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Dante Rocío Jan 24
The purest sexuality is not being
left excited by one’s ******
like a forbidden fruit
or found
in metaphors
via
allusions
of one’s wild
aphrodisiac breath
or resembling it phones/melody
during ******* in the bed;

it is the moment of philias
and events
that leave you finitely burnt from the inside, reforming
you and leaving you anew
for burning again

And humans aren’t its source

they’re just its vessel.

Just like poems kiss knowing:
no lips in flesh will be able to replace them for you.

The same goes with the choice of a human language
till we’re still
here.
On relationship with the carnal ceremonies that can transcend only once they let go of the ground and your nervous system pleased constantly. Example being experiencing Arabic in sound in the dark with no one to witness you being decomposed by the tangerine passion within it more than skin's stimulation could give
Dante Rocío Jan 20
Zegar popuszczony. Drewno w deski popękane.
Twoje dziecię po raz enty leży w sofie, jakby nieznane.
Czy widziałeś jakże gołębice są dziś rozszlajałe?
Białe a wyprute, jakbyś coś z żeber z alabastru na wióry mi
pasem skórzanym przerobił.
Pogardą jakże ci koniak a nie me oczy ambulansem!
Wargi sąsiada jak posąg dawidowy a nie me wyżebrane!
A sen nas dwojga na strychu już tylko we krwi coś znaczy?
Mętny widok asów, pików czy trefli bez serca twej „królowej” spił cię
i na wiersz w popielniczce przerobił?

- Ty co stoisz dumna, niby poharatana,
nie wiem jak siebie samego odpędzić.
Jakiś ból liliowy, jakiś pieniądz w twarz córce rzucony,
ekstaza z barw i szkarłatu przed oczyma już tylko
do anestezji się sprowadza.
Bo, powiedz, czymże trzask twych żeber, o potomku zapomnienie,
jak nie chwilą gorzką małego goździka
co zaraz nagle w przełyku zaniknie?
Po cóż pierścień zaręczynowy, czesne, ognisko Hestii,
śmiech twój platynowy
jeśli stoi przyszłość jak twój posag stracona?
Ten salon, ten pas, ten orgazm, każda sprawa lichwy ci warta.

- Bez wykładania ci na ławę „przynajmniej ja nie...”,
chociaż stanę ci wyzwaniem i ostatnim tchem
jaki marmur mych kości coś jeszcze się broni
i spytam, nie wycofam:
Ten ból, ten skowyt co mówisz, jak czyn schowany Nazarejczyka,
u stóp w wodzie twych pracujący,
czy znać ci dać co przekazał przez wsze narody?

- Naprzód, wypatruję

- Co na Ziemi związałeś, w niebie się nie odstanie,

                jak puls w żyle ci zostanę

                     choćbyś martwy i go wydrapał

                                na pozór.
A prompt for the lesson of Polish language on describing current tribulations a married couple is prone to facing and falling to in modern times. On physical intercourses, betrayal, alcoholism, hasard, life after death, doves that go berserk from wife’s pain by the hands of husband’s violence and how it all might have no sense at all when one would look at humanity’s life and goals maybe
Dante Rocío Jan 12
A cardiac flush paints just respiratory
via ivory of ribs name to launch, bear, ovulate,
an explicit painter your mother would never count acceptable like
a feather's charcoal flight
a whitened bow of silk for your neck to gush with,
in a mess adorn,
Pueyo's nomad or form turned poem I take
greater than any body's gifted *******,
but enamel of guitar's caramel my bonfire took for granted chips.

Let's imagine we identify
****** for David's curls on doe eyes for a woman in return.
Let's imagine we identify
peach marble ways of men tinting what as agender stars in ashes lie.
Let's imagine we identify
*** at last as nameless liberty for home.
Wounds, impeccable fire platter, a night holds.

Once in her time a nightingale nurse held lone for corridors light,
might my clacks and nervous chirps on a lantern in a tea for someone
rushed my fingers bless just like her alone...

An empty gaze. A late clock.

And I and Christ perched with a washing bowl at someone's feet,
we meek but at praise, unattainable,
And I a statue with silk black at my end of curves' robe.

I might wish to serve one of those corridor nights
without a cover tugging at my edges
yet a hopefully audacious male David gaze in intent,
for a wayfaring soul on my couch,
for glorious shame their touch would put on my ways
of the acrylic of ***,
for brightening bland stars agender into honey,
and my work for bare choices
errands
picked.

Gasp.
Renovation of mixed approaches of my agenderness, transmasculinity, chilly nights of blazing guitar plays outside, becoming your family's silent night saviour even though you're ready to depart from clothes or Mind like Florence Nithingale with her loyal lamp and just how much I wish for my special someone to be born into that space where I'm all naked, not ascribed to femininity, and burning holes in their soul with my eyes of devotion just like Christ washed our feet grandly yet humbly, with no one maybe seeing him acting
Dante Rocío Jan 3
When you play the piano like
a rasped yet ****** hopeful breath of your last moment,
in ink and milk hues,
you pay heed to the never audible sound
the wave of falling gradients on the last day
sky bear lightly mournfully
Dec 2020 · 371
Oeuvre lane in his fit
Dante Rocío Dec 2020
I never could prop up a failed elbow’s art gallery shaft,
Louvre welcomes vast, snob, cold or ludicrous, unextended.
Twenty thousand leagues under the acrylic,
If only to break the painter’s resolve, heaped in beige
on the floor, for a block, at the guest’s bench’s remorse,
desperate clingy till the hours go off and again dud you’re bound home.
Yet ever since with paint’s poise invited, gasped for air I’ve been,
I retrace, reshape, try boots’ every flapping museum snitch,
in volatile water colours’ sling and Kanagawa rehearsal belief
I stand for nothing more but a room, a painting, long hall, and hours to miss.
A plastic art prompt from a converter from a dumbfounded cultural adversary in aloof fatigue to an opening disciple pursuing taking in at last all the paint, dimensions and hues like a gasp and eventually find their own empty marble hall to gaze one on one with a piece of artism daringly.
Highly recommended to read this poem horizontally, in full extension of the work’s format
Dec 2020 · 213
Travelling Earth Stanza
Dante Rocío Dec 2020
I’ve been thinking of living like a fire,
crawling at my boots for fields, thirsty,
soothing guitar’s enamel of blood and memories,
life taking yet passion agent for our breaths and eyes to stay.
Life taking for those who live with roots all day.
Life taking for those who fairly clasp their prey.

I’ve been thinking of living like a fire,
a candle offspring of a dangerous meditation,
Rocks rumbling into coffin forests,
and an academic scorched sight that will endure only
in cigarette poems‘ claim.

A string.
On ecological worldwide poetry prompts to add my own voice conjoined with own whistlings of caramel wood painted maroon and red from fingers bleeding from strings, from poems kissing you possessively in the back of your head even in the shadow of a family bonfire and the harsh force a spark might carry
Dante Rocío Dec 2020
Lights or darks
To break a glass,
I’m worth on it and not in the droll,
To depart from the bed in black the one who
Addresses themselves to overtake their self and become in a rave,
Violin string works at ease;
Give me a gulp of the Moon to crash to my side,
to crack in ecstasy of me inside.
I’ve put up enough with walking perfect like the porcelain.
A translation of a spontaneity of Poetry with French on the images of the dark, fumes, grey, space as a physical trait and instruments from a picture prompt for short letters
Dec 2020 · 361
Ça se coule comme éveils
Dante Rocío Dec 2020
Lueurs ou sombres
Un verre casser,
J’en vaux et pas en drôle,
Partir du lit noir celui qui
S’adresse à s’envahir et être un délire
Fil de violon travaille à l’aise:
Donnez-moi un coup de la lune pour m’en écraser et m’en crever,
J’en ai marre marcher parfait comme la porcelaine
A spontaneity of Poetry with French on the images of the dark, fumes, grey, space as a physical trait and instruments from a picture prompt for short letters
Dec 2020 · 670
Jasper for Broken Sands
Dante Rocío Dec 2020
You could desperate hear me start weeping
Ruckus started to crying to crack tangerine
holds one still upright auburn
as an immortal's loneliness fogged or condemned
stays a Sahara burnt hot tambourine
a hangover led Arabian
a broken record
some shattered the bathroom bar.


I wonder for my brother's dowry
on beds too kempt to be called beds
and doorframes and lamps set never high enough to hit again,
to stand to kneel to lock to lash to hold to my brother's body
now felt to me like the female sold fragile to the greater cities with
a vote,
he clearly left his Argentina behind no matter
how she paled, ended struck.


No longer a child or sister to pass as
to take guests in alone
to stand our married couple's cries an unmuteable radio
can't go back to playrooms for imparallel dignities' sake
that made all the noise at night worth it to deal with
I, don't want to play the rook
if no horse of yours' beside.


Now once the scarcity of your voice,
if even morbid,
is to be greeted by me alone,
Adam and Eve we have unable to see,
just for the empty halls of your decision just for me to hit,
your turned leaf hidden agenda of relief,
I recognise my faiths of the old of your endless
mornings supposedly killed by snoring and your
vividness to my thoughts a foreign concept,
to note you resurrected out of mind and out of sight
the congruence picks me out and slaps me that
our cocoon and safe designed for you
was nothing short of a coma web in your eyes
to begin with instead.

...

I look out to my brother's dowry
to hold stubborn, fainted in my nook the head of my brother's body
to sit on his old air this house keeps like a sari gem
he will never long for
again.
A correlation of steamed mirrors, Arabian calls in yearning and melodious drabbling that overlap it endlessly, a skin in an onus shed aside to a corner once you can't feign yourself into a child's play, and the sibling you've often taken for granted till they go even if they do return at times for not so long. And suddenly you're the only one to think they might have been never truly free or themselves in the place you called home for them.
Acknowledgement, recognition, apology and broken renewal.
Dedication to the protagonist of this poem.
...
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
Seized by the fear,
The justice transforms paradoxically
into perspectives.
Perspective of people
who only float
and do not question
their fragile concept of existence.
Lying to themselves,
they decided from their comfort zone
to speak of “justice” to the world; yet
as long as you don’t understand truly
the truth about your chains, you’ll keep on
defending the empire.
You will never truly understand the pain of others,
you will never be able to truly feel the justice
because you fear dying,
and also paradoxically,
although I am giving you the answer,
you also fear loving.
And without love there will never be true justice.

————

Apoderados por el miedo,
la justicia se transforma paradójicamente
en perspectivas.
Perspectiva de personas
que solo flotan y no cuestionan
su frágil concepto de existencia.
Engañándose
decidieron desde su comodidad
hablar sobre “justicia” para el mundo; pero
mientras que no comprendan verdaderamente
la verdad sobre sus cadenas, seguirán protegiendo al imperio.
Jamás entenderán el dolor de otros,
jamás podrán verdaderamente sentir la justicia
porque temen morir,
y paradójicamente también,
aún que les den la respuesta,
también temen amar,
y sin amor jamás habrá verdadera justicia.
An old remnants of a speech being prepared where this poem wove its way into my research and it stayed however never used or with place for it found due to restrictions from above.
Now it happens to break free from Poetalia and come back into English I share with you.
Enjoy the simplicity and a cry of broken stoic blood.
Nov 2020 · 226
Journaling/Back/Onus
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
It has been such a Long time since our last incarnation such like reassembly.

We’ve been scrubbing our United States
and leasing places
as scarification and other humans‘ faces
of stories,
to bless or gargle foreign.

We’ve been to the Neptune’s Fountain to find Young Man Hogan’s bench situated within all those loners’ speedy extroversion,
and catch the Saint Petersburg bell that hitchhiked the church there

to make a glimpse of urbanism and the world’s history replaced
by just one journal
and one fella’s pencil
swerving greatly‏.

Still,
the words are still trying,
flexing,
to fit their whole ends
into shoes they should have taken off
already, a long time ago,
and that‘s this somewhere
where we could say:
crossroads decide their fruition.

And it comes to realisation:
faces,
screens,
bruises,
droppings,
chilling entries,
work,
how I remade the word “naked”of one thousand and one nights
under my tiny silky
cloak
-
it has been nothing but a play
for the day when I’ll write,
and the Life,
that will take on my own skin
one way or another.

One paper corner will meet with the other.

Departures are all eventually just fun geese’s bump in another flight of a night.
How does it feel like to be stranded in a space between the exile from being poems and at the same time fulfilling all the tasks, seemingly full creation of functioning daily?
Duties have been and are strenuous, lots of flocks, yet own and desired by my aspirations’ oath, or rather at times disgustingly expected from apart of you too.
Had no space for that.
But now the game is finally on.
Poetry is my constant patron of its choosing of me and that makes us one.
And I cannot or will ever be killed.
So will It.
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
I give you the freedom
to interpret “We” in general
or as just Us
two

may your Intimacies show you
what will guide my pendants
of thought kindlings.
I leave it undisclosed  too.

We are evanescent, Juliet.
Yet complete in how shattered we are.
A fractal.
We can’t trace our fingers over tangible frames of the ways of Connections,
clogs of the paths
Love cracks
from what we believe we have already surpassed.
We know we have no capacity of learning with clear logic
how We work,
what Philia makes of Us
and what we make of it,
how the seeds of uncertain Passions
find their way through
and out of Us.

It is indeed a huge insecurity of ours:
trying to find, trace
(on a lone garden wall
made of bricks and creepers),
and keep in our fragile handling
what these feverishness coming
out of hand do with us.

But then we
stand behind the other
(optionally or not: of our self still),
in the same way
uncovered,
insecure
and trembling
if I make it right, or rather we make it right.

The hands of both parties come
in one click and then
though we accost errors
we make our perfectly imperfect
clingings with some glass in that wall
as we again and again come
and will come into
lessons,
which seem new
but stay one and the same

or saddened by the world ideas that will keep on putting us through questioning “Who am I?”
with our silences filled with answers
that we will keep on becoming
and accomplishing without ever taking sentient notice.

I take you as we are.
You take me as we are.
We stay strong in that pair
of trembling hands that
though they do not know
what is ahead of them
or already as Them
when it comes to Love
or any pure emotional arousal
we make of ideas, we accept it.

We won’t ever encompass it
but it encompasses us.
We welcome how much we don’t understand
our bodies or how all of that
and even more flows
and will flow,
we are it,
teary from resilience.

Errors - not
Broken - not
Nought these names made up for perceiving *** and bodies,
these measly words as enough as one isolation to a whole abandoned waiting room at now

I stay in full apprehension and readiness
of what I come to exist
as and what feeling becomes me,
I won’t chain myself to
the scheme we might draw
with chalk on that garden wall.

And be that too alongside please,
simply of.

I am, will be there,
standing,
unpassing,
going through all the same strangenesses
alike,
yet kissing each
and every one
on their ivory breathing ribs,
because they only seem
to be deformed
and at unease.

I will stay in Love.
I will stay outside of it.
Without naming it or putting it
to any formality

let all these questions be a waterfall on you and welcome each and every one of them.

We don’t have to understand them.
We just will be.
We will stay as questions and just let it be. We don’t have to be apart.
We don’t have to be bound for eternity
with pacts or our bodies entangled.

I simplistically. approach.
these hurt questions with a stupefying tenderness of giving
each and every one of them
a chance to.
A thin line of peach freeze.
Sentinels of senses themselves, my arousals of then.
Phronemophilia stays unswayed. I am still in the same bliss.
Let see where we as consciences will grow and shape to.

In the end
it is seen
that loving anyone or anything
was only the pathway to solely harbouring ourselves and Love itself.
It is unchanginly It.
Same verily sacrum in choice of

then

now

lest ever.
Coming to meet your mirror once you’ve considered yourself fully mended already leads you to reflect upon all the lessons you’ve taken in already and undermining the stability of your development. To rejuvenate or rehearse them again bare and undone.
Carol Staples Lewis made the same affiliations in his works and pondering when a senior devil meets his junior acquaintance, telling of his own experience, going again through their wisdom and what the younger one should reflect upon.
Yet now this is not about God, morality, sneakiness or any other machination.
This, is On Love. Gibran-like uptake to go through what That is beyond human relationships and models.
Dedicated to my mirror, here my trial of what I’ve come to learn myself in that matter to my own junior. Testing me.
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
I’ve been left alone in my class as I always am.

