"caracas" poems - Hello Poetry

I am bound to her by blood, this madwoman of a city with eyes that see a comatose heart, with no feeling. One, two, three hundred, a thousand — we are all carbon copies of her silicone ******* collagen cheeks teeth bleached whiter than the pearls we adorn ourselves with. I was a child when I left this madwoman, mother of my younger years. I left her drinking cuba libres, stirring ice with her finger, her nails crimson red. I said, “Goodbye, I am leaving you.” She turned her face back to the barrio and said, “Adios, Muchacha.” Years later, I look back on my youth. I remember her as the mother I lost the sister I never had the woman I was afraid to become. If only she knew how easy she was to leave how difficult she was to forget.

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Jul 19, 2016

Jul 19, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC

cristinadelcanto

Caracas

I am bound to her by blood, this madwoman of a city with eyes that see a comatose heart, with no feeling. One, two, three hundred, a thousand — we are all carbon copies of her silicone ******* collagen cheeks teeth bleached whiter than the pearls we adorn ourselves with. I was a child when I left this madwoman, mother of my younger years. I left her drinking cuba libres, stirring ice with her finger, her nails crimson red. I said, “Goodbye, I am leaving you.” She turned her face back to the barrio and said, “Adios, Muchacha.” Years later, I look back on my youth. I remember her as the mother I lost the sister I never had the woman I was afraid to become. If only she knew how easy she was to leave how difficult she was to forget.

26

En esas doce horas que somos la espalda del mundo en aquel diario eclipse eclipse de pueblos ecllipse de montes y páramos eclipse de humanos eclipse de mar el ***** le tiñe a la Tierra mitad de la cara por más que se ponga luz artificial negrura de sombra sombra de negrura que a nadie le asombra y a todo perdura obscura la España y claro Japón obscura Caracas y claro Cantón y siempre girando hacia el Este aquí está tiznando allá está celeste esa sombra inmensa esa sombra eterna que tuvo comienzo al comienzo del comienzo rotativo eclipse eclipse total pide a los humanos un solemne rito que es horizontal y cada doce horas que llega me alegro porque medio mundo se tiñe de ***** y en ello no cabe distingo racial

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2.6k

Nicomedes Santa Cruz

La noche

En esas doce horas que somos la espalda del mundo en aquel diario eclipse eclipse de pueblos ecllipse de montes y páramos eclipse de humanos eclipse de mar el ***** le tiñe a la Tierra mitad de la cara por más que se ponga luz artificial negrura de sombra sombra de negrura que a nadie le asombra y a todo perdura obscura la España y claro Japón obscura Caracas y claro Cantón y siempre girando hacia el Este aquí está tiznando allá está celeste esa sombra inmensa esa sombra eterna que tuvo comienzo al comienzo del comienzo rotativo eclipse eclipse total pide a los humanos un solemne rito que es horizontal y cada doce horas que llega me alegro porque medio mundo se tiñe de ***** y en ello no cabe distingo racial

29

I've never felt more than half an hour: Insomnia trickles down until the black-tar-ridden-sap oozes onto My partially open eyes. And, to say I've never been in love. Emotions rise up and retreat- A constant heaving of the battered Chest- saving us from finding out How frightening life is. Murmuring our sordid laments to Lady Death, Beneath the murky glow of hotel room bed sheets And fluorescent dollar store night lights, Too vacant to summon anything more than a whimper From our submissive minds. Nothing ends, here. One upon another, words flow effortlessly Out of our cavernous mouths, Clogging our chests with empty syllables until We forget why we ever tried to do something more Than care. Depression can be felt anywhere- The air slowly seeps from the hissing Caracas of a worn out tire, Or the lungs of anyone Still enough to remember. Mindlessly chanting Hail Mary's, We taunt time with our penchant for immortality And hospital lobby greeting cards, Until Aphrodite descends to sell her soul To the highest bidder. Mother, I have killed the world With a time bomb that will never detonate: Ceaselessly ticking on and on- A reliant backdrop for something Too harsh to exist in silence. Our hearts have fallen from our sleeves And into films, romance novels, And 3am cooking infomercials. Land of the living: The walking dead, The too-afraid-to-tell-you-how-I-really-feel, The product of a broken people Who traded silence For a language full of mixed intention. Children of the night, Blindly parade around before noon, Trying to buy redemption At a corner store market For half the price Of the pulpit. Afraid of hearing the latent echo of Our own pulsing hearts, We fill our lives with white noise And intimacy, too stagnant To exist without our 3am spirituals. Anxiously arranging our feeble lives Around minutes and hours- Slaves to false agendas, We battle the dark, secretly, until soon We lose sight of the purpose And get caught up in the motion Of a world too drugged out on Redemption That we forget our own names.

