lip of dawn

Dawn lip

how could I begin
when the earth below
clusters in great furrows
of graphic skin
its glimmer trapped
in pockets of wrinkles
with the open slit
of red dawn
the opening lips
of a raw horizon
with my imaginary blood
in its arc,
‘ how ’
in this awry mirror
to begin
and inevitably
to end ?





I imagine a day

I imagine a day
when young rose vowels
uttered from my mouth
brimming with the perfume of laughter
that joyous I’d be
still full of falsehood
but arms around strange folk
like they’d be the secret
truth of the age, we’d sing
and sit like tired twigs
leaning on the inside of a whirlpool whose
destination does not amount to too much
but neither does the apprehension of it
so that day comes
my pen on the edge of the table
my pipe curling arrows of smoke
but truly my eyes fixed on
clouds with no purpose



nihilistic poetry

drops of truth (a translation)

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 perception of nothing

Perception of nothingness

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


the fuel of phenomena

distant but within sight
the constellation of the hunt

blue impermanent struggle
words as the indeterminate quarks of reason

my folded heart
in the plenitude of the unknown.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

sketches in disguise

Sketch Cubist Man

(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

Poetry 2011


carmine essence clouds

Cumulous figment of joy

the art of white eyes

I sense a bird stretching experience

colonizing an empty nest of laughter

my tongue is ripe with twilight

savoring the underbelly of clouds

their pink veins of magic

the iris coils on expanses of clarity

carmine volumes of essence.




of salvation

To depart from equilibrium
roads to destinations blackened
ideas of Hell, saints, criminals
suffering, redemption, death, exits,
they are daily bread for the hungry wreck;
is this still a world
I cannot speak of it
the internal voice is secret or alien
this flesh of unknown vapor
and desire guided by
intangible forces;
the cloud of life
is now dark and sorrowful,
the guilt of a single droplet
drowns entirely this mad domain,
in the soul the criminality of existing
is being laundered –
the quake !
unjust formulations of goodness
this rag of mind
dragged by hands fortuitous!
are these numbers and hours death
is it failure or a form of dream
my limbs are dying
the cascade of energy
expiring in the toilsome rage!
I desist the womb
and the world is a womb!
suffering of many lights
ache of myriad eyes
roped by nameless maledictions
there must be a drop
a fall
the divine grace and grave
of silence
but instead of divinity
suffusing this space eternal
pray for an open gross void
and salvation
the courage
to plunge into its
horror –
a soundless exit.




the sensation of knowing has faded

the sensation of knowing
has faded
the congealing cement
our last coverture

ugly, reeking
and already alone
with a bullet of important birth

have the notes in the eyes
a melody of face and terror

the philosophers
have turned to the poetic
in depiction
the overt sorrow
of crocodile skins

this task of surveying
bland vast infinite
words not even mountains
to rest the moon
on their slopes

death and terror
sustained by repetitious
creation, a blind fountain
speaking for the absence

to extinguish

representation having failed
we rely on the cruel instant

Nihilism Poetry

a choice of illusion

why choose
sky as volatile
art form

nihilism or
the other side
of beauty

or dimension
as a monstrous step
forward into the

in unison
poetry and nature
blend as I stare
towards the

I chose
to be an insect
cradled in some
unspeakable obscurity

these are great steps
to take
and leaps of sense,
everything          to be
and           to       be           gone



irresolute heroes


The heroes, or the emission.
happiness and earthquake
the sound soars
blindly behind curtains
of my perception

there are pieces
that I have forgotten
about myself
like the blackened scar
of shell beneath a foot
in morbid beach

a beauty.
recently creating
the drug that fixes me

there have been lauds
highly articulate sources
floundering as brush stroke
in broken verses

to age!
alive heavy with struggle
and purely irresolute.




tic Poe