regions of a soul

Areas of a Soul

the distance
of things from my center
together with the dripping self

language rests as a drop
on a fatal slope
or a sound in frozen space

I have hands
but they never touch
anything

I have thoughts
but they never refer
to anything

and while I feel like cancer
growing on the insides
of my own soul;

I have bled beauty
like a suicide of god

there are areas of life
inaccessible and foreign
my flesh is ghostly
my feelings barely perceived

I am like a spark
engulfed in its luminosity
and everything beyond it
staggering darkness

in that incomprehensibility
I move and dying.

 

POEMS

soul in it

Rebel Outlaw Poetry

Frenzy
shot
bullseye in the heart
of society’s prodigies:
the quitters

Wild
irrevocable
reading Cioran
blasphemously drunk
or stoned
speed techno flesh
in the early hours
of disaster

Years in despair
the world
a blank bullet
and all the
fury
ready
to shoot dead
the sad beautiful
galaxies

Who will moralize
us
you, automata politicians
pedophile religions
Wall Street noise
or 7 effective habits
for irreversible
boredom

Free
chaos as the
jury
a pack of smokes
while surveying
the world’s cancer
outgrow
our own

The wild fire
of our philosophy
supernova of exasperations
intravenous soul
into our antics
bruised forefathers
in our dreamscapes

a rebel with
metaphysical whiskey
listening to tunes
you’ll never hear
sitting at a bar
you’ll never know
waiting in a night
you’ll be as good as dead

a junkie
a messiah
an anthem

yours sincerely,
                        Poetry.

 

 

 

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 .