new poetry

black wine

Wine Poetry 2011

I have closed my eyes.

In a mouthful of wine
the afternoons like throngs of mice
running hungry and wild down the gullet of
my absent body.

I taste in a nook of wine
oblivion- as a room
where existence breeds
in orgies of secret (and sweet)
mechanisms and laws.

It is all there with bubbles and stain.

My eyes are shut.

The coasts of my routine
full of drunk mist…
the departure – a breath – as a gust
of feeble constellations.

The sip.
Abrasive but fleeting.
Like the burn of a glimpse of sun.

My eyes are melting in black wine
while I drag the contours
of the untouchable world
into the invisibility of my sleep.

 

 

Poetry 2011

cruel

Cruel sky

The words smell each other
leaning against the tempest
an odor of absurdity
as the world mechanism
smashes your
head
against the window of
a satanic sky –
oh cause and effect
or the inevitable
question
of:
are we alone
in infinite shallowness
of thought?
the teeth of sky
grinding skulls
like mustard seeds
– a sigh –
the memory of light/anonymously.

Absurd Poetry

soldier of ruin

soldier_of_ruin_nihilistic_poetry-1

The sadness of the suit –
hung

the window shop
like a memory
carrying the scent
of an effete cosmos,
the wrinkles engraved
as snakes on a dead desert
of polyester,
the trapezoids existing
shadows in the skin
of the pattern,
and the sadness of the suit
saturated with the rust
of a regret, the shoes
of temple sacrifice-
the suit gray and occidental
ail and sober
standing brave
as the soldier of ruin.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

of the miniscule

Eternal doubt

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.

Nihilistic Poetry

a request

21st_century_absurd_poetry

 

Has the raucous broth of
mad existence
in the twinkle ruin
of your perception?

Has the incense of repetition
shoal the antipodes of speech
in the colliding spiral
of absurdity?

Has the impervious rant
emerging like a Zen of clouds
immolate round and sound
as reason of the ephemeral?

Has the curve of light
lost in mind
like the rolling dimension
of unknowingness?

Answer me!

 

 

on work

mans_artificial_world_21st_Century_poetry

It is there
a taste of machine
in my earth-rooted tongue
that although I am drenched
in phantasmagoria
my center is solid like
the bolt of physical law

it is there
a host of onerous mechanisms
LURKING
behind the quiet gleam
of motion

that in the splintered sky
of the treetops
a fabulous realm of myth, sleep
and transience is reposing
like the heavy fingers of god

but today
rocks are in my lungs
being ground for
the castles of math
and strategy

a player taken out
of the bench of chimera
to supply the field
with an extra glove of fact

today the world is no longer my metaphor
but the unalienable stage for
man’s work.

 

 

Poetry 2011

sketches in disguise

Sketch Cubist Man

(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.

Poetry 2011

about a girl

Since she had lost
all crystals and ponds in her eyes
I had reason to believe
that a furious cobweb
had adhered to her forehead
as a continent of thistle
rooted in the wasteland of her frivolous skin
and yet I’m sure that she was once radiant
as a mirror pointed to the sea,
that once her teeth were rays
piercing through her naturally bitter lips
transforming her semblance
from rock to clouds of summer –
Yes! I had good reason
to suppose that if she were a bed
her springs would pierce out from
the mattress to torture my sleep,
but being still a napkin
her asperity would crack
at the touch of
the first drop
of a kiss.

Poetry 2011

voluminous

carmine essence clouds

Cumulous figment of joy

the art of white eyes

I sense a bird stretching experience

colonizing an empty nest of laughter

my tongue is ripe with twilight

savoring the underbelly of clouds

their pink veins of magic

the iris coils on expanses of clarity

carmine volumes of essence.