Today I awoke from the slumber
with the clear vision of madness.
The ink of ancient antiquarians
takes agogic form,
the texture of coral
lit by aureate petals.
My fleeting trails of vapor
pale beside the passing dusks—
capricious canvases of divine pastels
melting with grace.
Meanwhile, the ravenous rats
ravage the primordial seats of control,
lurking in shadowed corners,
pestilent.
And the infamous droppers
of poetry
demand the meter
of free verse,
free,
free...
Today I awoke from the swollen chimera,
believing myself Don Juan,
emperor of all the realms of the world.
Reclining upon the image of dream,
I remember:
Volatile shadows slip
between pallid smiles
and dim the sincere hatching
of great feathered reptiles
who once again awaken
to the comfort
of gunfire.
No one shall spark the revolution
without first hurling themselves into the fire.
With steady feet,
anchoring the colored wake,
precise work,
the constancy of the pulse,
the sacrifice of fire,
the final dance,
the culmination of ******
in mediocre divine rejoicings,
with spontaneous illuminations
that reflect the utter absence
of meaning.
They pale in ego
before the sordid gaze
of the automatons of rebellion.
They writhe,
agonized, in sharp pains,
revive briefly,
bare their gums,
twitch their fingers,
spread their wings,
close their eyes...
Close their eyes
and try to hear:
the silence that spills
from every sonic vibration
expelled from the center—
an eruptive blaze
from the inner fire of madness,
the uncertain shadow of onomatopoeia,
of rhetoric, of contradiction,
of the cube exploding within each subtle body,
expanding
at speeds that outpace
the longest of abysses,
piercing the very center
of the universal web,
telepathic, morphogenetic, hyperluminous.
With thunder and melodic lightning
wreaking immediate havoc
on the malevolent fabric
of illusion—
that ensnares me,
that hurls me
to the offense.
We have died a thousand and one million times.
We have returned in the body of the eagle, the crow,
all recognizable wings—
and the unrecognizable:
those that paint the cosmic asphalt
with tapestries of red giants,
blue hypergiants,
white dwarfs.
I have died a million times—
and a thousand more.
I have returned in many forms
and with many deaths.
We have been crows of eagles,
ocelots, asphaltic heartbeats
that blanket the cosmic sky
with tapirs, quetzals,
monkeys of redundant faces,
violent mirrors—
violent mirrors—
violent mirrors
that greet us with fists
and reveal
the broken wings of the interrupted song,
the song that does not fit,
the cacophonic diminished,
the senselessness,
the swift *****
of a vertiginous welcome
that flings itself once more
onto the path
of the many forms of death.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 12:18 AM UTC
Today I awoke from the slumber
with the clear vision of madness.
The ink of ancient antiquarians
takes agogic form,
the texture of coral
lit by aureate petals.
My fleeting trails of vapor
pale beside the passing dusks—
capricious canvases of divine pastels
melting with grace.
Meanwhile, the ravenous rats
ravage the primordial seats of control,
lurking in shadowed corners,
pestilent.
And the infamous droppers
of poetry
demand the meter
of free verse,
free,
free...
Today I awoke from the swollen chimera,
believing myself Don Juan,
emperor of all the realms of the world.
Reclining upon the image of dream,
I remember:
Volatile shadows slip
between pallid smiles
and dim the sincere hatching
of great feathered reptiles
who once again awaken
to the comfort
of gunfire.
No one shall spark the revolution
without first hurling themselves into the fire.
With steady feet,
anchoring the colored wake,
precise work,
the constancy of the pulse,
the sacrifice of fire,
the final dance,
the culmination of ******
in mediocre divine rejoicings,
with spontaneous illuminations
that reflect the utter absence
of meaning.
They pale in ego
before the sordid gaze
of the automatons of rebellion.
They writhe,
agonized, in sharp pains,
revive briefly,
bare their gums,
twitch their fingers,
spread their wings,
close their eyes...
Close their eyes
and try to hear:
the silence that spills
from every sonic vibration
expelled from the center—
an eruptive blaze
from the inner fire of madness,
the uncertain shadow of onomatopoeia,
of rhetoric, of contradiction,
of the cube exploding within each subtle body,
expanding
at speeds that outpace
the longest of abysses,
piercing the very center
of the universal web,
telepathic, morphogenetic, hyperluminous.
With thunder and melodic lightning
wreaking immediate havoc
on the malevolent fabric
of illusion—
that ensnares me,
that hurls me
to the offense.
We have died a thousand and one million times.
We have returned in the body of the eagle, the crow,
all recognizable wings—
and the unrecognizable:
those that paint the cosmic asphalt
with tapestries of red giants,
blue hypergiants,
white dwarfs.
I have died a million times—
and a thousand more.
I have returned in many forms
and with many deaths.
We have been crows of eagles,
ocelots, asphaltic heartbeats
that blanket the cosmic sky
with tapirs, quetzals,
monkeys of redundant faces,
violent mirrors—
violent mirrors—
violent mirrors
that greet us with fists
and reveal
the broken wings of the interrupted song,
the song that does not fit,
the cacophonic diminished,
the senselessness,
the swift *****
of a vertiginous welcome
that flings itself once more
onto the path
of the many forms of death.
#oniria #poem
