Author: Pablo Saborio

the

the
yes the
tongue
of night

there
pushing
descending like pulp
crushing like permanence
like, like muscle
totally arriving
like totality
over the pain of
self

ah crushed
so many interactions
blending like the consumptions
of a hungry light

many will disbelieve
and doubt
and question
and reject
and deny

but
yes
the
…
the
night
has a tongue
as long as
eternity

made hungry as
the frail fragile foolish
expanse

isn’t everything like light
sinking to the skin like a
single song

yes begin
swallowing me up
you dirty
silence

Nihilistic Poetry

Pronto callaré

campos de poesia

Pronto

callaré

mis palabras
descansarán
como ramas secas
al pie de la fogata

Pronto

callaré

abandonaré
mis palabras
tendidas en la arena
como héroes
condenados al polvo

Pronto

callaré

quedarán
mis palabras
hambrientas
mordiendo la
luz del sol

Pronto

callaré

cruzaré un puente
y mis palabras
esperarán como ceniza
un viento
que las borre
de la tierra

Poesía Nihilista

about a poem

noticed how
a poem
stirs the dead
of objects
to flap
like vital wings

how it
splits
the feeling
to a pair
of mirrors

wonder
how the metaphor
is an empty cup
we fill with
suffering & immensity

observe
in a fleeting liaison
the sun waiting in the dark
the dream burning the skin
the blue tasting as salt

have you shattered
a poem
to bathe below
the surface of the flown?

Nihilistic Poetry

campo intrínseco

dibujo del olvido

Deja de espiar
con tu mansa mirada
el grueso fragor
de la luna que yace
cruda en la olla
del cielo

Mira como crece
la aorta con
cada trago de amarillo
el pulmón deja
una sombra de palmera
en el patio del corazón

La mañana la dejamos
encendida como una vela
cuando dormíamos tapados
por meses de azul sudor

Envuelve el borde de
los ojos con la mancha
del viento y volvamos
al campo intrínseco
donde crecen lágrimas
como flores que nadie corta

Seamos tímidos roedores
que gatean sobre el eco
del silencio y dejemos
nuestras huellas como
recuerdos dibujados
sobre el olvido

Poesía Nihilista

somewhere out there

Somewhere out there one may find a horizon. But I do not talk about edges or inventing balconies to oblivion. I drink wine and swallow sensation indefinitely. I believe to be one whirl of smoke that spins upon the axis of habit. Sometimes I peek through windows, as if they were encyclopedias of the beyond. I am a romantic. I go outside and say: I see a single star reflected inside the thick glass of my endless wine. A slow logic eventually wears down the brilliance of the sky; and for nights I camp under a starless proof. But today a pound of purple strikes my tongue. The thickness of a dream goes down my throat. I begin to feel like an atmosphere of veins. Like a slab of fiction that crumbles to illusion.