I observe how beige encrustings work on the ceiling humming electronically in this feeble light we have with our current weather like mistied silver with choked charcoal out of someone’s throat stoic with inexistent illness.

It seems to me I’m pressed with time to go out as I usually am
by some codexes
but I just can’t help being glued standing to my chair and watching with an unspecified wistfulness and melancholy as students’ bike
/
come and go here from above
/
and no one knows how many afternoons of watching or window sill standing I’ve spent like that,
where the window the teacher has every time overlooks one
of these trees only I keep in my mind’s eye
and all that with me included stays
abandoned (but not exactly morosely) to play the part of watch keepers lasting still
like pillars no one will account for.

And l felt how my shift there and the thing I and this room made chose you to be answered there.
And as I couldn’t help but keep carrying the conscience luggage with you within it so carefully whilst I was blending my abandoned singing there with how you might be transfixing yourself in perplexities of uncertainty.
And I’m telling you I read your text place just when it came, have been carrying you as my desired task to, as an injured animal yet with no degradation this state. I kept making a letter I would give inside my eyes and small fidgets of hands.

I wonder at how it is I who writes
and how it is You who writes.
One another.
On how often and long it takes to take the role of a vigilante of your everyday tad raising tad restricting institution when you’re the sole one who always stays behind, apart, in solitude, in every class, a dear one’s eyes waiting for your lips’ sign behind your back, and no one knows you’re the one and only not just sharing those empty spaces in every direction...
... but also the only one honoured with your little Venice from the highest, widest and largest window sill on the top of the building, adorned with marble like side gargoyles and the Sun teaching just at that altitude
Nov 2020 · 241
Koi Drwa Spływa
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
Odczucie zaparcia tchu w piersiach
jakoby przy chłodzie,
szoku w oszołomionej
czułości czy penetracji
przez ukochanego po raz pierwszy
podczas aktu cielesnego

odczuwam jako to uczucie
w klatce
ściśniętej
jakbym miał w dłoniach
właśnie
tak samo kruchą rybkę...

ledwo dyszy, cmoka,
jak niemowlę się miota...
i widzę siebie jako lęk,
że ona to ze szkła jest
i płacze prawie z niepokoju
o to
co
z nią

zrobię

że trzymam mięsień sercowy wyjęty
prosto z czyjejś żywotności.

I wiem, iż jeśli tylko zrobię
nieostrożny ruch, to ten cały
cud Życia którego
w oniemieniu i własnych łzach
nie mogę pojąć,
że mi położono między palce...

pęknie nagle jedna arteria przez ściśnięcie...

I pójdzie krew.

I pójdą jej wargi w dół.

I pójdą płetwy wzdłuż ciała.

A tygrysie paski bielu i różu będą już tylko tą gęstą czerwienią co nie zmyjesz z ramion tylko się wedrą jak zabrudzona skóra bez zrzucania naskórka.

Tą czerwienią w papce jak ta podczas okresu menstruacyjnego gdy ją badasz z bliska na opuszkach.

A Cardio będzie nieme.
Przeze mnie.
Zgwałcone takowo więc.

Lub każde inne dłonie, w które powierzyłem tą rybkę.

Dlatego takim łkającym lękiem jest dawanie tego w inne dłonie.
A oni nie wiedzą jak karpika się trzyma tak, by chodziło o niego i tylko niego.
Nie jego paski barwne,
powietrze wokół
czy inne tyczące się treści.
O niego.

Oto Słowo.

Osoba.

Język.

My.

„A Słowo ciałem się stało.”
Many consider my Poetry verbalised as utterly abstract metaphors I take straight out of imagination. Drawings of Mind.
Yet those elaborates are purely elected wordings to images, elations, with senses and clips that come to choose me themselves. Overlifely.
The image of Koi Fish is one of those allegories of any tries to show you what “body” is that of my Poetry.
Hereby the text.
So that it can be seen these are more than metaphors or the rationale.
(Translation coming provided soon)
Nov 2020 · 323
Pendulum/Penumbrum
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
Sharpening, my thoughts,
into brilliances of fine fabric of
mentations and my walk
/
the snow that goes ink yet
not spilling
its texture that goes
visible
/
as pure dark of a body in place
of the space of my eyelids
when they fall
strong,
being with the Moon out at night
in freezing gardens
all
without clothes
without anyone to repatriate
me home,
turning into one great cigarette mist
with no
death to.

I know those days of the air
smelling like faded
cities of coal
when Sun crosses
the Moon on the sky
and
creates a thermal pressure sandwich
of 12 airs
/
at adoption by stench or fragrance be it
of composters or
birches when no one else sees I throw
away my pedigree
to humans
always
at last and find
myself at night
more than my
conscience could ever ask for,
and though it
goes beyond
prickliness opaque you’d
be favourable with in
terms of the meeting between
that accounting
and your smell or eyes,
it serves

always still,

hunting instinct of
stoicism
that ask for
nothing more
than the fleeing
of false suns
alongside
the cinnamon visage of the Sun

that no plying month will ever ask
for.
More.
Exorcisms of cold strain, steeling body and phronemophilia for that foundance at night and freezes. They always come in the end, be it winter. Or not.
Nov 2020 · 384
Morenorosa
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
I reflect with a projection,
when hearing
melodies of rhythm or
stronger
lower basses like guttural
voice chords, especially
in the dark or being on a waiting room
of a car ride,
whenever I want it or not
/
an endless dance or some
semi-tangible
image that twirls into
hot
red
rose
petals
even though
there’s no dress to whizz,
feet strong like Carmen Amaya’s
had no mercy for Iberian taverns’
dance floors of flamenco
/
watching that spectacle
always
from discarded collage views
/
of that accounting
and how no
voice is needed to direct
the melody a vector,
only let it be sung-thrung
through the heat rising
and orchestra listened to
completely, sharp motions in
the eyes of the crowd
or those who had ever considered
pondering on me like a philosophy...

Maybe such styles and asphyxiations
of rapid ragged jerkings of too sharp
notes in the air cutting
the atmosphere like a blunt knife
have got to me a long time ago,
stay ever more as visions to moves
audacious, and have been
chosen beforehand my vessel
without its decision to be turned
into something greater
in the collaboration with my own other dishes
to fit Passion.

Then - then - I always imagine - then
in all that how
any certain entity
would be looking at that,
taking it in from the outside
and what that painting of me
partly
will be made as
in their sculpted no flesh
eyes.

/
Thank you
Ladies, Gentlemen, Whoever Further
for attending
/
Prima, Prova, espanso aggiunto dalla danza e verso il fiato soffocato ma del fiato.
The daze of that accounting and making, above, within, towards, has been written and reminisced so real from every reoccurring time of itself my body authentically lost breath and freedom of fatigue's influence by then from that vision. Beforehand, afterhand.
Have you ever come to dance there where your body doesn't exist yet only what's beyond it eventually here on Earth or somewhere else? The feet knives rather than flesh and deprived of idea of physical ******* or not
Oct 2020 · 315
White Collar Drag
Dante Rocío Oct 2020
The inclination
Towards domestic superiority
Does not refund
Ideals lost at discarded gambles.
Stygian kin browser,
Rest abode,
No lark made your path.
Leave the tie bloodshed
At the desk (once)
Home torn
A short cordial yet coolish prompt on a business noir photo as white collars break and have no foundance anymore inside the sight
Sep 2020 · 179
Gioielli di Giornale #26
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
Watching the schemes
of the World
and realising nothing
happens without
a cause yet
it seems so,
there it is
to see it
is not us
who choose events,
but they choose us,
since there are so many
mishaps on our
part.
As we know there is no coincidence in
the ways all Here flows to and fro,
one side of event must have premeditation.
Once we see how we are “accidents”
and can’t pinpoint it exactly,
there is no other way than to say
The other side takes course of it.
Sep 2020 · 269
Gioielli di Giornale #25
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
Anyone who carries out
and
lives through
depths, complex
meanings
and
peculiarities in own
understanding
in their acts and affiliation
,
commits
Poetry
.
No matter if you’re plumber, cleaner, calligraphist, writer, sailor or any other deemer,
you won’t ever refrain from Poetry,
you want it or not,
if you exude tailored and ownly born
ways and wisdom understandings
only your steps in it have
Sep 2020 · 549
Kupala, Ill-lit Shrine
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
It is sharpening crimson steel in a knife as of that, with it fingers softly bleed like care and rise as a shuttered peach in
a sturdy piece of scarlet, paid in heed.

