Me caí

Me caí
no en un fatalismo
ni en uno de esos abismos
ni a la calle, no hablo
de esas cosas;
me caí
como un templo
que se desploma por un terremoto
y todos los santos de mármol
de mi interior
se estrellaron contra el suelo
reventando en fragmentos irreconocibles;
caí
con mi gran domo de dogmas
sobre la multitud de mi fieles opiniones,
dejando escombros y cadáveres y nada más;
caí
como ese templo
y ya no tengo intermediario
entre lo que soy
y lo que debo ser,
el horizonte queda descubierto sin
esta intercalada catedral,
queda abierto
como esta herida
que se sana
con la temible libertad
             de no saber nada . . .  

Poesía Nihilista

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. . .

 

 

in your hands

Decadent poetry

the machines  +
    he echoes 

and to live
     dangerously
with this slow beard
amidst hallucinations of normality

the decadence of my
      Nietzschean years
no role model:
      Kurt is long gone
dead by angst
           we still live on 

the poet of opium
    in a brothel
licking her sweetness
beauty the contradiction
   of his verse 

the poet needs his decadence
     refutal of his commitment
the lie
        the mistake
               the disaster
mistrust of the divine
          impotence of sublimity

my life is decay
       in your hands.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

propósito

Flores en mi camino

Caminando sin saber
cuál es el propósito
de las cosas

caminando
porque todo es
movimiento

cómo se siente
conocer el propósito
de las cosas

ahí sentado en mi alcoba
al lado de un piano en silencio
con la noche exenta de dios
sobre mi sien,
yo, sabiendo,
el fin de las cosas

pasaría oliendo los días
como flores
en mi camino

lástima, que el propósito
de las cosas
es no entender
las cosas.

Poesía Nihilista

the great civilization

The Great Civilization

where’s the off switch
for all
endeavors

the icicle of reason
has melted
leaving a small puddle
of fictions
at my feet

and we will build
and build
assemble great systems
to the outer edge of the milky way
and back

the civilizations, the civilizations
with its civilians hooraying
     their democracies pushing
the sciences inventing
         the artworks embellishing
the museums and the highways accelerating
     the capital erecting
              the monuments
of the great laughter of achievement

while the black smoke of reality
swirls
into nothingness dreamt.

 

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

playthings

oh in what manner
I touch
these playthings of the
soul
sculpting in torn blindness
the mode of the self
eliciting shapes
like a damp cloud
over the empire of uncertainty
am i this wisp
of creation
twisting and turning
emerging
painfully philosophically inadvertently
from the wreckage
of my
sadness?

 

 

I am an egoist

I am an egoist
the tides of the galaxies
are for my amusement alone
the backdrop of the world
is the stage for the drama
of my sadness
I have eternity as my own
reality-show
the concatenation of events
stroll before me as a parade
offered to a king…
but as a king
I still yearn for more
I look for the edge of existence
looking, as it were,
for something else
something not yet invented
lurking behind the world of things,
perhaps a mist
belonging to another reality
untouched by this world;

                a thin fog
I surmise,
                     of impossible bliss.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry