Author: Pablo Saborio

almost

concept

I’m tired of the world
Listening almost analytical,
Blinking and blinking,
Yawning.

And telling stories.

I want to turn off the world,
like a light bulb.

I want darkness to be orthodox.
Like a blanket I
fold into heretic squares of vision.

I’m tired and about
to doubt.

And the sun
Is a big smile
I cannot fuck

I want to smile.

But the dumb
lung is coughing
the truth
away in dirty
streams of saliva.

Fences were beautiful
concepts of once.

Only one time.

To be, shortly.

I almost cried.

Contemporary Poetry

load of la

random

he knife of shy
it tries to cut
through smoke
and so many
whole bars
are full of assholes.

I have smiled waiting
for a drink

Feeling puke inside.

The world seems drunk
at this single cell.

so fine and pregnant
an Old English
a loaf of fool.

Nobody ever
came here.

To notice
the good
I burnt.

AntiPoetry

de la filosofía a la poesía

como_me_hice_poeta

Hace 10 años
soñaba con ser
un gran filósofo

soñaba construir
un lazo tan abstracto
que decoraría el mundo
con el nudo
de mi explicación

soñaba alzar la ficción
a la altura de la ciencia
y la matemática convicción
para declarar que todo
era una grandísima alucinación

soñaba con revelar
la absoluta similitud
entre la hazaña de la civilización
y la inercia de un peñón

soñaba hasta con desvestir
la teoría de su símbolo
para ver la verdad
en un crudo pulso de vida

hace 10 años
soñaba con ser
un gran filósofo

pero perdí la confianza
en las palabras

y me hice
poeta.

Poesía Contemporánea

adagio in thirst

hungry_animal

At the piano
I sat and it went
tiriti gruween
brung.

Got up
like a maniac,
picked up
Vallejo

his stubborn
ache voluptuously
around his human fingers

I dropped the book,
the invisible rain
outside was falling
like stones

and I could have
slammed down a
shot of whiskey

but bottle was empty

scratching the olive
skin into red patches
of hurt

and decided everything
was a circumnavigation
‘round nothing

that I had to kick
language out my house
like a dirty old dog

these things like winds are words

and I wanted hard life
tonight, like fury
dripping from my cheeks

and it was raining
ridiculous worms
writhing in eight ecstasies

it was the night

to leave in flight
like a rapacious animal
to dark and faithless
jungles

at the very least,

a night
without ideas

and again to the piano,
I sat and made clouds of sound,

dirilin dorem, silafu.

 

AntiPoetry

un martes

un_martes

Un martes.
De sol –
la vida
puesta como luz
sobre el hilo
de un río,
alejándose en flora
llegué a ella como
reflejo de pájaro
en su azul torbellino.

Me senté. Afuera
de la universidad
a ver la luz del día
torcerse en ráfaga
de azul y de azul
a celeste.

Leía el escepticismo
de Santayana
y tenía el busto
de Bohr
oxidado a mi izquierda.

Era una tarde, liviana
despegándose de la ciudad
a una altura de ritmo –
brillaban los techos
como extinguiéndose
de plena alegría.

Era martes.
O tal vez esencia.
Cuando me senté
a contemplar la nube
esfumarse tan lejos
de las palabras.

 

Poesía Contemporánea

a poet’s last thoughts (quod nihil scitur)

poet's last thoughts

Then he’ll realize, when the last moment comes, that he never knew what life was, that he held to a truth that was only belief, that he struggled, loved and suffered in a reality that was only illusion. He will realize that he has only known his perceptions and these have been in perpetual flux incapable of leading him to anything everlasting, definable or knowable. He will realize that life is a faint spark vaguely shivering under an approaching darkness; that it was so insubstantial that the exhaustion of sleep could erase it wholly in the deepest hours of the night and that soon an eternity of profound death will shrink it to nothing, as if it never happened.

outta here

beyond_language_poem

Let’s be tired of words.
Of how we started endless
galaxies from an eye that is smaller
than the grain of infinity.
Of sadness that is a mess
nailed to the CORNER of
LIFe.
Let’s be weary
of how eyes open
and close into new
continents of light
and junk like hung
in memory’s mausoleum.
Let’s put a Beard on Happiness
and let it sail without rum
into the range
of yellow.
L’et s be tired of language,
‘tis
but a mayor reason
to abandon reason,
look how wide
the measurements of our bodies
have curled like hair around
the concept of love.
Let’s be grotesque
born figments fancying
fragments of fire
making fury like florid
petals atop the function
of the facts.
Let’s sing silences.
In vaults of fine emptiness.
Let’s abandon
the distance that is mirrored
in the instance,
faintly so feebly fleeting
into utterance.
Let’s be flying error
that spat onto text
like orgasm.

AntiPoetry