Your foreboding onthou my skin is no more truly nor less rigid unplugging of violin strings out of a guttural chords into a straight morbid fire, and a pain structure
hardens, straightens,
embeds them forever into every light’s riddance, this trial mended.
Welcomed fireflies in a
solstice. bonfire. forest. [stygian].

Love, my dearest Love, if your ever evanescent body or voice even exists:
if I ever dare to greet in my tears music it only may be to bleed with you in one common fluid, to have my ribs torn gently by
each your promise barely for my hand’s taking,
endure time to have my truer form by you,
a sensation, clad in lilac velvet that goes
under the name of “Paper Airplane” by
my thoughts.

To keep.
Us.
Intact.
More than as rain we always are.

A child picked up a solitary chalk and sketching protruded some things by that hand & sight, some sun with injustice drawn, that elders’ words and acts
have not put up.

Some of the chalk simply lays everyday crushed.
Foundance.
With no human passage, luggage.
No matter how hard I’ll come to cry
Never shall I reject my waters.
My Love, you who kiss me further and further
Without lips or anything to align,
I wish for you to never earn a step or body,
And to marry my sand-sea plaited follies.
Be veritable Garden Song.
Sep 2020 · 403
Vend Boycott
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
I expect
the day when
Poetry is no
longer forcefully
mulled
over
words,
when we commit
it
as of
us,
when we
reek
of it,
or rather
Poetry
reeks
of us,
not shunned or shunning by
the traps in
word-ings.
We Poets then
will truly spurt
and raise an elegy
off
the skin.

That one faithful day
libraries and others will shed
books,
letters and papers,
like finally autumn
leaves,
our chips into small
encasings
like pearls with shells
their.

And
those who choose us
on the shelves will
receive the reward
of our dragging
into
our depths like
persistent algae,
for
a while,
or forevermore.

And I’ll finally be
able to unveil to them:

“I am one of Poetry’s
revelations.”

For now/
pay the lyrical’s heed/
in its written ways/
by the respect of every/
blank space ending/
before each and every verse/
it brings/
Expectations towards the way Poetry’s sharpened, like earth to metal clustered,
for vending mists.
I wait for the lip-like, felt transfer.
I wait to for the first time under
standing customers on the sale
for our chippings made easy.
I wait for my affection’s freedom from
paper, pen, glue and shopping stink.
I make an everlasting patient boycott
On a bench clear.
Sep 2020 · 266
Alchemical Crust
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
Like breeze caressing in its
trap a feather grey in air’s
flight so have I
been caught
in un fulmine dei pensieri di
appena circa una dozzina
di minuti
fa.

And I have to most urgently
capture Me in this
flight and non-tormenting
air bubbles coming
out of my watery
&
treelike sight
by
breathing this moment
of realisation
gently
yet hard/strongly
while I’m at it,
at Shepherd’s meaning
of Treasure in
Coelho’s work cast
especially on me
& my antics of Now.

And that letter
here to be
shall be
lost
for a moment under
that pencil:
scribbling on sun-scorched
plane passing,
logophilia
and greater future to come
and
be
done.

For when you
finally
drink from a little bit
of Life itself in
you without any stimuli
foreign to you,
you’ll see that
It
is it that’s the most feverish
in what’s the best,
the sufficing binge.

I’m giving into
your hands this
redemption of mine till
I
AM,
for currently it
is the biggest truth
given to me
by
Allah.

I sense these Signs
as they find each other on Me,
like they make me insert
all the answers,
intentions,
with a hard semblance
and the durability
of the terrace wood
against my worked up skin,
in my lungs.

To where will my Own Legend
lead me?
There are certain
premonition
and in-depth
in this moment,
in the castle of the epilogue,
of the book,
in crystal blue,

in how all the world now
persists in my head
desiring to leave
a trace somewhere here
so as not to let go
of my hand
from its.

And the Sun
that parts almost at
dusk through
a hollow in the clouds
stormy-like
behind my back
seems to be winking, glance throwing,
of a foreboding,
of its presence,
waning,
on what will be able
to come.
And it’s gone.

And how Pueyo would say it:
“May no one deprive
me of living.”
I say it to all the pop culture,
and these false suns
“I’m not yours to take”
as much as I can.

And should we not listen
to understand
instead of
to reply?
Aren’t constant thoughts
that replying,
and pure being that
taking in (all the striving),
like when facing forest
in a
cold
prickling
air
to encounter?

Hold me like that,
that as I am,
in your hands
for a while.
Noting old taken in Eden-wise sight,
heat yet persisting of a sodden fight
done
thanks to “The Alchemist”‘s trials
And the epilogue
Sent by letter
To Italy
Sep 2020 · 352
Just Face Your Outlook
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
I still have to and follow the inquiry
to learn to belove
at paid attention
every face
shaping
I encounter.
Because there is no fleeing
from any of them
when I look in the mirror
well
(and in dark glazed)
Greatest yet most complex to resolve
Portrait
Of strong tanned
Like a sword’s leather hilt
Shoulders:
My own highlight face.
Sep 2020 · 386
Oil Drops Brushes
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
Imagine a young fervent swarthy portrayal,
caramel strong un-clad lady,
yet at touch so “douce” and glued
whilst leaning out
from a window
slender rainy on a balcony too urban
pane
And eyes at digital art
Spin a confession
Of how the watered petals of flowers there
do not explain
The origin or calling of the rain
And that its every end or beginning
In her unbetrayal made swayed
Has actually
since always
there
been taking
its rightful place.

The world in that fact
does not have,
find
nor
make relay, sense.

Someone right  on the other side’s
staircase stroll
Would extract their own core
by extending through their ribs own

her beloving so longing and old
that one at last will find it
possessing a too hurtful call.

Head lolled.
Dew owned.
Hereby a painting
The Rain gave me
As my new rightful face.
They will hold it forevermore
As their subject yet bearer.
The chosen laid and left there
Sep 2020 · 248
minute walked remarkings
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
i made a mental note
not so long ago:
i matched the dots
and saw
(or maybe rather “touched”)
that almost all
the books that come
into my life
for a reason,
to change it
and/or stay have
the same wondrous
smell
chosen by me
that i
adore in
a book.

art,
as physical plastic one,
will
show
my eyes so deeply that
one/you will feel
nostalgia for something
you’ve never known before
once gazing into them,
wet,
glistened,
a maze,
and in a daze.

musings:
second true form
how poetry arrives to
me
and chooses me!

forms are
all diamond facets,

just so many.
i want to make them,
become me so
much.
in my due now that
will come
by the will of.
Allah.
“Everything formed a drawing, a handwriting, a sign. Odours sent out their luminous signals from the top of their towers, or from where they lay buried in their secret grottoes.”
~ J. M. G. Le Clézio
Sep 2020 · 245
Gioielli di Giornale #24
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
This idea
is so distorted,
transfixed,
to mark our bodies
as shame
or lack of respect
when in their maternal
******,
that rags
they wear
ornate us
and dictate
what our respect
is
when it is completely on
the contrary
and such rules
made by society
are claimed to be of God.
Our nature and self-confidence
of it
(can)
make even the most
shaggy rags radiant
and worth of envy.
As if coming to meet Them
purely from your own
will so eager no matter
if you’re even
just
in
a
towel
didn’t count as a great
act of devotion.
That ****** is illegal,
that beaches where you can be
non-clad are
only for the “major” persons
(because underage ones
are supposedly
not
in their right mind),
and as Dante Quintana,
my eponym,
noticed truly:
how shoes
are unnatural
and how not wearing them
is not
a sign of poverty
or lousiness.
Remarking on the stubborn and void of
Our benevolent choice or strive
Culture, rules or traditionals,
How we made ourselves maimed
And yet still speak of too much liberty
Whilst it is just a beginning
Of finding inwards
How locked we are from our hand.
Or rather shaped as scripted letters in formal indexes
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
And now a change of scenery;
the night has truly fallen
now
and departing from
our Baltic Galway
“into the woods”
we can greet the callings
of some shenanigans
luring and
lurking there
to plant or extract ideas
and trespassings
of
our
flickerings.
Have a waiting room
in car rides,
help yourself

And earlier,
barefoot through
sand poured with pine needles
and we walk
nevertheless.
Bare feet open
the way to puddles
of warm diamonds
called sky water
now with pungent flowers
hitting senses like ambrosia,
the way to high embracing
of the trees whilst climbing,
to mud healing,
to impassive conquering
of any earth we
encounter,
to comprehension,
and to the respect
of all that came
and left through
these lands
in the span
of
all
the history.

