handful of visions

handless painting

This hand full of fire from banana field
sliding down your waistline sliding
touching like a hungry hermaphrodite
asking asking is there anyone down there
by the knee or the thigh or the swollen clit
sliding down with chords playing from rooftops
sliding down like a sunset high on trumpet
groping grabbing pinching scarring
this hand full of fire
reversing the course of utopia
this hand so strong irreversible
coming down on you
like freedom rain at 2am
this hand robbing you
taking away your last cents and songs
this hand aching for love that is not red
this hand losing one finger at a time
aging like the smoke at the end of tobacco curls
this hand empty
still touching and sad
this hand going down
holding your navel as burning bullet
this hand a tool
the tool
this hand
the last possession
a hand surface
sliding down to the earth
no contact yet
this baneful hand
raw, skinless
no glove
covering this
hand
no course handling
this hand
that came, saw and conquered
the mighty land

 

 

Modern Poetry

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!

Turbulent Purple

 

 

The fiery afternoon had transformed itself into a turbulent purple. How else could I describe it? It had no other name than Turbulent Purple. I am by blind necessity bound to call it by that denomination, I am a slave to that ambiguous name. Leaping in and out the oblivious space of mind, short and poetically vague sensations occupied most of my purposeless time. Without explanation or warning I could read in the papyrus of thoughts scriptures such as these:

           
            Centuries of dancing shadows
            Has the strong wind of fate
            Extinguished Man´s recurrent dream?
 
Ah! From where do all these voices arise but from the nocturnal?
 
How senseless it is to reveal in words the impenetrable mystery of the mind, how lame an attempt to reproduce the wilderness of wonder. The afternoon had turned into a Turbulent Purple and I became sure the existence of written language had no purpose but to express the shock of our encounter with reality — it could never explain a thing. So, without regret I had survived numberless fears of imminent death so I could experience once more the unnatural beauty of nature.
 
Ha! So many years organizing my thoughts so that in my final despair I found every cell in my body to have a life of its own and my thoughts faithful pilgrims in the inhospitable lands of paradox. Therefore I studied my body with care as if it were an extraterrestrial lump of matter and completely gave up the hope of a systematical account of human experience. Then I focused again on the sky and the world was still a turbulent purple. It was not long after this that for the first time I started doubting of the ancient and perennial pillars of art. It seemed to me that if all things go wrong the last desperate redemption would come through art — art had a special bond with the essence of all experience, it embraces the whole multitude of feeling and all genre of action and yet it transcends them all — or so I thought.
 
“Life and death for art” would have been my motto two years ago. But in my rebellion against all dogma the mutiny of doubts turned against my ideals and the sky of my convictions became turbulent — perhaps purple to a spectator of my consciousness. If myths, religions, wars, slavery, races, countries, continents, suns, and galaxies all have an allotted time, art surely is as ephemeral as the rest. Alone and destitute I stood while the echo of a turbulent purple sunset reverberated in the coffins of memory. At last I got rid off the most obdurate preoccupation, second only to death — namely, life no longer lived for art, love, money, fame, joy or by instinct alone; it seems likely to be here for no reason in particular. One last thing remains certain:
 
               Returning from the underground
               Reflections in echoes
               From the pit of despair
               The fountain of wonder
               The irony of this paradox
               From the art of Nature
               Conceived the death of Art
               A dying fire. . .
                       Turbulent Purple
                          turbulent purple