Arturo Desimone

by Horror Sleaze Trash on June 27, 2013



Arturo Desimone was born (1984) and raised on Aruba (Dutch-Caribbean) of immigrant origins foreign to the island (half Argentinean, half Russian-Polish). At 22 he emigrated to the Netherlands, staying five years under its right wing governments, then decided to lead a nomadic way of life that better enabled writing fiction and poetry and making drawings. He has lived on the road between recently-post-revolutionary Tunisia, Greece, Poland and Eastern Europe. As of recently he is based in Buenos Aires, Argentina, living in the Constitucion area, “well-known for its Dominican and transvestite prostitutes. Sometimes if I wear too tight or colourful shirts I am mistaken for a male prostitute while walking in the area and have to turn down offers of 30 pesos.”


His fiction has been in Apeiron Review Issue 1 ( in the Brown Critique, literary quarterly of New Delhi ( and forthcoming in Big Bridge.


His poetry has been in Jewrotica , in the bilingual Hinchas de Poesia , HST and a  story of his notoriety appeared recently in the Clarin of Buenos Aires, under the heading “El Turista Revolucionario” by the investigative reporter Laura Ramos.


Poem laBoca


a voice for hunger,
advisor on phone from Budapest to Buenos Aires
thought it should be fairly easy to make an extra 100 a week
selling quick paintings about tango in Boca
in the sun, tourists
Corner the markets of stone and harbor
of the arson-prone ships of fools:
a market stand, women and old girls
rest on easel, hold up leathery camera from sidewalk,
down with imperialist denim
I paint notes of sheet music on their bare ass
notice cameras have the shape of snouts of wild boar
I labor
I sell the work, product a god in the sea motored, supervised
but the song, like love, will be invisible and for free



A New Statute of women’s rights


Women have the right
to be weaker,
at times
than male athletes
and not only to be champion Atalanta
striving for superiority
Women have the right
to, at times, be underneath,
receptive, quiet
and empty
like the valley
like the valley after sundown
there is no mystery more resilient nor more full
Women have the right
to silence
and not be the phones of mechanical democracy
Women have the right to not cook
to see their children
taken to be raised on a commune
as they call to them crying
women have a right
to be fed by a man
to let him cook and feed her
with spoon to her mouth
If a man feeds a woman
she has surrendered
They have the right to cry
without going outside the room.
Women have the right
to surrender
not carry the oars
of a nest floating nowhere
and to be poor readers of poetry books
and not only dictators and CEOs
who lay off workers
and order companies to bulldoze mud villages
like the male primates of the Polis do.
women who have these rights
are freer, more interesting
In love’s monsoon and absence
it is their breaths at night that propel sails of weak and strong ships.

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