exit to enter

Gate to heart

All that I prophesy

is the way the world
spirals unto itself

there
space and dream
hibernate into consciousness

the product of my speech
is the withdrawal of meaning
in words
from reality to possibility

multiplying the interior
by tearing asunder
every perception
into further
fragments

ultimately
I have noise
as fur over the idea
of myself

beauty
sideways to phenomena
precipitates
towards the pinpoint
of         my
    heart

 

 

Modern Poetry Blog 

I was born Dionisio Palacios

Poetry of Sin
I was born Dionisio Palacios
in the poverty
of my hands
I wished I had
the sky heavy with light
as a noon of sweet fruit
so I could taste the earth

I lived in Rua Moderna
between two worlds
that made me feel
like a schism
separating the two

I worked with letters
languages whose words
could evoke
daybreaks in my
blinding madness

I was sentenced to death
and hanged
for the murder of an ideal
an abstract sin
the abomination of believing
that nothing exists

   but the whisper of the stars. . .

 

 

just like that

just_like_that

Language is not beautiful.
It is cruel, confused, sad.
This is how I start my novel.
In the streets, in inexplicable tears.
Too late to review what’s happened.
The cars rushing by, motion.
Great lives begin in doubt.
Heroic lives succumb in despair.
Anonymous lives like ours, we just die.
I begin my unorthodox survival,
by denying everything.
What are the boundaries of a chapter
when there are no categories?
Language is not a beauty.
It is raw, boom, slack.
This is how I start my novel.

a brief view on my own life

21st century poet

I wear thirteen-year-old T-shirts
but I spray them with the most expensive colognes around
I don’t buy them, only use the testers
I’m socially awkward so I might come close
to touch your hair without asking for your permission
you’d probably punch me
but I’ll say that I’m weird and sorry
I’ve never punched anybody in my life, please don’t hurt me
I’m not afraid to write a poem
when something beautiful touches me inside
I see my drunkenness as a preface to wisdom
when I drink a poem I become a mystic
when I peruse your vodka I become a breathing metaphor
I use my sadness as a dictionary
to decipher the language of modern civilization
I do not wish to bore you with my autobiography
when you are done, burn up this poem and use the flame
to warm up your soul.

 

modern poetry

manifesto

shit manifesto

what a load of narrow bullshit. yes, you are right for the great mayority of drunks but for the conscious anarchist-skeptic new-order-boredom-activists, godless yet spiritually-revolutionary, existential philosophical apostles of nothingness. Yes, the absurdist theorists in the field of elementary positivism and groundless rationalism. That is I, I the drunk, ready to abolish street names and currency values, but infinitely afraid of the content of canned beer to be disposed of, in toilets, I must, we must, drink those brewed liquids meant to appease the lower levels of the civilized brain. Shit, this has already made evident the wilderness of my thought, that is, the irregular paths of my thinking, which may, to the ordinary mind, border on insanity. But I must submit to any, and all, greater forces, for I already know and organically feel the power of that physics that controls my biology and the course of my thinking and action. I am the Wall Street of passion that will scorch the planet in a memory of profit. Or is that the nightmare that we call routine and career? Whatever the verdict, why not stare at the night?

hum along

middle_finger_poem

Hum, hum, hum
metronome
numb, numb, numb
here I am gone
she flakes off
blue nail polish
thus we glide
in underground
tunnels
bum, bum, bum
my bore-dom
wrong, wrong, wrong
I’m undone
rum, rum, rum
I’m no fun
alone in the world
I am on the run.

Prosopopoeia

My creator
has abandoned me
the hands that spun these
verses
are now caressing
night axioms and
mysticisms,
the poet left
me
a poem
sunken
somewhere lost
in the motions
of the automatic world,
I am the victim
a spirit
that occupies briefly
whatever soul
treads these words
but, alas
ultimately doomed
to perish
as your
eyes
approach
my final
sigh.

nihilistic poetry