At noon, lunch fitted in the hornet’s nest

—dusk will warn, spiritless, about the decay of the knees,

for now it’s all hunger and weariness and the small justice of this broken and crumbled love, again,

another noon.


No gaps for an hour:

a distaff in the ambulatory, asymmetry, the wild peace of a semi-shaded afternoon.


And the orange remnant on the window, too close, pervasive, fenced by shades of red that wish to rhyme with all that’s been lost along the way

—the absent now made of basting stitch and sticks,

toys on the other side of the fence, animated by rough stop-motion techniques, played at the right speed, they become alive and gain trace.


moved in small increments between individually photographed frames,

creating the illusion of movement

when the series of frames is played

as a fast sequence




No gaps for an hour:

the finished template, woodworm, the reaping of smiles on new clothes, the clear-cut.


Pornography of junk piles that redeems certain shapes adopted by the throat-clogging soot around this time, year after year after year after year

—the death of the son and the guilt, muffled and concealed

in the genetic lottery that cripples the daughter, the nostalgic misery in the divorces of both of them and in her own divorce, the chemical levity with which she shames those who only intend to help.




No gaps for an hour:

a jasper brown drop on the sheets, today’s crazy common sense, who cuts the fabric of places barely seen?


So old now, the strain has entangled in so many ways and then it’s been burnt, now that the mold between her legs is hunter green almost purple and secretes a caustic smelling sour cream which dimly perfumes the house

—caring as a religion battering the furniture, the glasses,

the sewing machine, the dummy, the portfolios and templates, the pile of soapstones and balls of yarn and the rulers. A creed associated to the doorbell, to the telephone, to the stove and the fridge, to the belt straps on the bathtub chair, to the standing frame and the latex gloves.


I took and didn’t use a light that was to shine


No gaps for an hour:

means that a closed home is brother to the burrow.


francisco jota bio


Francisco Jota-Pérez (Barcelona, 1979) is a spanish novelist and poet. Author of the novels Aceldama (Origami, 2014), Pasaje a las dehesas de invierno (Esdrújula, 2015) and Teratoma (Orciny Press, 2017), the poetry collections Napalm Satori (Cruciforme, 2010) Máscara:Muerte:Rojo (Albis Off, 2012), Luz simiente (El Transbordador, 2017) and sólidO_Celado (El Transbordador, 2018), and the essays Polybius (Antipersona, 2016) and  Homo Tenuis (Gasmask, 2016).


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