Author: Pablo Saborio

the thought of us together

Life of the Modern Poet

Name me
the pits of existence
the minor spots
where it is safe to stop
stop and write a poem
I can’t wait till I die
so I can write about it
in the last scribble of consciousness
I will be there narrating:
               light, angels, war, sex, infinity lied
I am waiting to hear
your confession
all progress – vain
stop…
join me
in the cracks, corners, alleyways
the gutters, the nooks, the black holes
take the next exit
let’s rest near a perception
write a verse or none
we’ll sit and gaze
stargaze the stampede
the whole tumultuous downfall of the manned-world
                                  as distant as galaxies
just you and me… preserved
                as a poem.

contemporary poetry

sentimientos

david_monk

Una chispa de cielo
perdida
en la antigüedad
de mi soledad

una sola pluma
cayendo
en la atmósfera
de mi irrealidad.

 


poesía moderna

Supine bewilderment

bedroom shadow poetry


What muscle can I use
to lift despair
despair that’s agape and out of words
hope-coated despair
that keeps us waiting for a train
that was never built;
while the body of the universe
convolutes in acrobats and yogas
I feel like a cramp
at its heel
what is my next move –
let the future be?
but this future
is a dividing wall
between us and our _____
                   (enter your raison d’être here)
I have a sledgehammer
but only atrophied muscles
to do the job.

nihilistic poetry

qué sé yo

No sé seducir
la mujer ni el futuro
a veces termino hablando heces
imaginando una costa
tres cajas de vino y un viento decadente
que me escupe lejanías
no sé nadar
en subocéanos ni en silogismos
a veces me hundo
por los días sin fondo
viendo las últimas burbujas
dibujar picassos en su ascenso
no sé inventar
ideas ni ambiciones
a veces un caudal de noche
me arrastra hasta el alba
como insomne buscando
cielo, ser y eternidad
no sé existir
como pablo ni como nadie
a veces me refugio en un poema
para vivir en otro siglo
con una voz afónica, diciendo:
no sé…. no sé…….

Poesía Siglo XXI

the placenta of being

Sacrament_of_poetry

My mind
is the drug
that hallucinates reality
uncoated veins and nerves
in contact with the truth
of a madman
I take a few steps
towards the keyhole of introspection
I inspect the pores of my otherness
thin pale hairs
creating a landscape of
solitary figures
in the grey white froth of subjectivity
out there, the sky
trembling and resigned
wringing out cotton static
purifying the streets
with afterlife and Aum
poetry is the sacrament
morphine for the cancerous
the unhatched gelatin lump
in the placenta of being. 

contemporary poet

mental impairment

Dead_Animal_Slaughter

Blood
what is it?
we spill it
in the sea, land, air,
it moves: shoot it/sell it
my eyes
retreat
their swollen veins
as synonym to animals
I feel the guilt
here in cluster city
army by determinism
the sapiens beast
beasts of language
consuming and plunder!
irradiant ecosystems
Judge,
I plead guilty
punishment: stupidity
yes,
bereft of innocence
I walk towards the sea
with suicidal venom
leaving behind
the machinery of pain
I fueled;
for what am I
to say what’s right or
wrong.

the way of the poet

21st Century Poetry

I call this
my turning hour
the imperceptible motion
from a fifty-nine
to a double-zero
I live this instant
in the streets
the cold cave of Europe
here, I wander aimlessly
I wonder incessantly
my stomach is turning too
hungry and drunk
let’s rock and roll
in the zeitgeist
that no history
will ever
record.

 


21st Century Poetry

hum along

middle_finger_poem

Hum, hum, hum
metronome
numb, numb, numb
here I am gone
she flakes off
blue nail polish
thus we glide
in underground
tunnels
bum, bum, bum
my bore-dom
wrong, wrong, wrong
I’m undone
rum, rum, rum
I’m no fun
alone in the world
I am on the run.

catharsis begun

Fetus Hand Poetry

The days have expired
if I was once a shadow
now I am smoke
tomorrow?
perhaps the empty pause
between two despairs
the sky is black tar
my distant vault
stained by the vapor
of every perspired minute
I made my hands cups
the recipients of beauty
but it would not rain
clear skies with
excess of stars
dizzied by this overhead
backdrop
I made up posthumous names
for my fetus hands

tomorrow?

a lie
a song
a purposeless
flight.

 


 modern poetry