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Jan 29, 2014

Jan 29, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC

meka-boyle

3am spiritual of an insomniac:

I've never felt more than half an hour: Insomnia trickles down until the black-tar-ridden-sap oozes onto My partially open eyes. And, to say I've never been in love. Emotions rise up and retreat- A constant heaving of the battered Chest- saving us from finding out How frightening life is. Murmuring our sordid laments to Lady Death, Beneath the murky glow of hotel room bed sheets And fluorescent dollar store night lights, Too vacant to summon anything more than a whimper From our submissive minds. Nothing ends, here. One upon another, words flow effortlessly Out of our cavernous mouths, Clogging our chests with empty syllables until We forget why we ever tried to do something more Than care. Depression can be felt anywhere- The air slowly seeps from the hissing Caracas of a worn out tire, Or the lungs of anyone Still enough to remember. Mindlessly chanting Hail Mary's, We taunt time with our penchant for immortality And hospital lobby greeting cards, Until Aphrodite descends to sell her soul To the highest bidder. Mother, I have killed the world With a time bomb that will never detonate: Ceaselessly ticking on and on- A reliant backdrop for something Too harsh to exist in silence. Our hearts have fallen from our sleeves And into films, romance novels, And 3am cooking infomercials. Land of the living: The walking dead, The too-afraid-to-tell-you-how-I-really-feel, The product of a broken people Who traded silence For a language full of mixed intention. Children of the night, Blindly parade around before noon, Trying to buy redemption At a corner store market For half the price Of the pulpit. Afraid of hearing the latent echo of Our own pulsing hearts, We fill our lives with white noise And intimacy, too stagnant To exist without our 3am spirituals. Anxiously arranging our feeble lives Around minutes and hours- Slaves to false agendas, We battle the dark, secretly, until soon We lose sight of the purpose And get caught up in the motion Of a world too drugged out on Redemption That we forget our own names.

64

In preserving Hugo Chavez, every method will be tried. If stuffing Hugo doesn’t work, They’ll try Formaldehyde. Madam Tussaud’s was consulted But their wax was doomed to melt. It is steamy in Caracas And Hugo’s not exactly svelte. A corpse in a glass coffin Like Snow White on display The late lamented Hugo Was a saint some peasants say. What is it with these communists Who all faiths do decry? They long to be like Lenin; To be worshiped, deified. In the end they'll use McDonald's secret sauce to tan his hide. Their burgers last forever don't get me started on their fries. If you go to Venezuela Be sure and say hello for me To the carcass of Caracas preserved for posterity.

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Mar 9, 2013

Mar 9, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

The Carcass of Caracas

In preserving Hugo Chavez, every method will be tried. If stuffing Hugo doesn’t work, They’ll try Formaldehyde. Madam Tussaud’s was consulted But their wax was doomed to melt. It is steamy in Caracas And Hugo’s not exactly svelte. A corpse in a glass coffin Like Snow White on display The late lamented Hugo Was a saint some peasants say. What is it with these communists Who all faiths do decry? They long to be like Lenin; To be worshiped, deified. In the end they'll use McDonald's secret sauce to tan his hide. Their burgers last forever don't get me started on their fries. If you go to Venezuela Be sure and say hello for me To the carcass of Caracas preserved for posterity.

