Andean Nuclear Spring

Agustín Guambo’s Andean Nuclear Spring is a literary artifice that situates us in the heart of the post-apocalypse in Quito. In this nuclear spring, Quito could be any other city in Latin America: a reality populated by plain landscapes, dreams, rhinoceri, the changing direction of wind, ashes and chants passed into the future from one generation to the next. Disparate voices speak: from native quechua to punk songs, they carry parts of a story whose narration describes a moment near us but not quite where we are, mapping, where destruction burrowed its way into our societies. This is an attempt toward faith in our ideologies, identities, cultural backgrounds, and the never-ending presence of love. And — or — it is a Latin American (that is, American) neo-baroque aesthetics of the void, that vast unfilled body like a starry night on the páramo.


the skull of the sea shines in the andean páramo
in the middle of a pack of trees an arcane song
announces the birth of night

                               -pampachamuni apullay uyahuanquichu, manachu?-

i  have   heard   the   sweet   madness  growing   in   your   blood   just  like  a  cetacean
wallowing in the vine of stars

                                                      [the night will protect us from this insectivore nightmare]
                                                                                                       tukuy yawar ninchis quespin kaiku

                                                                          [we belong to the wind and its ancestral desires]
                                                                                                      tukuy yawar ninchis quespin kaiku

         -the remnants of an andean constellation kissing the skin of rhinoceri-
         -the remnants of an andean constellation kissing the blood of rhinoceri-
         -the remnants of an andean constellation kissing the ashes of rhinoceri-
         -the remnants of an andean rhino kissing the blood of constellations-

                                                                    Ñawpa pachapi

-the remnants of a constellation bristling the wind shatter the andean night-

because at night I get up to see if you’ve reincarnated from the dust in my hands
pampachamuni apullay uyahuanquichu, manachu?
because in exiled nights I rise to see if your blood lies once again in silence over the
constellation of trees and the desert in its death throes agonizes in my skin
pampachamuni apullay uyahuanquichu, manachu?

we will return to the wind and its psalm in the throes of agony that day by day feeds
our words
pampachamuni apullay uyahuanquichu, manachu?

     -the remnants of a constellation bristling the wind thread the memory of our

                                                      children in the song of night-

                                                               freezed fireflies hatch from our tracks lick the face of
                              trees as bodies attached to the nectar of the rocks release a prophecy
                                                                                    ¡tukuy yawar ninchis quespin kaiku!

        -the remnants of a constellation bristling the wind break the andean night-

our days have returned to the red chord of the conch shells the breath of the sunset
flooding with babbling electricity this andean land we will say again our prayer of
forgetfulness ¡tukuy yawar ninchis quespin kaiku! thinking about how to wound a bird’s flight
or the warm flesh of the andes and to yell
-without hatred- behold here who forgets you while dying behold here who blasphemes
on your land behold here who now asks you to sink your fingers in their eyes serenely
caress their nerves and fill you with rage eden is death galloping in the damp horizon
sprouting from the womb of those trees you taught me to love
we are the mud

                                            where nobody will sink their hands…

◄◄ancestral fever tattooing itself on our medulla►►

ignited  by your song we will gather fruits and  forgetfulness in the confused streets
from the Comité del Pueblo            destroyed by the night we will run under the trees
of   San  Juan  searching   for  our  oxidized  apus   you  will   see  us  burrow   near  La
             Pachakamaq a new disease dwells in our dna we are infected with civilization
                                                                                    urbanmadness cannibalism isolation chaos
                          Pachakamaq Ama yapa puñuychu Pachakamaq kanwankani Yanapay!!!

paranoid insects devastated by the sea walk illuminating the sidereal aurora of their
             wombs                                           with     nightmares        in   their          skin        they
¡observe the street prophets!
naked chest ancestral beggars      urban buddhas full of green and fresh

in their hands the chaos burns
naked and drunk they know what love is and its cancer
andean waskas
may their love bite the exhausted cold of this páramo city
and wake the madness of the birds

[listening to] Radiohead [as I remember your smile each time I] talked about god

To Belles Perennis


I cradle your head’s white flower with the same fear that I would feel holding the
universe in the palms of my hands – I cradle your head’s white flower like a
delicate and innocent mischief a kid has built with the pollen of his faith on an
autumn night – I cradle your head’s white flower thinking of the days when your
fresh scent will be a panther escaping towards a reddish neurotic sky – I cradle
your head and its flower with the same clumsy unease of a devastated god that
would play with the birds of his heart waiting for a compass-less sea to sprout
from his chest – I cradle your warm head as if we were the only inhabitants of this
world who don’t have a place to escape to and retract constantly to the rain –I
cradle your head’s mestizx flower over the city and the sun is a broken black
sparrow tied to your name


zillions of terrible and beautiful stars falling in my mind like harmless fruits/ it was
our temporal belief: let’s build the sea, the flowers and the silence every morning/
the sunsets don’t hurt anymore as you supposed/ sunsets filled with a drowsy
melancholy and long walks on narrow golden streets/ I used to be scared of your
hands and their warmness/ I confess to you: my bones are less heavy since you’ve
left and it’s hard for them to fill with light/ a delirious sun melting over a people's
melancholy/ ancestral insects come back home daily with faith and delirium/ the
sunsets don’t hurt anymore as you supposed/ what hurts is that insects stubbornly
ask for you on Mondays/ the city grows with the same dexterity that humans have
in feeling lonely on Sundays at six seventeen in the afternoon/ it didn’t rain today

and the sunset brought no news/ the gentle meadows of your eyes burning in my
blood/ I repeat to you/ the sunsets don’t hurt anymore as you wrongly supposed/
now it hurts more to see god sitting in the living room drinking coffee and
listening to Patti Smith until dawn/ god unbathed in pajamas around the house
dragging his pain from the bathroom to the kitchen from the kitchen to the bed
hurts/ god unemployed, with allergies, swearing to never to drink or pet the
neighbor’s cats again hurts/ it hurts to see his tiredness/ the little interest he takes
in life hurts/ but I’m not telling you this for you to worry/ god is strong and I’m
with him/ every day I bring him a chocolate / I sit him in front of the computer,
hug him, we watch malcom together/ until one of the two of us falls asleep/