Poetry in English by a non-english speaker. Enjoy (I suppose).
Satire is ether and so everyday is Larynx Day We pour a bitter drop ‘ and our bones, they squeal yet motionless our tendons, they stretch out of sight our nerves just can’t remember they were spoiling for a fight. PS: Saboteando la MIR (día 116)
I was born dressed in pink. I loved it, then hated it. Eventually, I didn’t give a fuck. Today, I’m still dressed in washed out blood. (The question is: ‘WHERE does my skin start?’) You know I’ve been naughty. I’ve been living as a free human (as free as a standard human is supposed to be). …
Spring does not deserve such a sad dispensable tribute. (Just bring me the damned poppies and nobody gets hurt) STOP Whatever you came looking for You will find no poetry in here. (But one more stained glass machinery)
Dear “boys who have ever loved me” Dear “boys I have ever loved” Dear “couple of girls, too” Dear “smashed cactus” Dear Alexander Pope: Have you ever seen a pumping human heart? Have you put a single finger on it? Do you know how it feels? (That is the Greatest Taboo) Shhhhhhhh. I love you. Don’t get deceived by my …
Do you know those porcelain cheek girls? Maybe once I was one of them, but they’ve never had the guts to excuse themselves by saying, “Don’t take it personally, but you are such a tedious specimen,” without twisting at least twice their tongues. And let them know just because I am not omnipotent I’m not remaining that forlorn: …
Tiny hands learn no piety in this unmerciful piece of land. Godliness smells like lacquered wood as Master (and foe) waits on the other side. Doubtful and grumpy, I slide down the chair and ask my men for advice: Maybe Milady has more to offer than an cryptic ivory smile. A shiny dagger under silk sleeve, or poison …
Hear the cry of the strings Wait for the echoes time Smell the children’s breath Hear the pulse of the drums and sincronize. Follow with us the swallow trail. Follow with us. Condors meet nightingales tonight. Do I believe in this? They shall survive me. My poetry is not soft enough, just woeful, twisted, lost in space and time – …
Cloth won’t save you this time, so let it glide along your Great Wall and reveal your true nature. You, malleable reptile, can’t stop it from exhaling your second breath (salty, savoury, silent), shuddering at their touch. So why bother resisting? Just let it grow, thicker and older, pathetically attached to the surface, a million soundless martyrs born to turn …
A pesar de los problemas logísticos ya me informan de que ha llegado entero (tarde, pero entero), así que qué menos que dejar aquí una muestra sosa bidimensional. Por dejar constancia escrita más que nada: ya está donde tenía que estar. El momento es sólo la excusa. Happy birthday to NZ. Whether it’s night time who croons its sweetest breezy …
