Author: Pablo Saborio

la mirada

Se vestía de una lejanía
ella descansaba
en el horizonte
tapado por una civilización
de huecos y ecos
ajena a la lucha diaria
ella
con una pesada envoltura
de estrellas y pesimismos
se movía sigilosamente
como ideal moribundo
que chorrea del las manos
y en secreto de mar
desnuda por la transparencia
de su distancia
me miró
callada y juez
condenó todo intento
en silencio y espera
me percaté que el mensaje
es un cuarto de hora
hundido en el vacío
sin números.
 
 
 

poesía nihilista

approximations

Guesses
wide awake
yet engulfed
in bottomless dream
guessing
how to undress
be raw, nakedly raw
while the great wave of tomorrow
usurps all my vain hypotheses
the crystals in the air
swirl in entrancing patterns
I’m guessing
undecided
whether to cross this street
or return to the wreckage
that floats over the nothingness
of the world
then the mist descends
and engulfed again
in that sewer full of the debris
of revolutions and broken sciences
guessing
how to plant my heart
far away in the fields
where light
touches
light.
 
 
 

21st century poetry

los días son…

los dias

Los días son campos
ambiguos
los días son
necedades
hechas para enfurecer
y desaparecer
los días son
rituales estrechos
donde no caben
los elixires de un borracho
los días son mitos
narrando la imposibilidad
de un sueño metafísico
los días son
la verdad
de lo que no
tiene verdad.

superhero stuff

I wasn’t going to give up
I stood up
probably looking like a fool
two steps back
and then a great leap
alighting on the nearest
caprice
that would fling me forward
in speeds unknown to men
far beyond the perimeter
of predictability
in amazement I was already
roaming the streets
the night crackling like firewood
in the midst of an entire
careless crowd
blind with mad desire
running through
the streets
and the smells
the drool
the sweat
I could taste everything
nothing could stop me
like a superhero of despair
that would not
give up
relentlessly swerving
through the eternal succession
of labyrinthine alleyways
I ran
ran
and ran
laughing
like a fool
because I would never
give up.

 

nihilistic poetry

detalles

ciudad cementerio

este lugar existía
tenía un ángel
que sobrevolaba en dosis
de crepúsculo
con los hielos narrando
los grises cohibidos
debajo de las suelas de la prisa
y cruza un hombre con
brazos de letargo
abriendo el humo desahogado
que flota en vórtices
por la avenida del invierno
en estacas se captan
los edificios con tendencias
melancólicas causadas
por un amor que se grabó
en incienso y no en cemento
este lugar existía
tenía un ángel meditabundo
que sobrevolaba por zonas
de un aforismo huérfano
pudriéndose
en el cementerio
del anteayer.

poesía contemporánea

pop song

Guitar poetry

If time had a sound
it would be the dark
arpeggio of a rusty guitar
and I’m unsure
why I chose a metaphor
for time
or why that image
should enter this poem
but I’ve been sitting here
not expecting anything
not certain of what to look forward to
all along
kinda swaying with
the wasting of every minute
almost audibly humming
to the repetitive chords
of this imaginary guitar
that someone could’ve picked up
along the way
to fill in the gap
the silent void
that sweeps through
the years.

nihilistic poetry

al son de un caos

Consciousness image

Del árbol sube
hoja o pensamiento
movimiento espaciotemporal
un tronco
situado debajo de la idea
la raíz aferrada al abismo
encrucijada o el vacío
el cielo
se extienden las ramas
nace una hoja
o algún pensamiento
el caos juega de viento
sacudiendo la madera
en un ritmo drogado
y subo del árbol
al pensamiento
alcanzando una palabra
si acaso dice:
soy.

Nothing ever happens (Part 3)

Bar Poetry

At last, alone
a new bar
quietly staring
at the incongruities
of a Friday night.
A whole sofa for myself
noise and smoke
chaos in small doses
— slowly letting the booze
sink in
as I begin to feel
like an invincible dragon
ready to scorch the night
in one terrible yawn
of boredom.
Not much later
I got up and headed home
to drown
whatever was left of this life
in the substance of
dreams.

nihilistic poetry

Nothing ever happens (Part 2)

Bar Poetry

Then, suddenly
I’m sitting next to
a Lithuanian, a Turkish and a Palestinian
the latter dressed in sweat pants and barefoot
the middle is big-boned and not shy about it
the former eager to raise havoc over any trifle —
a heavily drunk balding man gets up in front of us
slips on a step
only to land in an acrobatic display
and then challenge the step
to a duel of masculinity
moments later he is throwing kisses
to a seated woman
and is thrown out politely by the bartender.
the two girls (the Lit and the Turk) are discussing loudly
something in German
the Pale leaves for the bathroom.
I follow after a couple of minutes
only to find him washing his bare dirty feet
in the sink.
I return to my seat
finish off my beer
look around
and I keep saying to myself
nothing ever happens.

nihilistic poetry

Nothing ever happens (Part 1)

Bar_Poetry

I’m sitting alone in a bar. Again. It’s one of those nights.
Waiting for something
to happen.
Moments before
walking, beer in hand
no destination
no subject to develop
pure whim
an attempt to submit
to the greater forces
that control this life.
They never show up.
Now I sit alone,
beer in hand
waiting for something to happen.
 
 

nihilistic poetry