The raw brown
of this wood
the brown seed
of the book
the brown organ
of the smoke
I move like yellow
tint of dust
around the room
by balconies of thought
swift tactless morsel
of some body
I came to this room
I saw the wood
I conquered none
and half a pulse
traverses
without a crown
of ideas
without laurel
or course
I feel the brown
seeping into
whatever the room hides
I concentrate movement
towards a loud buzz
I call this circumstance home
and beyond it
an abyss
without a window.
abyss
the plan
Follow the designs
of the fruit fly course
and swallow the silver abyss
of the month, like a pocket of lungs
in the tissue of paperwork,
the wrong eschatology
roaming freely in the
painless nurture
of nature – there
flapping endlessly
in a wind of glimpse.
once existed
The day begins
has it?
already night
the stars squash me
with their colossal laughter
is it funny or cruel?
hopelessness is my cue
I’m a colonial boy
with imperial regrets
I have stepped onto cities
that once existed, oh history
I – is a word
the most engrossing word
for the conscious beast
I am impossible
and all the rest
I step onto a stone or an abyss
which?
is still undecided
Nihilistic Poetry
Peregrino – Wayfarer
cuando terminé
de empacar
el universo
en mi mochila
ya había olvidado
a donde iba,
quería sentir como si
un candelabro opulento
colgara sobre
mi cabeza
iluminando con sus mil
brazos
todas las distancias
en este palacio
de tierra,
el destino
por más sinuoso que fuera
terminaría en el abismo
por eso te dije
antes antes antes
de que seamos polvo,
seamos barro unánime
en las manos
del alfarero,
un tazón
lleno de vino
para el poeta,
un seno de arcilla
en la boca del
dios que canta.
A translation:
By the time
I finished
packing
the universe
in my rucksack
I had forgotten
where I was going
I want to feel as if
an opulent chandelier
hangs over
my head
illuminating with its thousand
arms
all distances
in this palace
of earth
however sinuous
the path
it ends in abyss
so I told you
before before before
we become dust
let’s become unanimous mud
in the potter’s
hands
a cup
full of wine
for the poet
a breast of clay
at the mouth of
the god
that sings.
projections
will I write
when I’m fifty
and have outgrown
this adolescent existential
playground
will I become
that creeps through
the routines of madmen
and slithers past
the bars
wistful
of the first
days
when all was violence
and hunt
of
outpouring
will my language
pretend
when all it has done
is clothe
the only sacred
but forgotten
word
marks the descent
not unlike this
slow motion snow
that takes me
down with it
till I’m all
bliss and abyss.
The choice
I have chosen darkness
in it
poetry swells,
literature breeds
dark and oppressive
I breathe in an atmosphere of coal
black ash swarms in metaphors and
contradictions
beating heart that’s become
sullen with life
I choose obscurity
like the ambiguous rose
within an unmovable abyss
I choose the ungraspable void
where borders and objects
interfuse with phantasmagorical thoughts
leaving no content, awaiting an obscure name –
in this dark dream
the Mysterious
is like wine
flowing through the veins
of whatever I am.
to another vision
Burn to crumbs
to infernal to love to
agony to evaporation
to rebirth to a thousand human
screams to another
to another vision
to another of all possible worlds
burn with anger
dare to bring collapse
collective shield of cowardice
be alone to be silent
to restart to reformulate
to negate all to remake all
from alas to alas
perish world by world
planet after planet
sun to sun
ignite! ignite!
ignoble race, ignite!
to hate to love again
to die to be reborn
ignite immortal missioners
to purge heights and abysses
unite in the fire
ignite in invisible apotheosis
from plight to undreamt of
life… begin!
A modern crisis
More or Less
Twilight and morning are now irresistible
they hang above like motherless children
there is no reason to believe in one or the other
all the insects swarm this local abyss
fortunate, for us, all minutes randomly orbit an hour
anywhere is home, or else, unfettered lives would not be possible
reentering again a field of silences
morning or night or true or false
were all excluded
an intimate void
more or less… yours.
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