24

Syndicate! Venezuela. A land of ghosts. Where cell phones die. Undetectable. As families cry. For their lost loves. Hostages taken. Vanish into night. For minimal ransom. Ransoms paid by families of wealth. Abductees murdered. Rarely returned. Hostage takers. Rarely caught. In this land of class distinction. Tension builds. Some. The lucky ones get taken from the avenues. Taken to the ATM. Where their bank accounts are drained. Given drugs then dumped again. Caracas homicide rates high. Ransoms paid and men still die! In this dark land where crimes flies. Never solved in this land so corrupt. By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

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Oct 12, 2013

Oct 12, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC

olivia-kent

Syndicate!

Syndicate! Venezuela. A land of ghosts. Where cell phones die. Undetectable. As families cry. For their lost loves. Hostages taken. Vanish into night. For minimal ransom. Ransoms paid by families of wealth. Abductees murdered. Rarely returned. Hostage takers. Rarely caught. In this land of class distinction. Tension builds. Some. The lucky ones get taken from the avenues. Taken to the ATM. Where their bank accounts are drained. Given drugs then dumped again. Caracas homicide rates high. Ransoms paid and men still die! In this dark land where crimes flies. Never solved in this land so corrupt. By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

28

Dark sea wine, send me to Brazil Caracas, Venezuela, the Coasts of Gold, strung out on oblivion, drowning in the sun, each exhale an eon, collapsing upon itself Hail Mary, sweet ****** mother, salty ginger, stellar space, answer a beggar's prayer, somewhere let horses run wild, and may a lion lie with a lamb's tail Soaked in jazzy flow, the white Apogaean tides crash like a silver blade against bronze, romance, the death of heroes, Achille's spear, penetrating this moment, ripping it bare, slicing young flesh, open wounds bleeding blessed red life to the world, an amber glaze Thrones pin peace to the wall, a trophy pelt for all to see with cool blazing eyes, yet all look away while I two step waltz like a jigging liquid light wave, lithe feet raining down moves like a dog in the woods, chasing deer through smokey paths hidden from human stained eyes by thick brush Stiff whiskey midnight, gibbous moon hangs mellow yellow like half a wheel of cheese, canonized in secret watching, the pretty girl problems thrown around like trash blown in the park lovely day, where does this path lead? the open road forever howls life, death, birth, infinity

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Nov 3, 2014

Nov 3, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC

universal-thrum

Dark Sea Wine

Dark sea wine, send me to Brazil Caracas, Venezuela, the Coasts of Gold, strung out on oblivion, drowning in the sun, each exhale an eon, collapsing upon itself Hail Mary, sweet ****** mother, salty ginger, stellar space, answer a beggar's prayer, somewhere let horses run wild, and may a lion lie with a lamb's tail Soaked in jazzy flow, the white Apogaean tides crash like a silver blade against bronze, romance, the death of heroes, Achille's spear, penetrating this moment, ripping it bare, slicing young flesh, open wounds bleeding blessed red life to the world, an amber glaze Thrones pin peace to the wall, a trophy pelt for all to see with cool blazing eyes, yet all look away while I two step waltz like a jigging liquid light wave, lithe feet raining down moves like a dog in the woods, chasing deer through smokey paths hidden from human stained eyes by thick brush Stiff whiskey midnight, gibbous moon hangs mellow yellow like half a wheel of cheese, canonized in secret watching, the pretty girl problems thrown around like trash blown in the park lovely day, where does this path lead? the open road forever howls life, death, birth, infinity

38

No te prometo un para siempre, no te voy a mentir con eso Queremos infinitos para una vida que desgasta Soñamos con amores eternos que al final nos duran solo años Amores que no acaben en rutina, divorcio u homicidio. Creo que nadie puede prometerte un para siempre Al menos no como el de la ficción Por eso hoy te prometo no ser tu último amor Ni el más intenso, mucho menos el más apuesto Hoy te prometo amarte platónicamente Incluso si en veinte años estas durmiendo con otro hombre en Madrid Mientras yo paseo por Caracas. Prometo amar tu alma que es eterna a donde quiera que se vaya Y donde quiera que la mía este; y por ultimo No te prometo amor de una noche pero tampoco uno que limite.