Stronger and stronger,
closest to the truest
an affection and
calling
belonging
from the trees.
As such I cup one all,
I never want to let go,
there comes a commotion,
like entering the hidden crowd
from which you’ve always known
you truly come from,
like creatures
of a forest looking
in the silence too deep
at a village of
another world.
At first I thought from scientists
that plants don’t like being
touched,
yet as someone
quite new told me:
“Would you
be able to
find such
comprehension, love
and moving
appurtenance if they
didn’t feel exactly
the same towards
You?

Recent forest
walks when I
free my spirit too to
let it approach me
make me feel that
such great intimate
pride of an archer
or
vagabond
bound with it all in
their own story
and perception, and
even a half an hour walk
makes itself a wonder of
a few pages of a
Robin-Hood-like
book
in my presence
walking.

Also, the same
in river’s sole fine
line of freeze,
who holds dear
the mute,
those
who feign not
appurtenance
of this
world.

Let us stop,
we have arrived
already at our shack
and there’s our safe
space that
holds a place
for us to sleep
away.

Another
unconscious lesson
in God’s library,

another
Sun
to
come.
What’s over a garden wall,
Lighting a torch towards the known
Instead of truer unknown,
Magic and Home are already there
From a time before time.

I have been there.
Then.
It’s just the same encounter well,
Just that it is in flesh.
Sep 2020 · 285
Pathward, Blazer
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
Smithereens
we,
with, on, a truck’s van
speeding scrapping,
alas, vagabond voyage ceiling

Well, astral jumping from a car /cinnamonned sun/
isn’t hard then I see, creek

We,
the cloak, the moment and me the contracting,
a book of flights spread open, we
a discarding,
as its wing from gold smothered in
most blue sky and a red sign towards
embarking to a new life/face encrusting

Joy, lazy, lounged,
like a banjo in its autumn on a porch jiggly slouch,
strings light freeze at wind, clasp, then step up and
as the hitchhiker dance.

Amèlie, I caught your sound!
your theme, lastly away,
the accordion’s as of now met,
adopted in a knee’s set,
one leg around the other a mess.
Hanging springs of it, at edge.

Maroon,
eyes currently in wood carved,
steampunk clogs, clads there
fine.

Mellow,
whole body a cello,
from boots with folly drunk
through wood prolonging curved
to the “f”s at the end of ideas and
caramel hair known as falling leaves’
place.

This
will
be
a
great
something.

Laid open!
Further!
Hitter!
Onward higher!

Off,
so off
we
go
Driven through cloudy bright like summer
Road onward and in my third eye sown,
Thanks to the vicissitudes of
Amèlie Poulain‘s old accordion searching,
The Tarnation soft story in radio swaying.
I just saw my image on others’ cars limits,
Riding more hitchhiking than wind,
Than Fiddle on the Roof,
That could swerve on and on
With those old music clogs
Without things to be due hold
Sep 2020 · 234
Lilac/Core/Fastening
Dante Rocío Sep 2020
Mellow,/
good riddance,/
no lyrical sides/
their call, heaven/
fall,/
with cigarette word-
lapping,/
boat too close to the wall/
circumcising by verbals done/
up dying,/
Child us a sandbox of sense/
stretching holding/
out on a ghostly hand/
We are the walls/
place Poetry finds acute vivid lining/
verses, our eyes meshing/
hole unclenching/
Killing lectures about it, how dictionarising/
And Le Clézio’s wing alive/
abide/
Taking flight/
~
An entry, presentation, to my own self,
With a beige new paper crusting made,
Enduring  benevolent ego  for any who
that paper will find..
Entrust my sense showed again
In my 5 minutes on a lilac,
fragile like old Chinese art,
stage
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
Though another day passes,
once having arrived,
cinnamon sunny
with a misguided preaching
from a catholic church,

I recall our gorgeous
misty evening
right by the waves
from yesterday
and its one peculiar
moment:
my dad pointed to
a far away regatta
sailing in
a distance
whilst standing to my
right and asked
me not quoting

“Do you know why
I wanted to go
to the sea?
The vastness of that body,
no endings in infinity,
no one to tell me
what to do,
and once you sailed away
from the harbour
it was just
it
living.

Whilst I was on my night shift
at the very front
of the ship
on my ever first voyage
by sea,
heading to
England from Gdynia,
I felt as if I
was the very first
man to discover the oncoming
land,
like Cristopher Columbus
with his dear Santa María
breaking the waves”.

Yes, Dad.
I would add,
settled in my question

“Why do I long somehow
in smaller
or bigger
ways too at
times for that
aforementioned harbour
and otherness with so many
sounds, details,
lights and
dancing dangerous like
knives in a tavern
thrown?
For so similar
yet
so privately schemed
departures I paint?”,

I would answer
without Brain,
even if it would be solely
in perfect, dreamy way
sketched:

“Because there is
some greater and
truer breath
of mine held out
by a foreign hand
or by standing lonely
from the other mirror’s side
in front of some tremendous
waves of Kanagawa,
hugging itself small
yet with fearless Child’s
patience, like
the Young Verter
on his painting.
Some more abstract
and
breathtaking
with charisma image
of me there
stands, flowing
instead of walking,
through called aisles.
Beige coat into the
blue falling.

The No Man’s Skies
and Lands
(or yet
Of Some Men)
to be felt with all
the body and
upraising in all hues
and minute sacrifices
in speechless
wonders,
like lagoon’s turquoise
water that would shine
in a cave’s dark
with krill dancing.”

Some upholdings,
some blind images
and all rest
fresh,
windy,
dark
and light with grey
whose voicing
I cannot make,
not just to keep
it in immaculation
to stay non-maimed.

Tss
Ouch.
The Missing.

El,
ese,
acantilado.
Why do I keep having this dream?
These might be now only flickers
Of a proof to come and test it once for all.
Probably a family inheritance
I get in blood or sight
From Adam
So often yet at times
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
Can you deduce
basing on one’s
trepidations
and heartbeat
what notes and melody
complete
or
fulfil them,
precariously and intimately
decomposing and
striking?

And what sophistication,
what greatly mindless
analysis is it
when you acquaint a process/
surrounding/
issue/
object/
a person
throughoutly,
approaching in full
immersion like
the day
you go through
and not like going out
into your garden
from your house
for a few mere moments
that just make this escapade
a trespassing event,
without even looking at it!

What patient devotion
must that be to pay
for the prize of entering
its mechanism
and presence emanating,
even more
when that
“it”
is what your mirror
shows both to You
and your body,
or the sonorous car engine
driving you insane,
or...

or finally reading
the architecture of letters
of a Book
for the first time
in your life
with
comprehending actually
the story of the text
or the painting
that architecture gifts you!

And
still
what a horrifying
acknowledgement
would it be
if that
“it”
would be Life,
Time
or the World,
anything like
that in itself,
and thus there
would be no wonder left,
no excitation,
like living an immortal
existence,
a God that has gone
to every corner of perception
and galaxies,
has witnessed every
mechanism
that then starts only
to repeat itself
nevertheless
and constantly!

