I have felt the temptation to exist
as oblique impressions of black mystery
on the muted mantle of a desert
I have felt the necessity of vanishing –
diving in the diaphanous ocean of death
in search of its currents of agile repose
I have felt the secrecy of the soul
it moves as a needle marking seconds
over the limpid circle of silence
I have felt the province of oblivion
as drops of dawn attached to the crystal
of my eyes when I contemplate – truth.
The curtain gilded by hidden source
everything is wrestling in a futile battle for birth
it is underground miasma where my eyes
fall upon like castles of music;
barely touched
barely a cusp from the fountain of indifferent distribution
the memory of existing essentially empty of existence
colorless fraction of silence
floating in the stream that roams
through the anfractuosity of the event;
my toy car
mother eyes
love
o
the fuel of phenomena
distant but within sight
asunder
the constellation of the hunt
blue impermanent struggle
words as the indeterminate quarks of reason
my folded heart
tucked
in the plenitude of the unknown.
Hunger of blue void
the mirror of the sky
like a desk where I write
the big numbers of silence –
light blue song I imagine
traveling the fields of
my childhood, was
there a wrong window
in the house, an opposite
shadow to the sun?
Hunger blue beginning.
I’m ready to wrap the folds
of the blue world around me
and sleep, like an inebriated god,
through the eternities and the distances
of the missing answer.
take some
seed
of
the
noise
steal a
sky
from the
clouded silence
trace
the
color
of this fictitious
birth
engrave
the
nail of death
in the blood
of fear
collect
the
honey
like a
bee of
queenless nights
measure
the eye
and taste the
tongue
of the eternal
nectarous
DOUBT.
the horizon swells with rawness
a white cumulous beehive,
my thoughts circle the distance
like black heavy flies,
the hairs of time
stroking my mind
like the drunken summer of an engine;
the horizon swells with pink oil
all the trees are horses
with green galloping flowers as their
heads,
my joy is the shy protruding
obnubilation
frozen in the sky like a gray cusp of moon
–
I am the city
with the touch as long as the empty
avenues;
my eyes strange
as the streetlight’s gloom.
I offer you
the wicked cosmology
of my tongue
the desiccated sun
floating in the surface
of my thoughts
I have here for you
the language
of the flame
for you
the oval blaze
of nothingness
flowing
like light and mirror
inside the disfigured artery
of this dream
for you
the wet age
of my despair
in your hand
the gusts of my knowledge
storming
the crumbling walls
that divide
body and infinitude.
(old sketch from 2007 - Pablo Saborio -)
the analysis of answers
only oceans in the pocket of silence
the tapping of grave thunderous black keys
being nothing but drips of red soul
to hold hands with a concatenation of winds
born from the music of immeasurable pasts
something has reached high and deep
like the chalk of an artist
drawing shades and swirls
like empty names of
existence.
I only dream
of filling the body with dry sand
to relegate desire to veins of darkness
flowing relentlessly towards a dragging sea –
if hands and fangs were buried in true illusion,
thirsty accidents and ultimate beginnings;
the taste of polar penumbras
to blind the eyes with totality
defoliate the skin as absurd autumns
to lay thought as a carpet over existence
and roll down the slopes of nothingness,
as the denuded birds throw off their wings
to join the worms wallowing in the mud
of my ancient heart.
To depart from equilibrium
incomprehensible
roads to destinations blackened
ideas of Hell, saints, criminals
suffering, redemption, death, exits,
they are daily bread for the hungry wreck;
is this still a world
I cannot speak of it
the internal voice is secret or alien
this flesh of unknown vapor
and desire guided by
intangible forces;
the cloud of life
is now dark and sorrowful,
the guilt of a single droplet
drowns entirely this mad domain,
in the soul the criminality of existing
is being laundered –
the quake !
unjust formulations of goodness
this rag of mind
dragged by hands fortuitous!
are these numbers and hours death
is it failure or a form of dream
my limbs are dying
the cascade of energy
expiring in the toilsome rage!
I desist the womb
and the world is a womb!
suffering of many lights
ache of myriad eyes
roped by nameless maledictions
there must be a drop
a fall
the divine grace and grave
of silence
but instead of divinity
suffusing this space eternal
pray for an open gross void
and salvation
the courage
to plunge into its
horror –
a soundless exit.
By government of limbs
empty networks of rules
my lost skull
finding fragments of hope
in books and lasting gulps
I remember the bishop
Berkeley, first time I read
his lucid portrayal of idealism
I saw myself as pigment
in god’s mind
there was Rimbaud
the seer
a daemon of callous dreams
beckoning the loving beasts
of my heart to get drunk
and fornicate with the chaos
outside
vagueness is ubiquitous
when Cioran excommunicated
truth from reality
I leapt from definition to obscurity
like a child in mud fields
turning invisible by the camouflage of
dirt
alea jacta est
poetry was born
playthings of appearances
and the images started to gather
like a book of things that never
existed behind the universe
there was still coffee – regret –
futility and then Pessoa opened up the only truth
I ever believed in, he unwrapped it with casual
numbness, as mechanically as you take off a shoe:
life is a superfluous waiting for death
with no definite aim it definitely kills us
and whatever we say or don’t say
will never change a thing
so I write
in the penumbra of absurdity
as divertissement between sleeps,
all the same
in the involuntary currents of nothingness
drunk with the illusion of sensation,
I feign a soul
in laughter and despair
because of that obscene longing
of being
poet & chasm.
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