Author: Pablo Saborio

Thanatos

thanatos_poem

House, an ambulance of thorns and the chairs. The dust
a coat of ghost upon furniture, reality – the hairs
in my nostrils a trembling unto death. Laughter,
a www or another milieu ripe with decadence
and the ballet of bullets in a new nation – forever?
The moon has grown without tasting an apple and
it explodes, one day, without leaving enlightenment
arrrrrrgh. or ash
in elevator low the masterpiece of low sound
the foreseen doom of leaving veins into
narrow corridors warehouse of worms wonder
the same bullshit because they die
and become little food
for grass/trees and
there goes the waiter with a white shirt
always a man with a face and a pack
of cigarettes and always Schopenhauer
in theater thinking of Thanatos et triviality
aid to disease and milestone quintessential
orb of alleviation, my dear anxiety
where like an angel will I see the light
and fly away morose like
some morsel masticated selflessly
because this house is curtain
and the blood is shiny
like mirror a sound
tired from abyss
in my hand
and tiny
thing
or
soul.

Contemporary Poetry

states of flux (abstract realism photography)

What no one will remember

(Part xL9)

Nowhereness. July 18. ’13.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

Arbitrary light (abstract photography)

What no one will remember

(Part xL8)

City’s light paintings. July 17.2013

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

This is not an experiment.

postmodern_poem_about_mortality

This is not an experiment.

This is an animal
slowly dressing itself
with a garment of stone.
This is a shadow
shedding its bone
in a camouflage of change.
This is a sister
opening a drawer
to hide a wonderful thing.
This is antiquity
growing thick with mighty
buttresses of steel.
This is a mouth
inhaling sweet
movements of moonlight.
This is a perception
flapping in the silence
of the air.
This is a drunk
stealing a plume
from the waitress’ perfume.

But above all,
this is another hand
clinging to the edge
before the fall.

Contemporary Poetry

El devenir

poema_julio_2013

Un clavo que me recuerda la tierra,
dura, punzante, clavada en la nada.
Es noche, la noche no tiene mapa.
Aquí han nacido y se han ido
como olas, olas despacio viajes
en la sed de mundos. Algo
sucede, apenas entra al pecho
se hace un devenir .
Queda atrapado en la industria
del olvido, doy mi mano
al minuto y me lleno de vértigo.

Una candela que me recuerda la tierra,
titileo, crepúsculo ardiendo en la memoria.

Poesía Contemporánea

terms and conditions

postmodern_poetry_blog

why don’t

YOU
walk down history
as through a great avenue
to deliver the good news
to a decaying world

why don’t

YOU
speak a language
whose every word
is a cup filled
with beatific light

why don’t

YOU
become
the blossoming bud
of fire that will consume
the wasteland of the earth

why don’t

YOU
release mankind
from its immemorial shackles
and carry the heavy light of truth
to the eyes of every man, woman
and child

why don’t

YOU
reveal the gates of salvation,
or the ultimate purpose
of our petty lives

why don’t

YOU
add up all divinities
and multiply them
into one enormous entity

why don’t

YOU
unite all opposites
sensual and ideal
material spiritual
past future
life death
into a totality of all
totalities

why don’t

YOU
wrestle from the grip
of science and religion
the meaning of all
being

why don’t

YOU
lift the veil of illusion
and disclose the essence
behind this all-
embracing chaos

then, only then

I will follow you.

Contemporary Poetry

thin vicissitude

absurd_poetry_blog

I bumped into the city, the bastard.
Looking around the snow – remembering
my tongue melting as ice in Lascaux and fossilized
toothpicks near the ancient campfire.
I was in Iceland and got drunk,
looking at the cloudless that would die
before the sky reached Sweden.
I have been on the toilet all day,
working, theorizing, and it came
out looking like Nobel’s head,
one day
I will sit beneath a giant tree and forget
my existence as grass never did.
I see why the intellectuals
are enchanted by doom.
But why worship definition as
a totem almighty menacing godly cult.
I see why the poets cancel death
and write lyrics for the music
of meaningless wind.
I observe the visionaries
about to detonate with their unclean secret
like a grenade in their chests . But they can’t,
never finding sunshine in communication,
sadness has overwhelmed language
leaving behind a thin vicissitude
of smoke.

Contemporary Poetry

moments in the sky (photography)

What no one will remember

(Part xL7)

A trickle of sky. July 11. 2013.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

Flash Fiction: the blue nuggets

– Ok. Here’s what we have. A ladder, a pair of shears, bandage, alcohol and a megaphone.
– What are we supposed to do with all that?
– They told me we need to sterilize the sky.
– Say what?!
– You know, remove its testes.
– You gotta be kiddin’ me. How the hell are we going to emasculate the sky?
– Well, we gotta get up there and figure it out.
– Are you serious? Get up where?
– There, between the sack and the butthole.
– Come on now, are you delirious?
– I’m just trying to figure out what the megaphone is for.
– Listen to me, there must be a mistake. It’s ludicrous, how are they asking us to…
– Ah! I get it, it’s to warn the people below when the nutsack is about to fall.
– Are you really buying into this? It must be a joke!
– Yeah, there’s not enough bandage in case we get massive hemorrhage.
– Here comes the manager. Let me have a word with him.
– Gentlemen, something preventing you from working?
– Listen, my buddy here says we have to castrate the sky. I believe there is some kind of mistake.
– Yes, there’s not enough bandage there in case you get massive…
– No wait, sir! That’s not my point. Could you be so kind as to indicate where does the sky keep its private parts?
– Mr. Kobket, I don’t have time to lecture you on the anatomy of the heavens. I am certain it was a requirement in your studies to read Copernicus’ work on the heavenly spheres.
– Unfortunately I have not, but it’s plain common sense that the sky lacks sexual organs. Am I missing out on something?

At this point the conversation enters anomalous levels of absurdity. We will not make preposterous demands on the credibility of the reader. Any educated person will recognize that Mr. Kobket was the only sane, one could as well say, grounded person of the pack. No one has ever observed, much less imagined, the sky swinging two gigantic azure balls over the horizon as it makes its way from daylight to twilight. No one has ever seen a rugged celestial bulge shrinking in timidity when exposed to the chilly currents of a winter gale. No one has ever seen two brilliant disks twitching as the sky ejaculates lightning and moans in thunder. No one has ever smelled the musk and sweat of glands rubbing day and night against the thighs of clouds. No airplane has ever become entangled in a web of ethereal filaments proceeding from the pubescence of the firmament. Not one, not in a thousand years, not in a thousand years.