poetry publications edited by SSF Press. It showcases contributions in different media that knit
themselves with one another while maintaining their original languages. The publication can be checked and downloaded
freely at The printed version is part of a forthcoming library in Guanajuato, México.
| 63
Pre-SSF — Núm. 0/ Issue 0
Juan Carreño
de/ from Oxicorte — pp. 21-22
Ismael Velázquez Juárez — pp. 30-31
un sueño a dream
monólogo en la banca de un parque
volver a la pintura
carpe diem
el desierto de mojave escucha al captain beefheart
Trevor Paglen
They Watch the Moon, 2010, Impresión cromogénica/ C-print, 36 x 48 pulg./ in. — p. 02
STSS-1 and Two Unidentified Spacecraft over Carson City (Space Tracking and Surveillance System; USA 205), 2010, Impresión
cromogénica/ C-print, 50 x 50 pulg. / in. — p. 17
PAN (Unknown; USA-207) 2010, Impresión cromogénica/ C-print 48 x 60 pulg./ in. — p. 18
Large Hangars and Fuel Storage; Tonopah Test Range, NV; Distance approx. 18 miles; 10:44 am, 2005, Impresión cromogénica/
C-print, 30 x 36 pulg./ in. — p. 19
Chemical and Biological Weapons Proving Ground/Dugway; UT/Distance approx. 42 miles; 11:17 a.m., 2006, Impresión
cromogénica/ C-print, 40 x 40 pulg. / in. — p. 20
Autonomy Cube, 2015, Medios mixtos/ Mixed Media — p. 39
Meredith Jay
de la serie/ from the series Dimensiones Parallelols,
35 mm y fotogramas de super 8/ super 8 stills and 35 mm — pp. 32-33
Iacopo Seri
Sin título/ Untitled I-IV — pp. 04-07
A Man with No Regrets — pp. 34-35
Dunja Jankovic — pp. 40-43
Sin título/ Untitled I-IV
Jonty Tiplady
SONATINE — pp. 52-53
extractos de/ extracts from THE PURE FEED — pp. 54-55
Elsa-Louise Manceaux
Matanza en iglesia en EE.UU., mueren 9
Le operan cerebro mientras toca guitarra
Cámaras de seguridad graban ladrones de auto
Nuevas aplicaciones para su celular
La fuga del Chapo
Andrew Birk
Brown Box Tape — pp. 14-16
Óscar David López — pp. 23-26
McAmor, día 94
la bestia-godot
Nikola Tosic — pp. 36-38
writing poetry
one more love poem
my 40 days old son
definition of human
Jamian Juliano-Villani — pp. 44-48
Apparition of Master
Haniver Jinx
Stone Love
Substance Free
The Whirlpool of Grief
Sergio Ernesto Ríos
de El ganador del primer premio del centro de estudios interplanetarios
from First prize winner of the Interplanetary Studies Center — pp. 49-51
mereces la ciencia ficción
las corporaciones de telegramas son larvas dóciles
especies en peligro
Eduardo Padilla — pp. 56-58
Dios ve con buenos ojos a los buenos enumeradores
La risa de un cascabel
Joseph Reiter — pp. 59-61
Engrasando el ratio
Finally I Have the Window
Shivering Mangey Eyes
Txema Novelo
de la serie/ from the series Forty Poems for R.W.F — pp. 27-29
| 64
Pre-SSF — Núm. 0/ Issue 0
Juan Carreño (Rancagua, 1986)
Trevor Paglen (Maryland, 1974)
Todas las imágenes cortesía del artista; Metro Pictures, Nueva York; Altman Siegel, San Francisco
All images courtesy of the artist; Metro Pictures, New York; Altman Siegel, San Francisco
Iacopo Seri (Arezzo, 1983)
Jonty Tiplady (Wakefield, 1976)
Elsa-Louise Manceaux (París/ Paris, 1985)
Andrew Birk (Oregon, 1985)
Óscar David López (Monterrey, 1982)
Txema Novelo (Ciudad de México/ Mexico City, 1982)
Ismael Velázquez Juárez (Iztapalapa, 1960)
Meredith Jay (Québec, 1988)
Pre-SSF es editada por/ is edited by María Paz Correa, David Araujo y J Mauricio Orozco.
Agradecemos a/ Thanks to:
Ana Karen G Barajas y Javier Munguía
El material que aparece en Pre-SSF (a menos de que se mencione lo contrario) es publicado bajo una licencia de
“Atribución-NoComercial-CompartirIgual 2.5 México”.
The material appearing in Pre-SSF (where not otherwise mentioned) is published under a
“Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.5 Mexico” licence.
#0 Marzo 2016/ March 2016
Guanajuato, México
Fundación de la Sensualidad Espiritual Press
Spiritual Sensuality Foundation Press | [email protected]
Nikola Tosic (Belgrade/ Belgrado, 1977)
Dunja Jankovic (Mali Lošinj, 1980)
Jamian Juliano-Villani (Brooklyn, 1987)
Todas las imágenes cortesía del artista y JTT y Tanya Leighton
All images courtesy of the artist and JTT and Tanya Leighton
Sergio Ernesto Ríos (Toluca, 1981)
Eduardo Padilla (Vancouver, 1976)
Joseph Reiter (Seattle, 1979)
| 65

Documentos relacionados