Poetry

the years are bubbles

dead years

Everything I perceive
tastes like bread
drenched
and mystical

I exist in such
a small place
light sometimes
feels as thick as
molten rock

it is
nonetheless
a world like a vein
an élan going
round and
round

the smoke
has swelled
up in the cantina
growing into threads
trapped in this
isolation

I call
this
prison
and a pistol
shooting
a dizzy me

breathing
in space
and little sorrow
I left this year

aging
with the bubbly



 

poetry blog

on decadence

decadence
is not simply
squandering away
the last remnant of this life
– for all that’s left are remnants –
the art of demise
is hardly only destructive,
it is a destruction following creation
a long struggle
to create something pure
in us,
yet once the new
has been achieved
desperation sets in,
necessarily we strike
a deathblow –

making all the
necessary room
for newer
catastrophes

 

nihilism poems

sensing

Sending Circle

If I move
then this should
not exist

I am writing
because because
never existed

I am angry
I am ecstatic
I am so many words;
yet what remains is
opposite to all
pronunciations

I am a feather
that draws in water
but leaves no
ripple behind
its art

I am existing
to experience
the rush of disappearing

to crash into existence
the roaring vehicle
of silence

 

Poems

abandon poetry

Former Poet Eye

I have to get away
from poetry

need to stop
focusing on the
details and the needlework
of perception

need to live the gross
average
collision course life
of the
rest

need to rediscover
minutes
as meaningless
traps

need to make routine
again an instinctive
straightjacket

need to somehow
buy a house
and stock it up
with liquor

need to begin
worrying
about that silly
little race
that goes by
the name
of
happiness.

 

 

nihilism poems

the study of cycles

 

 

I must define this face
this race, the naive momentum
my thoughts the piano’s encroachment
the solitaire’s monastery is my wheel
a soft raised convicting finger my stubborn engine
the long march into centuries and legends
a lost Carolingian desperation;
the Great You that almost Latinized me
in my march, my boundary
I travel with leather and spices
and the abridged and insufficient scrolls
that keep names and wars as causes
this drag of history
a story of everything for no one in particular
lines that remember sleepy pope eyes
puddles of blood and new routes to fame;
I must define this outcome
declare it a migrating art
a necessary war
an early appearance or a rapid descent
the ambiguous year of transformations
a division in which hands fall
deep to the middle of the earth
at the center of time
an indiscriminate movement
in nobody’s control.

.

Poetry Blog

poet_pablo_saborío

This site features some of my poetry (including quite a bit of juvenilia), early works in art and photography; among other productions of bliss & despair.

My art website is found at pablosaborio.com

Browse below to read my latest poetry both in English and Spanish. Or quickly jump to modern art paintings, photography, and existential quotes that have inspired me.

©2008 – 2026 Pablo Saborío