Suicide as art.

Alejandra Pizarnik

you have to cry until you breakin order to make or utter a small song,to scream so much to fill the holes of absencethat’s what you did, what I did.

she killed herself young—an overdose of Seconal, at the age of 36—

SOMETHING

night as you go

lend me your hand

work of a teeming angel

days commit suicide

why do they?

night as you go

good night

Death will come with your eyes

this death that accompanies us

from morning till night, sleepless,

deaf, like an old regret

or a stupid vice. Your eyes

will be a useless word,

a muted cry, a silence.

As you see them each morning

when alone you lean over 

the mirror. O cherished hope,

that day we too shall know

that you are life and nothing.

For everyone death has a look.

Death will come with your eyes.

It will be like terminating a vice,

as seen in the mirror

a dead face re-emerging,

like listening to closed lips.

We'll go down the abyss in silence. 

Cesare Pavese

On August 27, After winning a literary award, he committed suicide in a Turin hotel room by a barbiturate overdose.  

Please Don't take me Home.

 Ricardo Rendon, Celebrated Colombian political cartoonist. After drawing a quick sketch of a skull and writing the words "Please do not take me home"he shot himself in the head in a coffee shop here in Bogota at age 37.

Blessèd Are the Normal

Blessèd Are the Normal

by Roberto Fernández Retamar

Blessèd are the normal, those rare creatures
Who have no crazy mother, drunken father, delinquent child,
Nowhere house, unknown disease,
Who haven’t been burn by devouring love,
Who could live the seventeen faces of the smile and maybe more,
Filled with shoes, archangels in hats,
Satisfied, fat, handsome,
The rintintins and their followers, the ones who grease the wheels,
The winners, the endlessly desired,
Flautists followed by mice,
Vendors and their customers
Knights only slightly superhuman
Men dressed in thunder and women in lightning
The delicate, the prudent, the cunning,
The amiable, the sweet, the edible, the drinkable.
Blessèd are the birds, the dung, the stones.

But let those pass who make worlds, dreams,
Illusions, symphonies, words that confuse
and construct us, those crazier than their mothers, drunker
Than their fathers more delinquent than their children
And more devoured by burning love.
May they descend to their station in hell, and be done with.

Translated by Mark Weiss

Me cae mal