the right bar

bukowski beer

The poem
was about my impressions
on a night walk at a snowy city
I thought about the name of the poem
and considered this title:
“ the disjointed impressions of a night
walk in the city”
not only alluring
but also clarifying
so that the disjointed pieces
of impressions
would be recognized
as such.

After a few lines like:
The city full
of virgin space
or
walking mechanisms

I stopped writing impressions
in a highly poetic manner
and had one quick
0.5 L
beer at one ‘happening’ bar
the beer was slurped
five minutes later
I was out and walking
looking for the next bar

I referred to the quick beer
as “having a ‘Bukowski’ beer”
when my wife rang and asked about
my whereabouts, she was
surprised when I called
her back less than 2 minutes
later and told her I was
out looking for the next bar
and we should meet up
in the new one
which I efficiently found
moments later after I hung
up
up Oranienstrasse
covered in pink fur;
I unhesitatingly asked for
a beer – which the bartender
quickly brought –
in contrast to the other place
where the bartender
shrugged her shoulders
and pointed to the menu
with a long list of local and imported beer
brands.

Just a beer – if they
bring it right away
you know
you’re in the
right bar.

nihilistic poetry

forever

long drunk night

There was enough
air
to drown us
in acts of
complete senseless
sadness
and yet
we prevailed
through the rituals
and the habits
that were already here
– no one knowing why –
we danced
and drank
cups of blankness
receding into
the lightheartedness
of a deep riotous night,
each one of us
thinking
this night
could last
forever.

entre un nunca y un fue

Erik Satie poema

nunca
fue
 

sentir en el invierno
que nunca antes tuvimos
el frío justo debajo de los

pelos

mientras el paso

errático del hombre

tal vez

yo

caminaba

eufóricamente extraviado

por callejones y calles

cuyos nombres

no podía pronunciar

y era noche

propia de otras novelas

síntoma de otros poemas

y fue ahí

cuando

el calor nocturno

acariciaba en escalofrío

un ídolo del Gnossiennes

en la tempestad

cuya época o región

había habitado

por limitados instantes

antes de

desvanecer

entre un

nunca

y un

fue.

and the bone and the flesh and the

bukowski quote

‘flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh’

the stoic
had spoken
or written these words
which is never the same
thing

he could have been
an Epicurean
but was too
libidinal
to fit the term

pleasure, yes
but excess?

but I’m not
here to
judge
or compare

simply to
repeat
on my twenty-
eighth
finished year:

‘flesh covers the bone and flesh searches for more than flesh’


wouldn’t that make
a great
bedtime story?

desangrar

poesia del nihilismo

El mundo se deshace
lentamente
trozos blancos de su piel
flotan al suelo
en el aire resuena
los angélicos acordes
de la tristeza
que engendró al mundo,
y ahora
al ritmo de los
copos de nieve
que lamentan
el final
se unen los labios
de los tiempos
fúnebres y salinos
en un contacto recóndito
mientras la sangre
de la tierra
se derrama
por estos cielos
taciturnos.

Poesía Contemporánea

starvation

vanishing time

I was born
    starving
and the world
could only muster up
a colorless blanket
     of Time
in which it wrapped me
…while I’m slowly
fainting
in its folds.

nihilistic poetry

The night sat on my face

drunk moon

The night sat on my face
like the smelly old ass
of a rotten moon
just on the day
I’ve been fired from life
wandering off on the cliffs
of who knows what conundrum
and joyfully composing the silly
gooey poetics of a drunken soul
I recall writing something about
the foulness of philosophical systems
or the moans of relic religions;
whatever it was,
the night and its greasy weight
sat on my face
like the spits of moonshine
that drunks burp out
on the face of a
lonesome hour.

nihilistic wanderings