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May 25, 2015

May 25, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC

stephanie-kahn

X

No te prometo un para siempre, no te voy a mentir con eso Queremos infinitos para una vida que desgasta Soñamos con amores eternos que al final nos duran solo años Amores que no acaben en rutina, divorcio u homicidio. Creo que nadie puede prometerte un para siempre Al menos no como el de la ficción Por eso hoy te prometo no ser tu último amor Ni el más intenso, mucho menos el más apuesto Hoy te prometo amarte platónicamente Incluso si en veinte años estas durmiendo con otro hombre en Madrid Mientras yo paseo por Caracas. Prometo amar tu alma que es eterna a donde quiera que se vaya Y donde quiera que la mía este; y por ultimo No te prometo amor de una noche pero tampoco uno que limite.

14

butcher jobs & butchered bodies app economies out of scale just last week a fig tree fell in los angeles maybe one day there'll be a permanent outage & the real disruption will come your turn to be nothing your turn to be no one in a busy Caracas steakhouse in a blackout or under a stolen sun a stolen sun stolen from the poor hard times hitting hardest in the hurt all alone in lonely dirt no bright morning stars for belle just last week a fig tree fell in los angeles might be nice to know what al green means when he sings give it everything before it becomes time to go dead luke perry staying dead & an end of the world that keeps on coming

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Apr 14, 2019

Apr 14, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC

july-hearne

a song called belle

butcher jobs & butchered bodies app economies out of scale just last week a fig tree fell in los angeles maybe one day there'll be a permanent outage & the real disruption will come your turn to be nothing your turn to be no one in a busy Caracas steakhouse in a blackout or under a stolen sun a stolen sun stolen from the poor hard times hitting hardest in the hurt all alone in lonely dirt no bright morning stars for belle just last week a fig tree fell in los angeles might be nice to know what al green means when he sings give it everything before it becomes time to go dead luke perry staying dead & an end of the world that keeps on coming

26

one day i might just disappear its crystal, transparent, clear nothing lasts forever here seasons change like a light switch days fleeting, s p r e a d i n g out their wings i wont answer my telephone for weeks i'm scared to talk to people vulnerability makes me weak. missing people are never truly gone they've got to be somewhere paris, berlin, helsinki, oslo, nouakchott san francisco, caracas, mexico city dead, deep in the ground alive, mentally sound fossilising. one day, i might be free every day is a dream when nothing feels quite real

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Apr 22, 2025

Apr 22, 2025 at 11:54 AM UTC

cattoetry

one day

one day i might just disappear its crystal, transparent, clear nothing lasts forever here seasons change like a light switch days fleeting, s p r e a d i n g out their wings i wont answer my telephone for weeks i'm scared to talk to people vulnerability makes me weak. missing people are never truly gone they've got to be somewhere paris, berlin, helsinki, oslo, nouakchott san francisco, caracas, mexico city dead, deep in the ground alive, mentally sound fossilising. one day, i might be free every day is a dream when nothing feels quite real

