more ther e

What kind of mothers are

these mothers

dint on ferules falling spaces

tremble firmly against the black dot

agonize done

pay dearly for attention

dearly attention for paid mothers

pay attention dear mother

self-service yellow dreaming

towards the upmost gynecology

female daemon inside

torture as crouching logic

gone done gone

blindness in color red

muscles faking florescence

sit down and read

the last vocals of  your soul

the language, mother, the tongue

inherited sounding cataclysm

        these words… these words!

freedom when church and apologies

death become

tuning chaotic speech

more ther                                                    e

I’ll take a knife

you’ll bring the blender

let’s create – erase opaque reasons

grand origins of eruptions

pale, yesterday, paling yesterday

surrounded growth

no, no, no, no

who knows .

 Nihilistic Poetry

cuanto más

 

 

Choque,  ¿existiré?

en un mediodía ártico

las caras, atardece el continente

madre, ¿qué son las noches?

ayer salí por tantas calles

habían tantas nubes

caballeros, ¡ya no puedo competir más!

el pie izquierdo me duele de tanta cárcava

oye, quién cae primero al fondo

ahóguense máquinas de piel

para cenar el hielo del seno

solitario como el impaciente cáncer

de una medianoche antártica

exhausto, ¿resistiré?

con el eje del planeta

que atraviesa justo medio

      de mis entrañas

duele, dolor planetario

cada segundo gira,

produciendo el dolor

de un orgasmo arrepentido

un éctasis malgastado   

¿dormirán? aquel amigo distante

los indígenas que nunca llegan a visitar

acostado, porque las últimas horas de los respiros

son gotas armoniosas de tregua

antes y por el después

justo aquí he de quedar .

Matonismo

matonismo

Para el poeta lengua
es aun plastilina
para el discipulante
yeso tieso

dado las circunstancias
existen las circuncisiones
continuas del obelisco
hablado

la legenda es el diccionario
el acertijo se escribe
sin sintaxis sin
chófer

no es capricho
cronométrico
si no juego serio
del maratonista sin piernas .

Natural Law

Suddenly, dawn
succinctly brightening
      the paradox of your eyes
my finger measuring
      the metaphor of your lips
my breath all over
      the aphorism of your neck
slow, as years
my hand goes further down
to caress timidly
      the analogy of your breasts
carefully, I excite your heartbeat
as the mischievous palm enters
      the axiom of your venter
inevitably, I draw a line south
to reach tenderly
      the plethora of your vagina
but I do not stop there
for my next desire is
      the doctrine of your legs
and further yet
between sunrise and noon
I reverently kiss
      the premise of your feet.

Contemporary Poetry

(dedicated to M. R.)
 

Barely Objective — Acrylic painting

Barely objective, as I started to question the boundaries between ‘self’ and ‘other’ in my life.

The point of the painting goes beyond these reflections, it is just there, the colors, the lines, the shapes, the non-evident meaning.

Nihilistic Mainpage

fifth floor

fifth_floor

I decided to live on a fifth floor

because I enjoy viewing things from

afar

most afternoons

I watch down

on the swaying of the city

the moody strangers              

the angry cars

a fifth floor is a nest

seated on the branch

of a decaying tree

sunsets are my favorite

when the ooze of night

drips over the frightened lampposts

quickly the children of the day

retreat to their smaller caves

on a fifth floor

there is not much to do

but watch the ambiguous expressions

of pedestrians

and listen to the tired screams

of ambulances

while the cool autumn air

sinks

between the concrete-walled

canyon

I moved to a fifth floor

so I could have thoughts

like these

and to never

become

one of them.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

en la poética ciudad

 

 

Permanezco en el capullo de abundante privacidad

las textura espumante del pensamiento

               ¡muévete cabrón!

en las delicias de un oscuro sentimiento dominical

envejece la piel a párpados del reloj

                ¡a la mierda!

con los húmedos relámpagos de aquella tristeza

vibra en humo la vecina nostalgia

                ¡me pisaste idiota!

tanto la música y el desorden enriquecen

las fructíferas venas de mi recorrido

                ¡detente, esta es mi parada!

coloquialmente colocando los adjetivos

sobre el manto del vaivén de rosarios

                ¡suelta mi billetera, ladrón!

porque el lustre de cada minuto

es sinónimo de la más pura poesía

               ¡aléjate comadreja!

así en el caótico zumbido metropolitano

trato cada cosa con su merecido nombre.

