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Zywa Mar 2
It was great
to be king
but I don't have the power

to hold up the end
they undress me completely
and smear me with grease

blow with pipes dust gold
on me, cover me
with years of envy

The procession leads me
to the throne on the raft
it is a ruthless play

Shining in the light
of my father, the sun
I float across the lake

to peeping eyes
on the other side
that would come to skin me

if I wouldn't have a wash
hastily giving the sun
to the greedy water
Collection “Mosaicvirus”
RBWhite Jul 2018
El amor que salvó el mundo,
Con sabor y textura propia,
Nunca nadie me dijo qué se podía encontrar debajo del velo *****,
Desnudo entre los valles y mares más  profundos,
En donde su silueta se dibuja en las incontables superficies,
No importa la bruma del terror que la rodea,
Pues el indómito rubor de los rayos del sol se asoman por las curvas del cielo,
Y tengo a los ojos de Ella,
Guiándome y Cuidando mis pasos.
La idea católica de un Dios masculino.  Pero nacido de Ella,de un amor infinito.
Karol Jun 2018
"Siempre lo supe, y aun así fue muy cruel cuando ya no estabas y percatarme que en efecto; ya no eras la persona de la  cual escribí en 10 tonos de amarillo y 100 cartas, tal vez nunca lo fuiste.
Pero para tu suerte (y mi desgracia) siempre serás eterno entre hojas de papiro y tinta purpura, te convertirás en algo inefable, y si tengo suerte, te marchitaras con el tiempo y solo serás el recuerdo de una sonrisa curveada atrás del humo de un cigarrillo a las  12 am.

Si tengo suerte, te quedaras en una repisa bajo mi nueva vida, pero no pienses por un segundo que no recordare el honor de haber conocido...el arte de ser tu"
-Fragmento de la carta que no llegara a tus manos...
Vexren4000 May 2017
Places of glittering gold,
Long disappeared into jungle vines,
And underbrush,
Whispers of natives and the trees themselves,
Shown signs of cities,
Of great glittering gold,
Towering over the cliff faces and jungle trees,
The mightiest of Man-made wonders,
The Final wonder of the world,
Just waiting somewhere,
Already found by plants and animals,
Yet perpetually forgotten by man,
A testament to say,
That man can never own,
The land he lays claim too.

Alienpoet Jan 2017
I begin where you end
I end where you begin

Mitosis of hearts
Joined from the start
God is a rainbow
and the white light
We are him and her
Every shade
together white and pure
in dreams and memories
In happy thoughts we pray for
Love and light is in us all.
Guido Orifice Oct 2016
To all bone fragments of Galeria Del Osario*

I want to place you in the depths of forgetting.

Place you like a butterfly in a frame, looking alive but dead of course. Place you like how numbers are arranged from 1 to infinity (but who cares to count?) Place you like how chaos displaced darkness. Place you in the tip of a glacier knowing that the entire block will just disappear in a decade or two.

Like how climate tries to displace us. Our trace will soon be forgotten.

Surely, the climate is too rigid between us;  two beings who found separation in all degrees of telekinetic attractions. For two beings who found shelter in the anonymity of chance. Chance to meet. Chance to declare once and for all the unfolding of luck.

Did luck really unfold or it was just me who hoped?

Time is the bare witness to all tragedies, say two lovers who never found the consolations of fate. Time is the curse of the flesh, the rotting wisdom of conscience.

Time flees. Time forgets. Time remembers.

By all means, the world is too small. Sometimes we wage war to small dimensions seemingly large. Where are we by the time that the world collapses into a small room? Where are we when the room pretended to be small but the gap between us is a year, light years perhaps.

Nomads, we are not. We cannot call any cave a home.

After all, what sort of space would cater us?

A massacre happened 43,000 years ago. No one cares to remember. Nine of them were killed by new comers. El Sidron witnessed the coldest crime. If only tears can shed their fate, can we cry for them?

Who cares to write their memories? Who cares to paint their thoughts? Who cares to count their broken bone fragments in the caves?

I want to place you in the depths of forgetting.
Guido Orifice Oct 2016
After all, poetry is a savage calling.*
-Edel Garcellano

Let poetry be an interstice.

Say, an intervention to the gap of loneliness. Depressive. Let bitter medicines dissolve or, madness will make its ultimate call.  Convulsive patterns of mental spasms. Schizophrenic impulse hitting the nerves.

What is known to be rational flees. Enough to learn from the burning of its wings and Youth.

Say, pulling a magic trick under the hat. You know you are being fooled but why enjoy such spectacle or, better enjoy than masking the truth.

Say, a glimpse through an interstice—from Whitman’s poetry.

An intervention to the rashness of day. An intercept to the chaos of the soul. A reminder that we are not assemblages forever desiring.

A poetry fumbling to the course, enough to welcome the rain of sad realizations.

“The task is heroic. Poetry is a minor matter” (E. Garcellano) – an intervention/interstice, the negotiator to the ultimate task of poetry.

We are savage gods. We feed on the detritus of truth, those are, lies.

Consider this poetry as an epitaph. To the disremembered victims of El Sidro. We dealt the cards of fate. We intervened to live. We pierced our stones to their hearts so cold.

Darwin’s prophesy always reminds us that in every epoch there are some interventions we cannot avoid. After all, we are his favorite animal.

We are gods feeding on loneliness. We are agnostic souls entangled in caves of shadows.

Say, are we forever trapped in the compulsive dimensions of ourselves? In love, for example.

To answer this question is the task of poetry.

Let poetry be an interstice.
Bryan Amerila May 2016
For*  Marianne, a  woman  with  an  unusual  heart

I know her, perhaps by a pinch of night air,
Because we share the same music, same voice that night in Guadalupe,
After a day of toils for hearts climbing upon ladders, unending stairs.

I know her, perhaps half of those golden strings,
Because we share the same air of jollity that day in Enchanted kingdom,
Gasping for air, breathing faintly, yet enthralled by the twists and turns of magic.

The heart most tried is the strongest, like the gold tested in fire,
I know her.

I know her, perhaps the fullness of the orange moon,
Because we share the same water under the canopy of azure skies, that brief reprieve the El  Nido offers,
Sharing the same tongue of honesty we speak that night, I respect her.

I know her, perhaps more than she knows herself,
But that’s an unforgivable lie, indescribable it is to fathom a woman with an unusual heart,
Because hers, speaks of metaphors.
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