And
diverging from that,
maybe the reason
many minds believe
that Magic and Literature
as an apparent coming true
in our passing
are nonexistent
is that we restrict it
solely to blank pages
we fill with imagination,
to Child’s
“fads”
that
are actually
“freedoms”,
whereas
they are more
than possible
if we bear it in
ourselves,
as it was put in
the Kybalion:
As it is on the inside,
it is thus on the outside.

Like when I was standing
just a while ago
saying goodbye to the sea
in shouting silent beauty
of transparent words:
the beach to my far left
deserted
by tourists
and chosen by shadows
with Sun
and looming trees
all of a sudden
was more than verily
a shore
from “Robinson Crusoe”
or “The Treasure Island”,

just called to run and
peruse no matter
if something was waiting
or not

Or how now
whenever I write
instead of speaking
to a person
I do not differ them
by their ID
or biological data
and make revelation
of myself in the same
Godly, well perturbating
way like Pythia
and don’t care
if its a wise child,
a seemingly important
member of some affiliation,
or stiff standard model
in human skin.

It is simply all
multiple
constant Metamorphoses.
Notes sudden, granted,
In reflections
Of how all turns its entrails
Inside out to you
When you just consent
To staying till the end
And going all the way
Through what they are
On all planes
Aug 2020 · 237
Prose & Poetry
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
What wonder with
Poetry in Prose,
and
Prose in Poetry,
those two together
made at
once,

what Art is that
whilst those
trespass borders
of what’s cognitive and not,
my true form of wording
and existing
being
as that!

That is a feat,
mingle those two together,
make one fluent into train of events
by the other
and the other make
the former
an extravagance
that should reign
on us!
The most forming way
of expression verbally
and not!

And what experience would that be
if we took under account again
the spaces
and
the “Enter” key
between verses
in a classic poem structure,
to think how that changes
everything and what
respect it demands
in each line
differently!
The creation of a person made both
From the flesh, the Yin, as Prose,
From the essence, the Yang, as Poetry
Is the greatest feat
Which bears translucent
Survival of perfect Life of an Apprehension
In a beaten-up reality
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
Time,
as it is a thing born
not existent
since the eternity being,
has beginning and ending
->
there is only the Now
that has no end nor beginning,
stretches itself infinitely
in the eyes of the current beholder
->
The energy cannot be destroyed nor created
->
Life is energy
->
and We are Life,

ergo neither we
will die,
end,
be subsidiary to Time
that on the contrary to us
does
have
borders.
A short deducing
That denies science’s confinements
On our infinity
Through its own rules.
As Aparna noticed it:
“ If something of life was commingled with
science in our classes,
it'd not be so much trouble.”
Aug 2020 · 188
Each Night Shift I Work
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
I am on my own
a Lighthouse Keeper
amidst the Night,
each fly,
in some presence:
coalition of a duty protruding
by thoughts,
delusions,
stories and
what’s exquisite
in sensations that
need guarding,
and then enjoined
with that never ending standing,
watching,
time lapping,
and all that taking place
in the ink hues with
scarlet pulsing as if hurt,
in baby blue
and lilac
by a sacrality
to me solely
constantly
held out
on
a string
to never let go
of
to
another.
This hereby is what each dark reading, watching, listening or passing on purpose works for:
A night shift, to guard the ideas, stories and lives That choose me and occur to me
By the lessons from God’s library
I receive due to the wish
To be of Their world, not of this.
It is a constant duty to carry out as a guardian.
Aug 2020 · 405
El Acantilado
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
Él,
Que se lo cruza, que se lo llama,
del mar que viene pero él
que se queda,
y forma todas las playas
de verdades, turbulencias,
¡que sólo los barcos de dignidad
alcáncenlo, ellas!

Yes, surely I am deplored by
the beauty of destructions’ marking, holding dear
what’s longingly perverted
through the lost.
Ravens’ repulsing cries
are the needed on the shores,
not just on the autumn,
the rotting of the sea tales
their voices hold,
the selection of exquisite
that my preference twisted wants.
And so much else I daze over,
that overlay of the Emerald Land’s
waves and beats that
my distant to the south shore pleads,
that jade,
that shock,
that valiancy of the Scots
which in our sands
and crashing skies
should be,
lusts
to be.

The awaiting
for that dripping glory
in a mellowed casing of a wrecking ship,
it’s in a waiting room
made from a lone standing rock
that carries myths and ventures
to fulfill,
the Young Verter’s
everlasting,
tinting
moment.

Show up on our silver days
at the bays,
El Acantilado,
del Norte, caro,
The Cliff, The Cliff,
Ese Acantilado!
Presenting the longing yet sensing a fulfilment
At a sanded scorched but finally in the mist beach
Where I started calling for the British shores
To come to us,
To fill the southern water lands
With a valiant storytelling, storms and grandiosity
Ours seem to have not in calm relax.
Envisioning it.
Aug 2020 · 608
DisowninG
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
If you ever see me
run over.
kicked.
bleeding.
blurring.
on the ground.
incoherently.
something wrong with me.
or that I’m not conscious,

don’t look for my breath
or heartbeat,
don’t reach for a phone to call
an ambulance that will drive me
to the hospice
to which the world throws you in
when your window sill climbing,
barefoot walking
in the dirt rolling
like child with freeing thoughts drooling
or law-culture breaking
gets too much
of a crime for them.
don’t ask me if I see still fine
your two or four fingers
yet look for the tears in my eyes.

For if I don’t have them anymore
and won’t get myself then or ever again
to truly cry,
it is only then
that you’ll know
I stopped fighting,
I died,
I ultimately ***** myself
and I forgot
there is more Beyond.

and without that
my existence isn’t worth
looking for the pulse
anymore.

I will not be worth
of seeing stars
as a boy
without sanity
or glasses
anymore.

...

I swear on you
upon all
that
heed.
Thought of when once I felt
That the Village’s walls want always
To take over us
And make us forget
There is actually worth
or Life.
Thought of when imagined
That I would cease to wonder
Cry, bless or use my Legend
To become.
When I thought how others are unwelcome
Of my antics, Liberty and the New I carry
Every time you wake into
Walking this Village’s annihilation
And fearing
That one day you’ll come
To agree to it all.
This is what others don’t know as Death
Aug 2020 · 312
Tell Me of Otherworld
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
Fascination in obscure
words or sensations
in my deep states,
seemingly insecure or even uncomfortable concepts to some
yet holding a great enigmatic eloquence
in elegance
when looked at through
a different prism of the crystal.
I could even say that my
Deep Stateness
is of the copper-dark
radiating scarlet paired
with lilac,
inky blue
and grey mist
at the Lighthouse Keeper’s shift
when all stories come alive
and what’s seemingly real
turns feeble.
An example word of such would be: “Incalescent”
or
“Evanescent”.
It holds that feeling
independently
from its cognitively
given definition.

Astrality, to me,
if you’d like to ask as a help
for placing it,
may be most probably
the aforesaid
Deep Stateness married
with the presence of My Lover, otherworldly consciences
without words
(as if I were some astral being
embodied
and aware of its misbelonging
to this world
and my moderated
female body)
and my Fernweh
for my Home.
It’s also that Phronemophiling,
like a thing greater
than getting high on drugs.
It is also my endearment
at my antics
or getting Philosophy
in me and what I read
as lovely,
playing naked on guitar
at night alone in silent dark
with trust in my eyes without glasses, looking at stars bravely
without this handicap device
and lonely daring the world
to tell me
I cannot see them without it
on,
using the strong reverberating
of my voice so pulsing out loud
with sureness and passion,
or fascinating at my tears
for more than two days
whilst in commotion
after reading deeply
“The Dead Poets Society”.

Surely you must have felt it
one way or another some time.
One of so many prompts I’ve been and will be
To underline and give form
to my blessing of the sacrality
God made me to be in walk and affect,
I’m a breathing temple
with my irises and senses for ornaments.
A try to approach it to you.
N*1 of “x” heeds.

