Author: Pablo Saborio

to sit

But to sit
inside to mourn
the faint flame of the tongue
a domain bursting with curl
don’t move these eyes
they soon thunder
behind two happy lips

asleep

to sit uprooted
of her hairs not beatific
by the window
to mourn, winter, the weight
sentenced to be borne
by a few final thoughts
they encircle waves around

minutes

to sit certain
of a scene, dream, or green unhappiness
I could roar like a hallucination
inside the tiny mount of my sleep
but to mourn
in the morning
without a second chance to

kiss

to sit
and the heart
shivers like a wet bird
to mourn
unblinkingly
like twigs of rain
towards soon of old

tomorrow

Nihilistic Poetry

poema en azul

blue poem

Cuál nosotros
recoger algunas
épocas pensadas
por alguna sombra

yo no inventé
el dolor
coincidió

un ayer
se la comió
era torpe
la ilusión

traiga el rojo
la respiración
los ojos en otoño

ven a dormir
en azul
aunque sea
en celeste
aunque sea
casi no existir

 

 

Poesía Nihilista

of an unknown origin

A loosely transcribed prose poem based on my Spanish poem earlier tonight.

There, something like a stain, was once a sky. Some aberration of smoke and light, of cloud and fire; a threshold. Was it even my decision to intertwine or to blend with destiny? I am governed by the first desire that slithers between two hesitations. I disown the vehicle of my body, the possibility of choice. I raise a hand like another Pessoa to hint a goodbye, but to what? The cloud? The sun that I never knew except for its light?

There was a man that could not continue today, he stood in front of a horizon.

He said: goodbye.

He said: I return to the unknown.

 

 

de algún origen

poesia nihilista existencial moderna vanguardista

Hubo un cielo,
algo vi por la ventana,
una confusión
de nubes y de luz,
un portal.

Me entrelazo
con el destino,
adopto cualquier deseo
que caiga entre
mis indecisiones.

Dejo de ser
mi propio vehículo
dejo de ser
autónomo.

Cómo me despido
de una nube,
cómo le explico al sol
que nunca vi más
que su luz?

Hubo un hombre
que se detuvo hoy
ante el horizonte.
Dijo: adiós.
Dijo: regreso a ese
origen que nunca
entendí.

 

 

 

 

Poesía Nihilista

against the city

against the city

when some disease erodes
the asphalt
a newer skin
to sow
our crooked shadows

when some orbit of dirt
surrounds
the hunting heart
where some twig
losses a single
leaf

when a step no longer
interred
in a busy old grid
but to settle upon
the new element
of pause

when everything
imitates memory
and wreck
pick up a stone
and imitate its
barbaric sleep.

…

This was, of course, a fictitious escapade. To flee from the constraints of the invisible system by leaping onto a wing of image. But the hard aphasic stone of man’s city is impervious to our poetry. We must drag our heavy bodies over predetermined paths. Poetry is drunkenness. And tomorrow we must awake scarred, shaken and as fixed as the streets we nauseatingly tread.

Nihilistic Poetry

pero ya no está

poesia nihilista

Algo murió esta noche.

Pero no le doy nombres
a todas mis fragilidades.
Ni las entierro.

Algo murió,
eso está claro.

Algo que entraba
de puntillas por mis venas.
Algo que crecía lento
como un vello sobre
cada pensamiento.

Era un susurro entre dos latidos.

Pero ya no está.
Desistió y huyó.
Saltó desde un parpadeo,
y murió sin agonía.

Me dejó solo,
como un adulto sentado
sin hacer nada
en un cuarto grande y frío.

Pero estoy dentro de mi piel.
Solo, de luto.

Ciego como la ceniza.
Sin ideas y sin arte.
Apagando la luz
porque ni mi sombra
quiero ya ver.

 

 

Poesía Nihilista

of being nothing

there on the heavy table
i reimagine the taste
of fruit

the room is small
or the world
ignores
itself for this
instant

it doesn’t
mean much

this circumference
this small area
of being

the room to me
is like a tongue

tasting not much
more than its own
surface

somewhere
something
begins
for someone

but i believe
in the minimum

and reimagine the
sweetness
of being nothing

long before
this room
began.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

espero

esperar la muerte

Espero
al borde
de una espesa
punta

acostado
tenso momificando
el minuto ocurrido

espero

tal como la piedra
que duda de la tierra
que la sostiene

espero
sembrado en el crepúsculo
como una flor
sin venas y sin sombra

espero
sobrio esta vez
la lentitud
la pereza
la demencia

espero
que un eco
cargue la obra
de la luz
a un silencio

espero
con paciencia
ese punto
donde se une
este trayecto visible
con la muerte invisible

 

 

Poesía Nihilista

a stroll

brevity of life

I observe man
as an attempt
as pantomime
as desperate confabulation
to be what it knows
it cannot be

a perfectly trimmed
beard
a perfectly shaved
pussy

a chameleon’s last
color to camouflage
its lust
and most importantly,
its fear

I conceive mankind
as if it were the most
embellished monument

and while I walk
under its cool shadow
I reflect:

its brevity compels
me to hate it

its meaninglessness compels
me to love it.

 

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

awakening

I wake like a slab, like a musical note covered in rain, almost aware that the pause is a chair where I sit and imagine being other than a man. I cannot escort any more sighs, they glide alone, solitary, rootless, like planets around a distant star. But it is day, and I drink its cave. I sit staring at the wall and feeling like leaping into a pure confident fire. But time is a rock and I cannot conceive its opposite. Should I return to the mad pillow, to the deaf simplicity of sleep? The anticipation of more tomorrows, of new memories opening up like meadows, is not enough. I am fragile, perishable, disconnected like the multitude of particles that make up smoke. I need to disperse slyly as a faint perfume, to be carried away by the slightest wind. I dream and rest from meaning. The earth recedes, and I return to the lucid extinction of sleep.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry