Acrylic on canvas.
120x120cm
Name: The Scream
Click image for bigger view
©2012 Pablo Saborío
Acrylic on canvas.
120x120cm
Name: The Scream
©2012 Pablo Saborío
I’m the old
arrogant librarian
lost at sea
haven’t read a book
in seven years
since led astray
in the salty scales
of the sea,
carrying within
the eroded
treasures of antiquity
reciting to myself
Ovid and Schopenhauer
speaking, even
to the fish
like St. Anthony
about duality
and the necessity
of death
sometimes standing on
my plank
transient and ancient
while the spinal cord
of the horizon
contorts
like a living snake –
I’m certain
that I’ll salvage
the nectar of wisdom
it will redeem my sorrows
by sweeting the saline ocean
of my despair;
one day
when scorched
like an upright
brazen sword in
the surrounded waste
one day
I will let go
a single drop
of symphony
to drown in this
stubborn paradise
one day
surrendering the last
epiphany of my breath
I’ll teach humanity
that nothing
really matters.
A moments
core wandering
many hands invented
touching me – us
moment + the inner uncertainty
touched by silhouettes
possibly a mother
whose age is light and clarity
in a moment
the thought of progress dies
a face remembers the rock
of the bone
a circle around the things
we know
beyond it
the heart of the things
we cannot love.
The throat is the key
long gullet of hope
rebel stomach for rage
my intestines atop destruction
they are the spies
of lies
the accomplices
of alcohol
suicide is salvation
in this state
the answer
is blue sky
empty of
heaven –
the true
mask
who do we kill?
always the last note
sour and eager
futile mote
of dust
and love
finally
an instant
before
I collapse.
The rain has made
senseless x’s on the pane
beyond it
the turbulent clouds
initiate the horror
and a short trance,
my madness
no symbol
is free
to speak of mundane
matters
is now unacceptable
the world
useless as thing
but the most terrible
warning
an opening in the clouds
supine
on the ground
a yellow blindness
through eyes surrendering
I sense
blood fencing the sky
inside
an egg
of impatient
globular substance
a sufferer’s music.
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
I
supplant
meaning
to extinguish
consolation
representation having failed
we rely on the cruel instant
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
A wild band of maniacs
command me
I am hostage
given the liberty
to think
but not to feel
they feed me futures
the bones of tasks
I am hunted
with a shield of invisible ideas
I am naked to the truth
hurting by the clouded horizon
I poeticize my hypocrisy
I am of thieves
after masks I’d like to kiss
I’m heading towards madness
together with my wild pack of beasts
my mistake was
to make a philosophy
out of the gurgling sound
when hope
sank to the bottom
of the pond
I invested too much in clouds
they can hardly break
the rapid fall of my words
as they crash into
solid stupidity
I have to return
to the meaning
of stone
I have to tip over
my dreams
as boulders on summits
that wreck
below
could hurt like
a sudden
birth.
Stepping-stones on an open fall
my limbs remind me of crying cataracts
the fall is unique
relative to some approaching infinity
all my thoughts are grounded solely on the black stream
an overarching view of decay
some inexplicable love wraps the beauty of my despair
trust? there is an absolute leap of faith
relying less on the Goodness of this destruction
more on the emptiness of my command
whatever remains. An option to abort
a compulsory surrender
that carries this night
as a flavor to life.
I don’t talk much
what’s going to happen
probably doesn’t
that my silence
travels here
nowhere else
unshuffled words
my ideas circle
like moths
about a light
inconsequence
too bad
I aborted eternity
for
this spurious
paradox
of
life.
Nihilistic Poetry
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