From a HP conversation own
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
There must be a message
in the occurrence that whenever
in a closed-up space of time
I can never sit down
to any mind-occupying activity
yet resort no matter what
to observance,
passing as unrequited passion
of someone else’s (vocation),
shape-o-thoughts and sensing,
being the music the radio is listening to, and tender stupefying approaching
to hurt questions and structures
who hold onto philosophy
and one stance.
My depth darts me over
to finally look straight
into my own eyes
instead of straying,
diverting from the claim of my proper door.
I cannot die and will not,
will not leave my higher stake
for the trash bins’,
among which we live in,
sake.
The ever urging in order
to keep me liberated,
my Life sated
Silence tested
And keep me reminded
that I have a Soul and subtle meanings
To trespass.
Like on many, especially dark,
Car rides
On the children back seat.
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
Sooo shivered from
a deluge with heed,
at the naked and as nerves
bundled half as much
as I curled in to gasping.
They reminded me to call upon
the book of a Spanish
painter of the souls
as substance course clocked,
splattered with a trail
of blinding sunset upon gold rouse,
flowed constantly like rims
of Gaudi’s great work,
placed as a silken fabric
of blue paint yet
Taking the challenge to not mind possible affair
By swimming naked around clad visitors
Of a nearby river’s deluge
And waiting for your far companion in trembling water whilst he’s off to his best and only he can stop the leisure as when I’ll call for aid in towel.
A coolish waiting room in the silk fabric of blue paint swimming with Sun
Aug 2020 · 218
Gioielli di Giornale #23
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
Perhaps a more difficult thing
in further and further life ebbing
is the vividness,
own quality guarded,
and fulfilled attention working
and standing
without any current or prospective actions or events going through,
when there’s no other (mind) occupation now or soon
than the following going on
and living itself.
As is is worthy of praise to be a hero
and a righteous something
when even as nothing happens
your gestures, stance and presence prove it
Aug 2020 · 292
Heats and Battles
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
I praise Allah and thank Them
in both the physical and existential aspect for every beautifully greyish day
when I feel back in an English harbour from the 17th century,
where birds, ropes, wind,
bells and hammers against
the ships’ casings resound,
half in my vision stuck on reality
and half verily,
or on a faraway heather field,
where my books, thoughts,
words in pictures
and lives of Heart
are as if my own
tremendous in passion atelier
of a scribe
or my other flowers of brown.

I posses adoration in these grays,
blues, whites,
greens and browns of these days, freshnesses and delightments.
Nevertheless I need to meet and comprehend each other
till the end belovingly
with the Sun,
see behind its backstage the lack of imposing Time,
periods or actions, rush.
Sit down once without carnal duties
nor other shenanigans
and witness the whole solar and lunar cycle for the whole 24 hours
and thus see beyond their mechanism
and presence
and thus go
through that next conscience,
through these silver-golden curtains
with navy blue clips.

Isn’t that sitting over,
sitting down face to face
with the Day,
supposed Time, Matter,
instead of constant doing,
having or confusion
of the thoughts
the same as finally looking
straight into the other person’s eyes
to give them our witnessing
of our attention,
a bow,
and at the same time
a proud head raising,
especially for them,
instead of walking around them
and treating as another matter
to be solved?
No rhetorical question.
May I reach as fast as it’s the best
the beloving of wisdom
as a true philosopher
in my identity, not cognitivity.
A small reminiscing and recollection
I made once
of my presence or endurance
in the Sun and the Moon
through moments, my silver casing
of thoughts and Life,
and stories I literally encounter
in the No Man’s Sky
through thrillance,
promise and hope.
Aug 2020 · 292
Natural Formation
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
It is fascinatingly probable
God balanced, protected, recompensed
how I feel misplaced in the confinements
to the vessel, in a biological
femininity even more being said,
by shaping that body as a speech
in my structure and palette embedded
of nature’s casts, messages‘
endearing faced:

I am put in a sunflower’s shift
when bearing a heat with caramel toning,
in the skin,
swift golden towel ‘round the
form naked,
shoulders
and all other petite
through that standing strong
like a sword’s leather hilt,
and eyes with hair of tenderly
made browns with lights and darks,
as freckles shining scattered,
with their origin from Gold arriving,
or at last the very nutrient
dark centre by seeds posed.

When sodden, it is a mangrove then,
the caramel whole now slick
yet strongly dense as its roots,
like when I get myself firmly stuck
on feet like double arrow
spread limbs
and like mahogany shade
stand reading images.

Or there’s at last and at wind
the cherry blossom:
my thoughts and sensing presence
are so beloving that they
emanate pink in passing,
just as it’s flowers with no fruit,
my top, a crown,
swaying branches,
irregular protruding.
I bloom so dearly with my shading,
I could almost kiss like leaves,
like they do with me.

Wish you could see me, this,
such loving dear sight to be.
Like slick, promising, calm own river.
Alas, an eerie beige coat that flutters
with child dreams
I realised the cherry blossom in valleys of wind, the sunflower in murderous morning scorchings,
and all in all that the body Allah put me in mostly and in the colours,
Is only a further proof of my appurtenance and greater link to the Nature and my Home.
Aug 2020 · 181
Usage
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
The Word gets constantly abused
and has no one to turn to
except those,
who came to taste what went first
before its even ashes forming.
Like Cinderella in the attic-
unwanted, locked, mistreated,
everyone pretends she’s not there
Yet it is her the one they’re searching for,
needed, and the centre meant of it all.

A true man of God getting an articulate smack to the law their face shines with.
Because Word is also a person,
even greater and higher than it has been presented to us,
yet not even considered as a speck of
it so.

“I love you”
“Understand”
“Thank”
“Good”
“Bad”
“What”.
Calls such as those hang so worn out
Like a fabric, shirt,
barely holding at the seams.
Word and Language are more of a person
than you might think,
they carry ideas, conscience, hurt and power,
are unbiased judges
and come to aid to anyone
who careful might ask whilst knowing
they know nothing
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
I was born robbed of my maternal language,
That crucial bundle of Heart’s pillars
and ribs.

The one that makes you forget
What even words or images are
worth for,
The one that shaped what sense I hold,
And the one who built me
from mere ashes
When I couldn’t even have my eyes
for God, before the first of times.

I’ve searched through more than a dozen
of them so far,
those which humans throw and throw,
force, upon me,
and each time one comes
when the victory seems at last
only for me to find
I have nothing else in my hand
than the smell of footsteps long gone
in the sand and dirt.
Though a half of my plucked out
ribs remain,
which is Poetry that ever wants me,
tongue carries,
that which cannot be
undermined nor explained,
I limp, maimed, without my own tongue
to claim.

And from that search my love though
for the language made its birth.
Possibly the yearning turned into arousal
of wonder catching, affection lapping.

I went back to the Language,
a veritable person I make of it,
I gave it the right of a name,
characteristics
And I am all those questions
directed towards it.

By the script of E.J. Koh’s letters of mother,

How to express in Korean, English,
or any other language
how we miss one dearly
or how the distance shapes itself?

How does language create us
and makes us become
what we are truly deep inside?

How does it decompose us
at our lowest and the highest,
of the state and one’s expressing?

Especially when the Word, at times,
though so futile unreliable,
is the only thing we have left,
like Dreams?

And if you ask me now,
with so much tongue inheritance
already making my stance in “To Be”,
which mortal speech the most beautiful is?
You can’t. for how can I choose?
French, the violet whisper?
Spanish, flaming blades in Llorona’s tears?
English, a parting ship in eloquent observance?
Italian, a cigarette night in a local conversation in lush green?
I cannot. For, what choice?
You could also ask me which of the stars
I love the most: I can’t say.
Each is so similar to other yet not,
though the brightest might not
be the dearest,
the middle one might not be the further one and the intimate arousal for all
that abstract and ungraspable
makes your feelings so confused
and beautifully mad
as if you had polyamory
with many persons at once,
couldn’t get rid of any of them,
choose only one,
yet each one of them has something
the other does not.

