BEWARE: Technologists of the obscure

technologist_of_the_obscure

 

 

By understanding the fundamentals of ambiguity the technologist of the obscure harnesses the power to create suitable artifacts (not to be confused with anti-facts) that encrypt the purity of communication into a meshwork of impenetrable significations. This technology, having being exploited by philosophers for ages, has surreptitiously leaked out and fallen into the hands of the architects, engineers and builders of unearthly images and unintelligible utterances, a group of formidable sophists that work relentlessly in the advancement of their art. Commonly grouped together under the heading of ‘Poets’, these deserters of lucidity utilize a wide array of techniques to camouflage their superficiality and produce, to all appearances, objects of intelligence. Their methods include the avoidance of the vernacular, the exploitation of the thesaurus, and the occasional usage of logatomes. This alchemy of language can reach such degree of high abstraction that the reader can momentarily forget the existence of the earth. Such manipulation of perception, while not yet proven to be lethal, can lead to a long-lasting veneration for the incomprehensible. While there might be some value in fiddling with obscurity, it is highly unlikely that straightforward communication will ever be supplanted by the monstrous impenetrability of the ambiguous.

Contemporary Poetry

Como alguien que nació para vivir un solo día

vivir_un_dia

Esta noche dormiré sin tirantes.
Estirado como un trémulo
en piel diferente.
Dejaré un pequeño margen
entre las esquinas del cuerpo
y el golpe abundante del corazón.
Será una noche diferente
porque mis sentimientos
ya no son piedras.
Son luces frescas
en un pañuelo,
sin metafísica, sin abismo.
Las manos ya no se aferrarán
a las sábanas como anclas.
Dormiré como un pez
en ola negra.
Los hombros harán
ondas en la oscuridad.
Esta noche no amarraré
mis colmillos al techo.
Esta noche dormiré
sin pimienta en mis ojos.
Dormiré como un vaso lleno,
sin que las migajas del mañana
se acumulen en mi ombligo.

Poesía Contemporánea

nuance of sense

edge_of_creation

It was in 2013
when I started
dancing –
in the moral sense
of the word.

It was this
year when in
my hole, still
timeworn with despair
that I laughed –
in the philosophical
sense of the word.

It was under
a pale circle
in the sky
that I shouted:
‘more, more!’ –
in the maternal
sense of the word.

It was in
momentary empty
flight when I shot
over the aching nothing
to touch the inchoate
rim of creation –
in the real
sense of the word.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

canto absurdo

destino_de_las_existenciasQue los días:
sean el murmullo que emiten
los parpadeos del cielo

Que el pensamiento:
empiece con rosa alborada
y termine con la substancia
amarilla del silencio

Que los poemas:
siendo piezas de un esqueleto
que dejó el tiempo
enterrado en nuestros recuerdos

Que las mismas palabras:
brincan como polvo alborotado
en la galería de una nube

Que las bestias:
se pierdan sobre el techo
del sueño en una temible
huella de laberinto

Que el cuerpo:
sea absorbido como el sudor
sobre la almohada del viento

Que la cordura:
deje una raíz de fuego
arraigarse en el ciego
destino de las existencias.

Poesía Nihilista

black earth

black_earth

That once I found mirrors
sprawled on the floor, and I
looked for the mountains
of my eyes.

There were many
but lightly had I
taken flecks of skin
to cover the mirrors;
that I wanted to see
no more my reflection
but only feel the caress
of silence,
it was about blood
that trickles like a mute river
around the architecture of bones.

An aura,
myriad of angles,
a hollow breeze trapped
but circulating from one
morsel to the next,
the opulent scattering
of cavities and memories.

I would never comprehend
the purpose but once
inside I could walk
counting the domes
of each mystery
like beads in a rosary.

I could even step upon
the slabs of shadow
for I was only
an invisible thought
measuring the joy
of the black earth.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

miren afuera

vida_consumada

no lean mis ruinas

no daré instrumento
a esta orquestra
de dimensión

no doraré
este torbellino ya
plateado

no elevaré
un párrafo más
a esta noche
mil elogiada

no rescaten mis pañuelos sucios

no tallaré
ninguna sabiduría
sobre el tronco
vivido

no grabaré
más ternura
sobre el suave
amanecer

no divulgaré
más diámetros
del eterno
ciclo

no visiten mis tumbas

miren afuera
la vida ya está consumada.

Poesía Contemporánea

bellsound

bellsound

 

If the end
at a glance
a whole gamut streaked
about to be found
last feeble fleeting
piece of a second.

Someday come.
When all the pages
are stained with words,
but for a white slice of purity
gliding over the dark fallacies
of thoughts.

The mesh, and the ink
has followed the trail
of remembrance.
but this life
being an anthology of instants
has a silent museum
of shadows and vivid
lights.

When all meaning
at last
is a shapeless mass
if in the end
at a glance
something is found;
a piece of motionless
bellsound nestled
by chance
in the straw
of the verb.

 

Contemporary Poetry