If you tell a kid
that can’t remember being born,
you were born of your mother,
from your father’s seed
you come from a line of lovers
that started way back
before the instrument of love
when there was only form
forming flux and
the structure of diamonds
everywhere protruding
from the mystery
of dark pulsation.
help
poets
my voice
a big blot or blob or block of black
terror
is stuck
like a burning whisper
in my throat
the rust
leaves a bitter
shadow
in the melody
of the silence
and sleep
the narrative of time
condensed
like magic
in the empty fire
of death
dust with
elegance
like the echoes
in a dream
I am a man
that learnt
at an early age
that I cannot
hold in my hands
the entire world
like a little lovely thing.
I could have had that thought
anywhere in the world,
but it came to me
while I stand here against
a random wall in Berlin,
any wall.
I am a man
that not long ago
considered Thales
the first theoretician,
but fundamentally
wrong as I saw
everything behaving
as smoke.
After a while
things seem sad
fading like a cloud
the world is like a ghost covered in mud
and all our words are pointing at it
like guns
and we’re watching
waiting
for the ethereal blood.
In the pissoir I am a man.
(look above)
some sort of distant collision,
where totalities remain crumbs
see those tiny galaxies
crushing their bones
without emotion in a faraway
dissolution of waves.
I am a man leaving the certainty
of proud world.
I thought I knew the world
when shapes were its body
and chaos its breath.
But even that is a view.
The violence of the mass exists
like pink throbbing in the
dynamite of perception.
I leave the toilet and confront
a scroll of measures and a bunch
of mirrors masking the smoke –
at the core nothing is known.
The sky – like a word –
turns black.
And there’s silence,
like a shadow,
following me home.
I
Around my neck who knows how history made a voice out of silhouette.
From my lips a hand tore
away in tragedy
the chord
that screamed for more.
II
Time was a pebble I threw into the bucket of space.
III
Today the pond was patient.
Swallowing from the hot dust
the stupidity of the shadows.
IV
The light was hanging from a branch,
bending space like the surface of
a habitual dewdrop.
V
The mirror is red with rage.
VI
The world is still glowing, next
to an enormous fire.
I picked up a shadow that was untouched.
VII
I was just waking from the misery of being born in a place so big, I’d never see it all.
VIII
The streetlight turned red.
Grass burning
through the wings
under the sight of the moon.
IX
No one dead has come back
to tell us
anything.
It’s nearly midnight,
there’s no exception
to that.
X
How decisive is the blindness
of the storm
& the twigs are still shivering
in memory.
Xi
When murmur is no longer a labyrinth,
when I see the teeth biting the dark
and how the depths of earth
have been waiting for me
behind a cluster of
soft sorrows.
The trick is to close the eyes.
To look for the thing
crawling below the carpet of darkness of the lids.
Remain still like a hunter. Do not stir
even if a sliver of light echoes through the emptiness.
You’re looking for a boom.
It starts with a swirl of symbols
curling around each other
in wild experiments of mutation.
You’re looking for a spark, an isolated
hazardous word that will scale
up the fence of perception, to consume
the whole plantation of thoughts.
Venture into this plague of accidents,
advance as a whirlwind upon the dunes of ash.
Soon the darkness begins to burn bright,
you are a sun leaping into a single atom
witnessing a birth to the naked eye.
Sed is Spanish for thirst. Cyrano de Bergerac sat one day to write his tragedy, La Mort d’ Agrippine, for reasons no one will ever know or understand. He wrote, perhaps before midnight:
Ces beaux riens qu’on adore et sans savoir pourquoi….
Beautiful nothings that we adore without knowing why. He was referring to the gods. So there is thirst for absolutes, some people sense it and yet die athirst. For centuries mankind has looked for this totality through a window they’ve called the soul, which is rather unfortunate that today it has been reduced to myth. Not because the soul is an actuality, but because we need the image of the cosmic window. Alma is soul in Spanish. But I don’t want to say, tengo sed de alma (I am thirsty of soul). It is peculiar that in Spanish “to be thirsty” is expressed literally “to have thirst”, as if thirst were a possession, an accretion to one’s being. For this reason I prefer to express myself in a double language: I am sed of soul. That is to say that I AM the thirst of soul, I am the empty dark room desirous of an aperture, of the link between my personal darkness and total illumination; I am the emptiness craving a flood of light that will inundate the cavity of my cavernous being.
In the same play, Cyrano wrote:
Une heure après la mort, notre âme évanouie sera ce qu’elle était une heure avant la vie.
One hour after death our vanished soul will be that which it was an hour before life.
That is to say, the window will soon be shattered.
So quick, let’s raise the curtains of alma.
This is not an experiment.
This is an animal
slowly dressing itself
with a garment of stone.
This is a shadow
shedding its bone
in a camouflage of change.
This is a sister
opening a drawer
to hide a wonderful thing.
This is antiquity
growing thick with mighty
buttresses of steel.
This is a mouth
inhaling sweet
movements of moonlight.
This is a perception
flapping in the silence
of the air.
This is a drunk
stealing a plume
from the waitress’ perfume.
But above all,
this is another hand
clinging to the edge
before the fall.
why don’t
YOU
walk down history
as through a great avenue
to deliver the good news
to a decaying world
why don’t
YOU
speak a language
whose every word
is a cup filled
with beatific light
why don’t
YOU
become
the blossoming bud
of fire that will consume
the wasteland of the earth
why don’t
YOU
release mankind
from its immemorial shackles
and carry the heavy light of truth
to the eyes of every man, woman
and child
why don’t
YOU
reveal the gates of salvation,
or the ultimate purpose
of our petty lives
why don’t
YOU
add up all divinities
and multiply them
into one enormous entity
why don’t
YOU
unite all opposites
sensual and ideal
material spiritual
past future
life death
into a totality of all
totalities
why don’t
YOU
wrestle from the grip
of science and religion
the meaning of all
being
why don’t
YOU
lift the veil of illusion
and disclose the essence
behind this all-
embracing chaos
then, only then
I will follow you.
I bumped into the city, the bastard.
Looking around the snow – remembering
my tongue melting as ice in Lascaux and fossilized
toothpicks near the ancient campfire.
I was in Iceland and got drunk,
looking at the cloudless that would die
before the sky reached Sweden.
I have been on the toilet all day,
working, theorizing, and it came
out looking like Nobel’s head,
one day
I will sit beneath a giant tree and forget
my existence as grass never did.
I see why the intellectuals
are enchanted by doom.
But why worship definition as
a totem almighty menacing godly cult.
I see why the poets cancel death
and write lyrics for the music
of meaningless wind.
I observe the visionaries
about to detonate with their unclean secret
like a grenade in their chests . But they can’t,
never finding sunshine in communication,
sadness has overwhelmed language
leaving behind a thin vicissitude
of smoke.
Beyond Language 
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