Every exchange of a language in mind
is that of our person,
even more of Poetry
I derive myself from in feelings & images,
an exchange of puzzles, schemes,
as if going through a ballroom
full of diversely dancing people
and once you have to step through them dancing waltz to pass
and then dancing tango.

The fall of the Babel was the moment
when that maternality of Speech
shattered into alien yet same
breaths, sacrifices, work of hands
and transit,
and ended up so rich
yet so lacking in its “magna carta”

So, if it all ends always as the same,
If it always leaves heart ripped,
If I can have it all yet none I want,
If it’s the same mortal thing
in codes shrouded...

If in this realm, the story ends
and starts alas,
tell me:

What choice of speak
do you even think
I still have?
A great praise, ode, heart’s shredding
I give in an ode to the language.
As a glossophile, a true priest of the Language
I came to bear and die,
My revealance of the elation and painful trail
I endure each day, each learning
And each time Polish is forced
Upon my lips.
When a mother tongue is your
“stepmother” one
and you feel constant reject
any time using it.
This is another Intimacy
of mine I share.
Aug 2020 · 363
Non Rationale: Analysis
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
Extrovertism
or any other sibling
of it
doesn’t realise itself solely
through the mannerisms of
speaking,
choice of company,
activities or
similar antics.
It mainly possesses in
its hold our
mind as a way
of revealance,
as our
thoughts might cling
on it dependent,
in constant
shouting & fleeting
from Stillness,
our lone
presence
;
OR either have
‘em all ready
in conscious observation
questioning on
the inside in your
private voiceless,
conversation

to detach yourself
from others’
contact
.
it’s all,
felt sublime,
when the latter,
comes and makes,
itself a
difference
.
Extrovertism kills me (like
Alcohol in excess),
Introversion heals me,
Only then do we wake up
To excess injuries
By the junk of existing in vain
(Among the intellectual garbage).
We're not for the public
To their rational pleasure
.
That fascination by how mental
tension both in thought and muscles
changes into sophisticated bliss
when you no longer listen to reply
yet to understand and give yourself over
.
I’m ambivertism tinted
luringly chosen solitude.
And the sun couldn’t scorch
my thoughts aloft to more
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
There heated up
The sight,
A pit lures, drags, with thoughts
beautifully by elegance perverted,
The rain my own furnace,
That I make it do of it itself,
That I make it be then of myself.

I choose to dance without body
Yet to make steps in dark in negation,
Observation, a true rascal-ification,
In other words: notes of silence resounding.
Moment the floor,
Heartbeats for the feet.
Air-tight bubbles for the breath.

Minstrel of Utopias I’ll become,
Standing as Ellipsis I’ll be intact,
And I’ll see as the end shall come
Through tears burning from
Nothingness of clouds.

I choose to gleam in
Eyes of half-liddance
And what is done of their feverish?
Sweat’s going out from the fascinating,
The chest is being opened to feel
how hot is the cardiac muscle
And love is made to its battles,
In the dark of the Day,
As you wish,
Or in the lightness of the Night.

You don’t tell reason, the right,
There is sound in feather’s flight
A trial in scarlet darkness of
music sonorous in mind,
Trying to capture my vivid beat in melody,
While dancing glory in pencil gold hair
In the pit of thoughts in Me.
In lush green of cigarette Italian book-like.

Prima, Prova.
First, Trial/
Earlier, Try.
Aug 2020 · 253
I Prose About Verity
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
I think I gave myself away, with a musician and, the name and the data
this world gave me and by which it holds me by.
Thought the clock struck midnight and the spell broke,
thought we’d return to the measly grey resuming.
As one deems things too good as untrue, the bitter more reliable despite its fake,
I scared myself that name would take my truer life away.

Yet then it came to me through
that whilst among these
trash bins we live in
things may work this way,

in a greater dominion and
our hopes, talks,
we know it is our will
and creation of our wonderland that
makes the reality and true identity.

There, I could have spilled
“Juliet” once,
but it rests as mere
fog under “Dante” I
gave space to
to be found and born.

There,
No harm done.
I’m at the turbulent Baltic Sea and reminisced my error during a conversation,
Yet he and I both know
It didn’t even come to be
As we keep ourselves as we want to feel
And not how our ID wants to keep.

(For now, my only, seemingly, cigarette poetry as I call it. Strange yet not binding.)
Aug 2020 · 282
Flare Silence Note
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
We don’t need Music
And how
It embodies, captivates,
To know that each other and
Ourselves have
And are a
Majesty in reverberating
As we
Drop,
Echo,
Beat,
On a country lane.
Even when no one
Is listening to
Us, Melody, or better;
a sensation of & in it,
Our silence contains
In one thought
More chords and stories
To be played than
The world’s bonding
To the audibility
Could ever do
And draw the greatness
From.

Like violin, I’m
Such honey-laced strings
In swiftness
Thinking and by lips
Browsing.

As. Like.
furious heartbeat
tremendously stands
On a thrilling stave
So do us at the sunset
As a dance.
As a thrilling epiphany
Behold
.

/
I always imagine becoming Revolution soon to come
As departure through a heather field,
Hands raised in elegant victory
Decreasing I into horizon
as lilac, blue and copper scarlet
Infused with that painting
As I sound Violin.
/

Then,
‘Am
the
greatest
art
in
every.
single.
step
.
Of the flaming presence we (or at least I)
Set in tremendous song beats
Of no words or yes.
We don’t need to hear Music
To know this upholding
Takes place in us in every minute
Glory
That we stand (of, on)
Jul 2020 · 392
Runs Air-Tight Bubbles
Dante Rocío Jul 2020
Of beige gaze.
Premonition in the river cast passing.
Would those trees looming
uncertain by gravity
fall on us?
The effort tried in setting
oar’s agility,
so as not to
Hit the sides,
For my own persistence
And calm,
willed mistakes is.

As.
Calm.
Demeanour.
Wills.
In steel.
As bliss.

Bliss such of slipping
out of boat’s grasp
to that of illusionary time,
Out of speech’s hold,
Tenfold,
From how summer moulds.

Head out,
it,
I will
to lying in river’s sole
fine line of freeze,
Who holds dear the mute,
those who feign not appurtenance
of this world,
As the sail companion’s
left to thinking.

Though oars may hit the shore
Lungs in silver lining stay aboard.
Face backwards.
And the bottom separating
River and Boat
will pretend its existence
No more.

I walk
and my laudability
can’t be taken
Off.

As a current like I
Runs air-tight bubbles.

/And the sounding:
SHeeSH | CLing |LiNK |
SHeer | CRinge | PLinTH |.

FLOW, mOUld me SOre/
Kayak passing, speeding,
Forest reed, stream clicking
And a companion to give you a moment.
Silver’s sky that could reek of your lips so strong.
A most beloved cloak
My tanned shoulder will bear for.
Jul 2020 · 215
Prima, Prova.
Dante Rocío Jul 2020
Ci riscaldato
Lo Sguardo,
Un buco trascina con pensieri
bellamente da eleganza pervertiti,
La pioggia mi propria caldaia
Che ne faccio far‘ di sé,
Che ne faccio star’ da me.

Scelgo di ballare senza corpo
Ma fare i passi scuri in negazione,
Osservazione, vero mascalzone
Altrimenti: note di silenzio fragorose.
Momento il piano,
Battimenti di cuore per i piedi.
Bolle ermetiche per fiato.

Menestrello d’Utopie starò,
In piedi come Ellissi rimerò
E vedrò come la fine verrà
Per lacrime brucianti dalla
Nullità di nuvole.

Scelgo di splendere negli
occhi di metà coperchio
E che si fa del loro febbrile?
Si suda dallo affascinante,
Si apre il petto per sentire
come caldo sta il muscolo cardiaco
E si fa amore colle sue battaglie,
Nello scuro del Giorno,
come vuoi,
O lucidità della Notte.

Non si dice ragione.
Nella piuma c’è rumore.
A trial in scarlet darkness of
music sonorous in mind,
Trying to capture my vivid beat in melody,
While dancing glory in pencil gold hair
In the pit of thoughts in Me.
In lush green of cigarette Italian book-like.

Prima, Prova.
First, Trial/
Earlier, Try.
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