Author: Pablo Saborio

Te ha pasado

Blue Eye Madness

Te ha pasado
que la existencia
se solidifica como cemento
en la garganta
y no se puede respirar
toda la estúpida lucha
para llegar hasta aquí
perdida
en un instante de agonía
los pulmones a punto
de gritar
“ayuda tengo
atorada la vida
en mi tórax”
pero solo logran soltar una tos
de rinoceronte
y así de cerca estuviste de un manicomio
con los genios de la alucinación
que viven encerrados entre cuatro paredes blancas
pero se sienten
como un dios
recostado contra una infinidad
comiendo cometas y fumando soles;

¿te ha pasado
algo así?


Poesía Nihilista

to my brothers

Finger on Flame

you should have seen
when I put my fingers
over the flame
they smelt of Kerosene
a very obscene
scene
the piano lid shut
I could have composed
a sad sonata
for all the future drunks
that will die hung-over
without ever writing a poem
you should have seen
the coarse roar of my spleen
gave everyone a start
heavy heaving
I should have been
a line of serpentine smoke
rising from the hands
of a drunk
that will die
hung-over
never knowing
why he was
so
mean.

 


nihilistic poetry

espacios

Una hoja
blanca
magnética
como un lago
agua que descansa
lejos
bien lejos
de las guerras nacidas
de diez dedos;
una suavidad
blanca
para pulir
el áspero rosto
de mi imperfección
leyendo
poemas sagrados
de sangre
textura de sanidad
que envuelve la locura
de cada noche;
un suspiro
blanco
para vivir
sin convicciones
ahí
aquí
allá
donde sea
que haya
cielo
abierto.

 


Poesía Siglo 21

time’s the renegade

Time_Clouds_ Modern Poetry

The century skipped a beat
you, me and them
now dance in the criminal perplexity of death
I don’t want to state the obvious
but you are so obvious
my brain feels like the word: bacteria
almost an etcetera but never like a cafeteria
time hopped onto future’s back and left me back there
with the orphan past
I said, the century missed a beat
now we sleep listening to the lullaby of underwater winds
things broke
but chaos is a wonderful planetmaid
in the last days of last decade
I held my feet up high, pretending to be a bat
that could sleep and digest while clutching the sky
she loved to watch things grow – she was a true prophet
is it a sin father to make life a pillow and all events fiction
since the century ran over us without saying goodbye
can I sleep for the rest of this
illusion?

 

nihilistic poetry

las palabras son

Palabras, Movimiento 

Las palabras son
lesbianas turistas hablando de un obelisco
que no me dejan enterrar en su abismo
las palabras son
vórtices y montañas rusas
no tienen precio de entrada
pero terminas vomitando del mareo
las palabras son
dedos sin huellas
manos asesinas que ahorcan sin consecuencia
a los volúmenes de la experiencia
las palabras son
gemelas siameses
que aún leen a Freud
para saber cuál de ellas es el súper-yo
las palabras son
un Himalaya en este corazón
que un budista pinta
cuando medita sin razón.


 
 

pieces and failures

Call me the hunted man
I’m the stranger in your claws
the convict in your laws
I drink the poison of your bars
but I’m not the drunk as this life
inebriated with pursuits
I toast to immensity and curiosity
my life phenomenon strangest consciousness
painted beauty on the orbits of seconds
ideas that have misspelled their democracy
dreams that disinherited their syntax
love for your lost eyes
too shy to reach the earth
I’m the Nostradamus of the irrational
unable to predict the literature of the collective desire
in the mouth of September twenty ten
we will drown in the saliva of tedium
then, BANG!
in the glory of being
a tsunami of heartthrobs will flood us
our voices in unison
     my lord the white blue green yellow of joy
     has painted the flag of my new devotion
     let all creation be the mathematics of ecstasy
I’m the comedian of impossible utopias
jokes for the philosophers of tears.

 

modern poetry

la purificación

existencia_poetica


Quisiera secuestrar el
por qué
y hacer llorar la pureza del instante
por la pérdida de su fiel déspota,
hoy nada pasó
no hay eventos que contar
ni
inventar
solo quedan las percepciones
enjauladas en la lesión de una mente
que aun cree ser nube
o un rayo de sol
atravesando un prisma de sueño,
las carreteras
no tienen color
huelen si acaso a futilidad
ese tramo imposible
entre
aquí
y la euforia
pero he de seguir algún día
caminar esas calles
en busca de la evolución del símbolo
cuando la palabra se pueda sentir
tocar
como el pómulo mismo de
existencia.

 

 


Poesía Existencial

night-voiced

Sadness, Despair Drunk Poetry

The sadness of the rain
falls
over the happiness of process
we go down to the corners
and take a piss
to avoid the police
and the exuberance of being guilty
then we go back inside
where despair is dissipated
towards the music
and
the noise
makes us forget all the pain
that made us cry in the dark
of a summer night
let’s be brave
betray
so we drink, drink, drink
and then we talk
talk and talk
the flowers on the wallpaper
made with the scent
of the spring
we never had
this is the wood
the glass
the concave walls
the drunk echo
nobody will record
for the annals
of
history.


21st century poetry

a brief view on my own life

21st century poet

I wear thirteen-year-old T-shirts
but I spray them with the most expensive colognes around
I don’t buy them, only use the testers
I’m socially awkward so I might come close
to touch your hair without asking for your permission
you’d probably punch me
but I’ll say that I’m weird and sorry
I’ve never punched anybody in my life, please don’t hurt me
I’m not afraid to write a poem
when something beautiful touches me inside
I see my drunkenness as a preface to wisdom
when I drink a poem I become a mystic
when I peruse your vodka I become a breathing metaphor
I use my sadness as a dictionary
to decipher the language of modern civilization
I do not wish to bore you with my autobiography
when you are done, burn up this poem and use the flame
to warm up your soul.

 

modern poetry

manifesto

shit manifesto

what a load of narrow bullshit. yes, you are right for the great mayority of drunks but for the conscious anarchist-skeptic new-order-boredom-activists, godless yet spiritually-revolutionary, existential philosophical apostles of nothingness. Yes, the absurdist theorists in the field of elementary positivism and groundless rationalism. That is I, I the drunk, ready to abolish street names and currency values, but infinitely afraid of the content of canned beer to be disposed of, in toilets, I must, we must, drink those brewed liquids meant to appease the lower levels of the civilized brain. Shit, this has already made evident the wilderness of my thought, that is, the irregular paths of my thinking, which may, to the ordinary mind, border on insanity. But I must submit to any, and all, greater forces, for I already know and organically feel the power of that physics that controls my biology and the course of my thinking and action. I am the Wall Street of passion that will scorch the planet in a memory of profit. Or is that the nightmare that we call routine and career? Whatever the verdict, why not stare at the night?