I gasped
and was
a child
so it is a lost
saddened
reality
who made it?
I was breathlessly
spellbound
the name of it
is there
but the maker
is long dead
to be drunk
awake
with the uninhabited
world below my knees
the eager moon
hungry for my course
I designate the sadness
at the street
death
the watch has said
death
tea
is in my mouth
morbid
florid pain
I’m watching
and nothing
effortlessly
febrile
useless personality
I am nothing more
silver meaning
rotten sound
kill me sage
here
There will be poetry
as long as the world
swirls in mad convulsion
there will be poetry
as long as the world
is hidden truth with
dreary eyes
there will be poetry
as long as the world
is a road to the dead
silence
there will be poetry
as long as the world
covers us with the cold
skin of bitter mystery
there will be poetry
at 5am with glass o’
whiskey till the horizon
blends in with the empty sleep.
temo
con dolor
es el color
todo este olor
de un rencor,
duele, es un hedor
un fervor
que he hecho pudor
puro ardor
de este sudor
cae
puro e ingenio
el sabor
un furor
esa furia del
usurpador
que llamo
yo
;
No reality,
reality does not satisfy me
and it hasn’t tried hard enough
to sugar me up
I need alcohol
to soften the rough edges
of futility
I need chemicals
to inebriate the chemicals
of my brain
only then
reality
is reality
I can
surrender
to.
I was getting so wasted
the streets grew silent
or perhaps sounds were becoming
insensibly vague
weight
WEIGHT
excruciating weight
descended upon me
or perhaps sprung from my loins
and buried me
I was immobile
sterile
or perhaps close
to becoming a rock
that lasts
for centuries or eons
but doesn’t
care
Too many steps too drunk
an outsider
infatuated
with the outside decadence
a 30-day-old poet
taming his extinction
grasping for existence
breathing the sidewalks
as an addiction
calling street life
the pulp of everything
right here
civilization as a theory
the grid of rebellion
on this Rorschach
while the chanting epochs
intoxicate us
with their
darkness
in the streets
in the steps
of drunken
us.
you should have seen
when I put my fingers
over the flame
they smelt of Kerosene
a very obscene
scene
the piano lid shut
I could have composed
a sad sonata
for all the future drunks
that will die hung-over
without ever writing a poem
you should have seen
the coarse roar of my spleen
gave everyone a start
heavy heaving
I should have been
a line of serpentine smoke
rising from the hands
of a drunk
that will die
hung-over
never knowing
why he was
so
mean.
modern poetry
The sadness of the rain
falls
over the happiness of process
we go down to the corners
and take a piss
to avoid the police
and the exuberance of being guilty
then we go back inside
where despair is dissipated
towards the music
and
the noise
makes us forget all the pain
that made us cry in the dark
of a summer night
let’s be brave
betray
so we drink, drink, drink
and then we talk
talk and talk
the flowers on the wallpaper
made with the scent
of the spring
we never had
this is the wood
the glass
the concave walls
the drunk echo
nobody will record
for the annals
of
history.
I wear thirteen-year-old T-shirts
but I spray them with the most expensive colognes around
I don’t buy them, only use the testers
I’m socially awkward so I might come close
to touch your hair without asking for your permission
you’d probably punch me
but I’ll say that I’m weird and sorry
I’ve never punched anybody in my life, please don’t hurt me
I’m not afraid to write a poem
when something beautiful touches me inside
I see my drunkenness as a preface to wisdom
when I drink a poem I become a mystic
when I peruse your vodka I become a breathing metaphor
I use my sadness as a dictionary
to decipher the language of modern civilization
I do not wish to bore you with my autobiography
when you are done, burn up this poem and use the flame
to warm up your soul.
Beyond Language 
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