CADENCES

I got tired of making money,
too old to work,
I stopped thinking about how to make a living.
I told the traditional life to go to hell,
and I became a small being, and I left everything,
and I sway to my own rhythm.
Time and again, I've seen it all,
I live in my cadences,
that rhythm of my own.
And it was different,
that other me, entered,
and never left me.
I do what I want,
because I want little,
the future doesn't matter,
I've already been through a lot.
And now I am myself.
That's what I always was,
the child who never changed.
A small one who got tired of everything.
A heart that matured without knowing how.
That child who now plays with colorful words
who is that great unknown among those around him.
Now I play with everything and the moon smiles at me in the sky,
and you know, I stopped caring about how to live,
and what others say
everything slides off me.

WAVE PIRATE

That pirate walking around, without a wooden leg,
a modern-day buccaneer,
lives on a boat in the Manzanares,
He goes out at night to sail,
among ducks and stars.
The pirate smiles,
everyone chases him,
the tax authorities for being poor.
Creditors chase him,
but he doesn't care, he sails in his sailboat,
under the bridges, he lights a candle.
And at night he fishes for a can of sardines,
he lives poorly under the bridges, they are his castles,
That pirate is so handsome that in rags he is a prince,
he is the king of beggars in a big, ***** city.
And he sails again and again into the distant past,
and despite having nothing, he is happy,
because he sails anew,
he dreams of ocean waves.

He has nothing,
he can't lose anything more,
everyone fits in his court,
and the beggars smile.
The pirate tells stories,
of better times past,
and sometimes when they have money,
they sail in a small boat in the Retiro Park.
And still, women turn their heads when he passes,
it's not common to see a pirate in Madrid,
A handsome pirate, whose poems are copied,
and I, an anonymous poet who plagiarizes the pirate,
and I sit with the others,
I listen to their stories,
and I dream.
Enthralled by the stories,
stories of a pirate who was someone,
now he is just someone, whose verses are to be copied,
anonymous poems that it's a shame to just let them get lost.
Fables of a pirate, stories of impossible boats,
those boats that are sailboats in the Manzanares,
a pirate who was shipwrecked among garbage bags,
unknown stories of Madrid,
that no one knows if they are true.
Stories of a wave pirate,
Fables of a life that shipwrecked,
tender stories that have a sad ending.

AMBROSIA

Nectar, delicacies of life,
delights, sublime pleasures.
Devouring the ambrosias,
that life which is ambrosia.
That life which costs so much,
that dear life to maintain.
Life full of fine joys.
That life which costs so much,
to leave it against our will.
Lives of the luxury of living,
that scatter,
in the years, days.
Time to live,
fear of dying,
of leaving pleasure.
Sublime pleasures.
Delicate, soft,
silk feathers,
caged lives.
Fears of dying,
of crossing borders.
Between lines, lives,
between the whole and something,
everything goes away in the end.
Too much joy,
to know how to leave,
and take the step,
to arrive
at the destination,
death,
is the end,
of everything.
Meanwhile,
the luxury of living,
of the pleasures,
earthly days,
mundane lives.
The now and later,
God will say when,
in the meantime,
balanced,
in the luxury
of living.
---
Neuchâtel, Switzerland

Capturing life's nectar,
amidst circles of life,
savoring everything.
Life,
moments of life,
torrents of moments,
flowing rivers of life.
Savoring life's nectar,
floating between air and other waters,
waters of life, waters of blood, ocean waves.
While *** and death go hand in hand,
life and death, in the end, death will come and we will leave each other.
Everything flows, nothing dies, everything transforms ceaselessly,
intensely, life is a nectar where everything eventually ends.
In the end, we'll stop trifling and all be dust in the body,
while souls seek their way to the other side of the open door

GOLD.