19

I met him in the night. A Gayborhood local told me he was from Venezuela, but didn’t have to, his accent, so beautiful with its deep grit and softness, twang and lisp. I already knew, he didn’t have to tell me. He bought me drinks, and watched me and only me, as I bit from the fruit of his garden. He invited me to an afterparty, I didn’t know him, but we went through alleys, dampened by the heat of bodies melding to the brick walls, glistening in the streetlights and nightlife. Unknown lips pressed and held, to stay, not to part. It was beautiful. Within the alley was our destination: underground. It was a luscious venue, crowded, exuberant and whimsy. Velvet covered the walls, and he brought me more drinks. I finished them all. I remember locking lips with a stranger, and how it hurt. He was warm and sweaty, and smelled of Burberry and whiskey, his stubble left my face burning. He grabbed my hand, and led me to the bathroom, then I woke up in his bed. I remembered his husband’s name, and that he lived in Caracas, that we had *** and took a shower together, that his mother, dying from leukemia, slept upstairs, unknowing. I wept in a stranger’s arms, cradled by their tiny physique. I wept for our beloveds.

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Oct 16, 2020

Oct 16, 2020 at 1:27 AM UTC

jake-griffith

That Time I Cheated

I met him in the night. A Gayborhood local told me he was from Venezuela, but didn’t have to, his accent, so beautiful with its deep grit and softness, twang and lisp. I already knew, he didn’t have to tell me. He bought me drinks, and watched me and only me, as I bit from the fruit of his garden. He invited me to an afterparty, I didn’t know him, but we went through alleys, dampened by the heat of bodies melding to the brick walls, glistening in the streetlights and nightlife. Unknown lips pressed and held, to stay, not to part. It was beautiful. Within the alley was our destination: underground. It was a luscious venue, crowded, exuberant and whimsy. Velvet covered the walls, and he brought me more drinks. I finished them all. I remember locking lips with a stranger, and how it hurt. He was warm and sweaty, and smelled of Burberry and whiskey, his stubble left my face burning. He grabbed my hand, and led me to the bathroom, then I woke up in his bed. I remembered his husband’s name, and that he lived in Caracas, that we had *** and took a shower together, that his mother, dying from leukemia, slept upstairs, unknowing. I wept in a stranger’s arms, cradled by their tiny physique. I wept for our beloveds.

44

a beautiful singing bird playing above the trees drifts like a cloud and plays love like a teen this one's made of dimples and lifts home cuddles in the cold and the soft fuzz on her skin an idol conversation in the dark a filter for the stark there it flies up from the tree aim BANG once again is shot dead to me dead to ****** me me who buried traps of fists little lies on the path ahead me who’s now he instead BANG there she goes I’m on the trigger all night any flutter by the nest in my head is another caracas hung in the shed im a predator i shut them out and BANG lock the door idol eyes slip to her name we’ll change it now an X in there make it easy for my burning brain but then its pictures of sinking tug boats stiff socks empty cold spots legs snapping arm locks to the funnest person i knew your story’s told now shew!

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Mar 2, 2017

Mar 2, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC

mr-ree

SHEW!

a beautiful singing bird playing above the trees drifts like a cloud and plays love like a teen this one's made of dimples and lifts home cuddles in the cold and the soft fuzz on her skin an idol conversation in the dark a filter for the stark there it flies up from the tree aim BANG once again is shot dead to me dead to ****** me me who buried traps of fists little lies on the path ahead me who’s now he instead BANG there she goes I’m on the trigger all night any flutter by the nest in my head is another caracas hung in the shed im a predator i shut them out and BANG lock the door idol eyes slip to her name we’ll change it now an X in there make it easy for my burning brain but then its pictures of sinking tug boats stiff socks empty cold spots legs snapping arm locks to the funnest person i knew your story’s told now shew!

38

Y a quién le sonríe el arroz con infinitos dientes blancos? Por qué en las épocas oscuras se escribe con tinta invisible? Sabe la bella de Caracas cuántas faldas tiene la rosa? Por qué me pican las pulgas y los sargentos literarios?

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340

Pablo Neruda

Xii

Y a quién le sonríe el arroz con infinitos dientes blancos? Por qué en las épocas oscuras se escribe con tinta invisible? Sabe la bella de Caracas cuántas faldas tiene la rosa? Por qué me pican las pulgas y los sargentos literarios?

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