Hush
Husk of Art
Hang the veins of wings
Hurry through the vast futilities
Help me
Hungry man
Heights and heroes
Home in the plateau of chaos
Human Ocean of Being
Happiness as the mistake of ages
He and she and the mirror of passion
Hello
Hairy monster of tiny desires
Haunted origin of cloud
Hopelessly entangled in the
Horrible symptoms of my
Hallelujahs.
I have felt the temptation to exist
as oblique impressions of black mystery
on the muted mantle of a desert
I have felt the necessity of vanishing –
diving in the diaphanous ocean of death
in search of its currents of agile repose
I have felt the secrecy of the soul
it moves as a needle marking seconds
over the limpid circle of silence
I have felt the province of oblivion
as drops of dawn attached to the crystal
of my eyes when I contemplate – truth.
The curtain gilded by hidden source
everything is wrestling in a futile battle for birth
it is underground miasma where my eyes
fall upon like castles of music;
barely touched
barely a cusp from the fountain of indifferent distribution
the memory of existing essentially empty of existence
colorless fraction of silence
floating in the stream that roams
through the anfractuosity of the event;
my toy car
mother eyes
love
o
the fuel of phenomena
distant but within sight
asunder
the constellation of the hunt
blue impermanent struggle
words as the indeterminate quarks of reason
my folded heart
tucked
in the plenitude of the unknown.
Seltzer star
fizzling like a pill of dust
in the throat of mass misery
wrapped in prison hours
and seconds of miniature perceptual escapes,
the culmination of moths around the light
of the existing moment;
wrought in carrousel indictments,
suspended voice and hermit name –
like a dog,
in the senseless procedure
of understanding
the cause and reason of events,
have I been freed
from the road of collision
with the master plan of chance?
I stay longer
in the night brimming
with fizzling astral loathsomeness
my hand in the pocket
and the wretched expanse
as a dark expression of
mystery.
take some
seed
of
the
noise
steal a
sky
from the
clouded silence
trace
the
color
of this fictitious
birth
engrave
the
nail of death
in the blood
of fear
collect
the
honey
like a
bee of
queenless nights
measure
the eye
and taste the
tongue
of the eternal
nectarous
DOUBT.
I offer you
the wicked cosmology
of my tongue
the desiccated sun
floating in the surface
of my thoughts
I have here for you
the language
of the flame
for you
the oval blaze
of nothingness
flowing
like light and mirror
inside the disfigured artery
of this dream
for you
the wet age
of my despair
in your hand
the gusts of my knowledge
storming
the crumbling walls
that divide
body and infinitude.
Has the raucous broth of
mad existence
in the twinkle ruin
of your perception?
Has the incense of repetition
shoal the antipodes of speech
in the colliding spiral
of absurdity?
Has the impervious rant
emerging like a Zen of clouds
immolate round and sound
as reason of the ephemeral?
Has the curve of light
lost in mind
like the rolling dimension
of unknowingness?
Answer me!
It is there
a taste of machine
in my earth-rooted tongue
that although I am drenched
in phantasmagoria
my center is solid like
the bolt of physical law
it is there
a host of onerous mechanisms
LURKING
behind the quiet gleam
of motion
that in the splintered sky
of the treetops
a fabulous realm of myth, sleep
and transience is reposing
like the heavy fingers of god
but today
rocks are in my lungs
being ground for
the castles of math
and strategy
a player taken out
of the bench of chimera
to supply the field
with an extra glove of fact
today the world is no longer my metaphor
but the unalienable stage for
man’s work.
(old sketch from 2007 - Pablo Saborio -)
the analysis of answers
only oceans in the pocket of silence
the tapping of grave thunderous black keys
being nothing but drips of red soul
to hold hands with a concatenation of winds
born from the music of immeasurable pasts
something has reached high and deep
like the chalk of an artist
drawing shades and swirls
like empty names of
existence.
Of the corn
that makes residence
in the wrapping shadow
of time along the bark
of a tree
in the proximity
of approximation
the figure of life
is guesswork
the natural ponds
of objects
resonate as if
driven by the longevity
of clouds
the hand
inventing surface
from the ghosts
of light and edge
in observation
the bread of process
dissipating like smoke
inside the throat
of ravenous eyes.
Beyond Language 
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