A crazy life,
amidst tinsel,
the gold beating,
squandering life.
Spending the gold,
precious gold,
on nothing.
Time,
that passes,
in life,
a crazy life,
enjoying,
the hours.
Gold, that doesn't return,
the gold of a golden autumn,
on a ship that shipwrecks.
Throwing everything overboard,
doing crazy things,
the party continues.
What does it matter,
life,
doesn't return to us.
life is leaving us.
Burning the gunpowder,
in the final explosions,
everything goes away in fireworks.
Living the moment,
and later, if there's nothing,
what's been spent, let them take away.
Between planes, between trains,
between endless, unending parties,
between what's most delicious, most delightful.
What does it matter to throw away the gold others give,
that gold to be spent on the vice of living.
Let's live the present, there's no future anymore,
amidst agendas, let's squander everything,
squandering all that's been earned.
We will have nothing,
except memories
of parties
of gold,
and happy
air.
Crazy,
life,
to
spend
the future.
Without sorrow,
with joy,
let's dance.
Final
moments
of gold.
Golden
life.

August 5, 2050

METALANGUAGE

Allow me to pass by your side,
and I will tell you some truths,
truths you won't hear,
Ears closed,
brain censored,
a world of lies.

It's you and me in the world,
that world of cruel newspeak,
where they are offended by hearing the truths.
Where you listen to what's programmed,
the metalanguage of the fake,
that which sounds good.

Where they tell you,
many beautiful things,
the opposite of the truth.
If they say it's for your own good,
they're telling you it's for their own good,
a lot of empty words,
look at what the preachers do,
and you'll see that everything has stopped adding up.

If they **** you, they'll say it's for your own good,
that the planet is sinking because you're alive.
A world where darkness engulfs us,
where everything is eugenics, it's the right to die,
rights go down the stairs.
And you will be poorer and poorer,
don't listen, better close your eyes,
and then it will be too late
for you to live.

Lies,
everything is a lie,
they don't want you to think,
everything is bizarre, everything is a game,
a game of agendas to **** you.
In the name of freedom, they enslave you,
in the name of security, they will tie you up,
deaf, blind, programmed.

For everyone,
hollow brains,
don't complain,
if they **** you,
without you knowing it,
There is no one blinder,
more blind than one who doesn't know it,
in the name of science they will **** you,
agendas that are ***** games for everyone,
there is no one deafer than one who doesn't want to hear,
and there is no worse sick person than one who poisons themselves.

But you close your eyes and continue with your business,
because soon it's your final hour,
and you won't do anything,
inevitable.

Advance your clock,
it's time for the agendas,
that say one thing and do another.
And everything is nothing more than an endless lie,
in that world of the Great War of evil against everything.

In the name of what is correct, we won't go to hell,
a world where no one believes in anything,
bad times to be saved,
may God find us confessed.

Revealed times,
everything is discovered,
at the end of everything.

5-8-2025
www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJAPDbeLVNw&list=OLAK5uy_k0VCb9lS3eUMu0zUufucnX6iQ75eD9euI&index=6
Les Chevaliers Du Declin · Veronique Riviere

CHRONIC CRYOGENIC

Poor thoughts, that die with me,
a mortal with airs of eternity.
Pretentious vanity,
and all for what?
to be dust.
Enamored dust,
of my own dreams,
like a romantic poet,
outside of my own time.
Too much self-love,
I want to freeze everything,
I will preserve everything,
everything valuable.
I'll let myself rot,
but I'll freeze my words,
I want to cryogenize my thoughts.
Too much in love with myself,
not to think of saving the best,
the best, those thoughts.
Prose in verses,
of air.
I will be a priest,
and I will sacrifice myself for Art,
I will cryogenize my soul in poems.
I will write tirelessly, while I still breathe.
I will do alchemy and preserve my life,
in those philosophical words,
preserves of poems,
chronicles of life,
of my life.
I will be a sick man,
a chronically sick man of living,
until the end comes to everything.
I am a chronic cryogenic of eternity,
that eternity that does not exist on earth, nor is it possible.
I will clone my poems in you,
you will be a clone of my words,
they will absorb you and revive you when you read them.

Words from a cold heart when it lived.
Words in the networks, in books, in diaries, on paper,
to float beyond the death of a frozen soul.
Chronicles of someone hated and revered when they lived,
someone who left no one indifferent wherever they went,
who loved himself so much that he cryogenized his poems,
only to be forgotten, without any remedy.
No one can conquer death,
but there is always the illusion
of donating something valuable,
a poisoned gift,
to be read,
to be enjoyed,
or, to be hated.
Cryogenic,
chronic
of living,
perhaps,
maybe,
it could
be.