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Friday, July 31, 2009

Poetry



Poetry is the soul of life itself,
free on its flight,
it takes us to unsuspected corners
of impossible countries
with magic utopia
or to the raw reality
of the Hells we suffer
in agony and silence
and total self-denial;
but always with the elegance
of the one who spills
his own blood
from the inkstand of his very veins
to the desert of the paper,
flowering it
completely.

Pure thougts



We were traveling
beyond time and space:
wing with wing
flight with flight,
in a flock of singing minstrels,
intoning our celestial chorus;
and the light, serenade and throbbing,
was flickering solemn
while guiding our ethereal essences
towards impossible orbs
without boundaries or borders.

The cosmic universes
were dispelling before our astonishment
as soon as they appeared;
and our furtive and mysterious flight
was rapid,
swift and steady,
a lot faster
than light velocity…
We were
¡pure thought!

Unfounded gelosy



Her smile
shreds me with caution,
it hounds me without mercy,
and then, it tears
my will up
perpetually.
Her serenity
is so frightening
that makes the panic spread
into my cowards
and insecure thoughts.
And all the foundations
of an indestructible passion
give their way before the jealousy seism.
Her eyes
are two destroyers,
her hands
are two submarines torpedoing me
with their ill-fated strokes.
Her silence is a guillotine,
how I would like to be telepathist!
or at least a clairvoyant,
maybe an inexistent shadow;
like the sun's shadow
that always passes unnoticed.
Yet, finally
my destine is not the one I want it to be
but…those circumstances force me throw.
Where did stay the free will?
If really there was such thing
I personally
would choose to be a poet,
a singer,
an actor,
a scientist
or an astronaut.
I would choose to be born in Sirius
or in Alpha Centaury
or in Andromeda, even better…
I would even choose
to be born in a super cluster
so far away from this Milky Way
that I would never know about her existence.
Therefore I would not have to forget her
I could not remember her,
nor I must go back
to the inert and sporadic past,
to the voluminous, vacuous
and empty past
that traps me continuously.
My God!
How many nonsense I am writing?
Do not answer me, at all…

Homage to Van Gogh



The shadow is being forging;
shadow by shadow
the light is being creating.
From the indefinable
trough the neat, tidy, clean
and victorious definition
of a pictorial big-bang.

Elemental weft of fractals
in a cosmic dance
over the canvas;
that moves its deformities
towards alchemist paths
of redeeming figures and shapes:

That is the way the work is made;
that is the way the master is forged;
he puts his soul into the canvas
letting it play with lights and shadows,
experiencing life and death;
so that
pictorial art
may transmute
in visual poem.

I am my totality



I am my totality.
If I let see my lights only
I would be a bad painted picture;
if I let see also my shadows
I will acquire poetry,
perspective,
projection,
deepness.
And it is then;
and only then
that I will be all my real truth.

Simply I am



I am just a wounded dog;
curled up
at the edge of the road.

If you come to heal me
I will receive you;
¡suspicious, yes!
but I will receive you…

If you show indifference to me,
I will stay so tame;
because you are neither with me
nor against me.

But if you attack me
I will bite
and I won't loose!

Do I do well?
Do I do badly?
Neither well nor badly:
plainly…
I do.
Am I good?
Am I bad?
Neither good nor bad:
simply…
I am.

Epidermal iron bars



This body that lodges me
-a massive concentration of space-time-
is a jail, is a prison…
of epidermal iron bars.

If I had been made from star dust,
if I am a free spirit and a spreaded soul
how come I have ended so cloistered
among bones and muscles!

How it is possible
that this inexistent time
can be my cruel gaoler?

I will come back into my mother belly,
restarting this torture
when death would reach me
again, and again, and again…

Coeternal time



Today and yesterday
conjugate as tomorrow
right here and right now.

Everything is present:
Time is not lineal at all
but it is relative.

All is coeternal:
only the flower that fades
produces its fruit.

Waterfall



Pearly waterfall
of crystallizable drops.
They're always in love.

Light, distorted realities



Light is a rain
of microscopical jewels
that goes painting
the celestial vault.

Light is; then, a snowfall
of chilly tears,
that comes swirling a blizzard
over the canvas of the planet.

Oh impertinent, riffraff,
and fraudulent light:
Why do you cover the mantle
of the sidereal orb?

My memories about you


Inside
deep inside my skin,
beyond my organs,
beyond my cells,
where the photons of the soul
agglutinates one another
forging my understanding:
Right there...
I keep my memories
about you!

The plastic age



Finitude
established
by the material life
into the elemental link
of the nanosecond.


Moribund
was; four countless ages,
the intelligence breath
that loomed up with diligence
but without resultant;
until the soldier of the stone
and the stick had appeared.


And the troglodyte,
already coming out of his hermitage,
dared to put his foot on another star
and furious
almost destroys the world…


But the great epopee barely begins
and, wondering to give as primacy;
news
that's already stale;
I announce the end of finitude
and the start of eternal youth
thanks to the genome and its discovery…
that will be the perfect complement
for the plastic age.

Death in the city



While walking from a corner
I am stopped by the traffic lights,
there are no cars in sight,
so I cross the street
and a truck jumps out from nowhere;
it is big as a giant monster
it is ferocious as a Velociraptor
it is ubiquitous as a god.
I manage to dodge it
so, I'm safe
for now,
but my blood freezes
mortally
with a sharp pain in my left arm,
and a very strong pressure on my chest
and my chin…the chin ...
Obviously,
I have to die today
in one way or the other...

Soulmates



What is this soul that shines within?
What is this feeling that cries inside?
Can it be truth that soul is sexless?

One time female and then a male
and then again...
again female.
If I had been so many times
as man as I may now be seen...
If I had been so many times
a girl, a woman, an older mom...

How can it be that I don't know
what is the meaning of your distress?
How can it be that I don't get
what are the feelings of your good-byes?

Maybe there is another life,
maybe all men have to be women,
maybe all women must end as men,
maybe you'll see from all my pains
while I'll watch from your big eyes.

Maybe only then we'll understand
that there is not such kind of thing
as the great man or the great girl.
Or maybe we all are kind of them:
greatest of greatest parts of mankind.
I do not care if you are not important
because you are, at least to me.

My baby



The column of bluish smoke
rises to heaven
fine and ethereal
critical and useless
as my fateful heaviness also does.
Today I was everywhere
tired, exhausted,
I asked
I insisted
I continued
I persisted
without result.
Another day without work,
without money for bread,
without milk for the baby,
without pacifists silences,
with fights and dislikes;
I am better going to the bar!
if I get drunk she does not say anything,
she is afraid of me
when I am drunk,
she quivers when feels my breath ...
Yeah, I will better go to the bar,
I'll take a few wedding dressed beers
and
I'll forget all the matter about employment.
But, wait!
I have no money,
How can I pay for the drinks?
I do not pay them
somebody drunk enough will bid them to me
if I'll take conversation out of him
and we'll chat about women or soccer.
Yes, I am going to the bar better,
and I will forget about the employment
about that mad woman of my wife
about the annoying weeping of my baby...

My baby!
My beautiful baby...
No, I'd better go back home
And I'd take the cascade of reprimands
and then I will go to sleep,
so I'll get up very early
to seek for a work
in order to give the milk to my baby
My baby!

Sobs



Sob,
corroded tree,
uprooted,
cloudy and lonely .
Sob,
destiny without conscience,
everlasting cloister,
unfinished poem
of dying verses.
Sob,
arrhythmic palpitation,
clandestine hollow,
quiet seed
of dew's drops,
in short:
hardly;
only
a timid
sob.

Last supper



I open the door
and:
What a vision!
As an ebony statue,
she is
perfect,
seductive,
curvilinear,
and sensual-
I get paid by hours:
She says.
All right:
I answer her while slobbering myself.
This one will be an unforgettable night.
She slowly gets naked;
appetizingly.
Dribbler of me,
I am watching her
while a pair of antennae
springs from her temples
as long as towers;
and from her mouth
a pair of fangs sprouts:
Pointed and sharp.
I know
that I will die this daybreak,
but:
What it matters?
Who cares!

My life is gone



My life is dark and black and sad:
It’s just as dust, without a lad.
It’s like a dream that never fades
or like a sound that always wades.

My life is gone, forever now.
I do not know the why, the how:
It fled, escaped, it ran away
as madness shaped or like a prey.

My life had vanished long time ago
without permission, it took my soul
and went chasing my false illusions
before my death, after delusions.

The trident



The moth-eaten blouse covers the breasts
of the world, that is desperate to reborn
among the ashes and the mud
forged by gall and venom.
The mouse-eaten trousers wrap up the purple
buttocks of the swelled up dishevelment
in the middle of the sea, above its algae.
The world is a rubbish cask,
it knocks out stars and suns with its strong fetidness;
the constellations are vomiting
and the galaxies are nauseated.
The sulfur acid is part of any rain;
it is the rain itself!
There are no beaches without cans and bottle peaks
they are not beaches without them!
Ozone; the stratospheric king,
cries out for mercy before the guillotine
that approaches implacable.
Thousands of fishy corpses float over sea.
Thousands of multicolored birds stop warbling.
Life beings of the world are selling their souls to the devil.
But, who is the devil?
I feel a tail sprouting from my back,
I feel two horns sprouting from my forehead,
and between my hands, I feel a trident.
I feel a trident.

Sometimes



Sometimes,
I would really want to trust you,
to trust a little
in your pride of Swiss watch.
Pleasure or displeasure,
I would almost retry,
fall back, redo my steps.
But then,
there is that thread of pain,
that drop of boredom,
that tiny fear of having my heart hurt
again...
But then,
the invisible sidewalk does not exist,
and; if it does exist, it can't be seen,
and the songs are not listened at all,
nothing can be heard on the top of the sky
when I kiss you.
There is no sound track
as in American movies.
There is neither firework,
nor bell ringing, nor angels chores,
and the soil under my feet does not quake
when I kiss you, my love.
Heart of who knows whom!