todo nace absurdo

Que soy uno de muchos  

muchos yos que fueron y serán 

los mundos que pueden haber 

por la increíble plasticidad de la energía 

cuantos universos y seres hubieron 

cuantos sueños inimaginables nacerán 

todo nace absurdo 

siendo en su fugacidad 

portador del tiempo 

siendo en su cansancio 

hijo de grandes eternidades 

nada basta 

es insuficiente ser humano 

un elogio al que se detuvo 

pensó, sintió, abismal incertidumbre

 la lenta muerte de una vibración 

todo nace absurdo 

aspecto oscuro de la beatitud 

fragmento sucio de la infinidad

dejo hoy de ser hombre 

para unirme con la oscilación de los dioses negros 

vacío entre franjas de luz

 potencial 

  posibilidad 

    alcance al ambiguo

vida eterna sin ojos

demencia por los corredores de la sustancia.

unuttered world


The sky: my desperate dispersion
an expansion creeping slowly in
the autumn fields of my lost war
manifest the gesture that condemns me
to seek lavishly the sighs of unnamed
                      saints and mystics
heavy with the saddle of onrushing years
seeping the dripping paint
like the dance of mechanical yesterdays
the grave of my birth and burying
thus a multitude of poems – astray
halfway
detached from the events of time
isolated in the nirvana of untouched perception
sky, fragment of other lives
or why November and dying
that last sullen word behind chaos
a return
a miniature spot
whose own language
cannot participate in its description
thus the sky and the lesser me
thus a slow sleep in an immense unuttered world.

 

 
Nihilistic Poetry

A modern crisis

a_modern_crisis

We were born after a whole deal of postures and attitudes had been tried and dismissed. It seemed to me that this was the first time in human history when life was unbearable even while we have all the basic conditions for survival and a surplus of commodities. We live in the absence of a raison d’être and our very lives could actually be defined as the search for that sacred reason. We would and probably will travel around the globe and consume every possible experience in search of that elusive understanding that could justify and make sense of all the seemingly senseless gyrations between birth and death, hunting for that catharsis that would erase our feelings of inadequacy and insufficiency.   
If I am allowed to make a stand on the current emptiness that governs the modern rebel (and I must state that this rebel is even reluctant to assume this label), I could place him or her within a crisis of value. Let’s formulate this crisis. The ‘fortunate’ human being that is born in a middle-class or higher family is bestowed an excess of leisure, which is occupied with an endless parade of distractions, vague and short-lived entertainments that do not provide deep-rooted satisfaction. This repetition of material hedonism is deceiving and can engage the individual in a merry-go-round of renewable pleasures that are futile in their long-term effects. What an overwhelmingly urban and global society presents as the content and purpose of leisure is more often than not a distraction, a veiling of our impoverished consciousness. The value crisis in which we are situated stimulates thus, within the rebel, a sort of antagonisms against life in general and humanity in particular. Is this a wise human race encumbered by trivial pursuits?
The rebel stands in an existential agnosticism. What can replace the insipid routines, what solution can one offer to resolve the dilemma of human baseness? If leisure represents the time humans can delve in their purpose, our reasoning would lead us to suppose that the average human lives for unchallenging and ready-made experiences. What about the higher fields of art, music, religion, love? Have these been explored sufficiently by the modern man? Do they offer any comfort? All questions with no ready answer, the rebel is obliged to ask without answering, merely pointing to the emptiness without offering a substitute.
The rebel doesn’t conclude hastily but is eager to explore any alternative. The contemporary paradigm is of a successive development from school to career, love to family, wealth to belongings, material accumulations to distractions; yet all this is seen as a deception, a reductionism of the natural potential for a human life.  The rebel is apt to adopt a cynical skepticism towards the replacement of one mode of life for another. Life becomes an experiment, a lonesome journey through the limbo of uncertainty. Could religion fill this gap, could music appease this anxiety, could art express this loneliness, could love heal this wound? The experimenter enters them all and many others with caution but will urgently surrender if any of these would deliver him from the surrounding emptiness. Yet traps abound, the guinea-pig rebel still has within the seed of conformism, soon things lose their depth and life abandons its impetus. How to keep the zest for life awake without returning to the dullness of a repetition-ridden soul?
It may seem we are doomed, that any experience by force of repetition becomes insufficiently satisfying for the abyss of hunger that grows inside. 
These reflections surge from a modern crisis. A crisis from our lack of meaning, our absence of value. This, in other words, can be called a spiritual crisis. But the themes of this crisis are not god or original sin, it rather belongs to practical ontology, that is to say, a transforming of the quality of being, producing a reality that becomes not only bearable but powerful enough to sweep away the myopic awareness of normal human life. A new understanding might be wanting, a new wisdom of what we understand human life to be, what we do and what we aspire to; a journey that requires a mixture between philosophy and adventure, a compendium of revolt, daring and openness.
 
 
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