"enrique" poems
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard *****
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's *******
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.
One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.
Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.
I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has ******* of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.
20.5k
La larga postración lo ha acostumbrado
a anticipar la muerte. Le daría
miedo salir al clamoroso día
y andar entre los hombres. Derribado,
Enrique Heine piensa en aquel río,
el tiempo, que lo aleja lentamente
de esa larga penumbra y del doliente
destino de ser hombre y ser judío.
Piensa en las delicadas melodías
cuyo instrumento fue, pero bien sabe
que el trino no es del árbol ni del ave
sino del tiempo y de sus vagos días.
No han de salvarte, no, tus ruiseñores,
tus noches de oro y tus cantadas flores.
1.8k
Sabi mo, walang magbabago
Pero ngayon, halos hindi na kita makilala
Hindi mo lang ako basta isinabay sa iba
Ipinagpalit mo pa ako
Hanggang sa tuluyan mo na akong kinalimutan
Sabi mo, walang magbabago
Pero ngayon, ibang-iba ka na
Minsan, tinatanong ko ang sarili ko
Katulad ng pagtanong ni Liza Soberano kay Enrique Gil
“Pangit ba ako?”
“Kapalit-palit ba ako?”
“Am I not enough?”
Dati, halos walang makapaghiwalay sa ating dalawa
Ang sabi mo pa, “Ikaw lang at wala nang iba pa”
Ako mismo ang naging kaagapay mo sa pagkilala mo sa kanila
Pero bakit ako mismo ngayon ang nawalan ng halaga?
Bakit ako mismo ngayon ang hindi mo na binibigyang pansin?
Nagpaka-layo-layo ka’t ibinaon ako sa limot
Ibinaon mo ako sa kahapon
Kung saan kasama ko ang mga iba mo pang itinapon
Pero tama na
Tama na ang pagiging Liza Soberano
Hindi na kita kukulitin at magtatanong ng isang milyong bakit
Hindi rin ako magiging si Piolo Pascual
Na hihingi ng explanation at acceptable reason
At lalong hindi rin ako magiging si Bea Alonzo
Na hihilingin na “sana ako na lang ulit”
Dahil tanggap ko na
Hindi ko na hihingin pang ako lang ang piliin mo
Magpaparaya ako’t papayag na isabay mo sa iba
Isa lang ang hihilingin ko
Na sana ‘wag mo akong tuluyang kalimutan
Na sana ‘wag mo hayaang tuluyan akong mawala sa buhay mo
Dahil gaano man kahabang panahon ang lumipas
At gaano man karami ang nagbago sa pagitan nating dalawa
Ako pa rin ang tunay na laging andito para sa’yo
Ako pa rin ang Wikang Filipino na kahit nagbago man, ay nandito pa rin at nananatili para sa’yo
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
a developed country is not a place where the poor have cars. it’s where the rich use public transport - paraphrased from enrique penalosa
it's also a place where the rich buy a beer bavaria
and a beer san migeul (bottled) at less than
the asked price of sigma £2.25
and the man buying the beers feels rich because
of the lax pax, on the slack - is where
even a poor man can feed the feeling of wealth,
the cashier accepted his spare change
of £2.19 and the man was left fed
with a nonchalence worth feeding akin to travel
among the sardines of sweat to his abode of mammon feeding.
so enthroned upon a saddle of a horse
as to garrison politicians into
being in game worth merely as pawns;
there too the peacock and swan shed
their wings to attract the ladies less
for the cuneiform quill with fingerprin than
simply for admiration and a vanity cleopatra
staged against augustus' cold shrug of shoulder
in armour worthy of any man ably imitating;
then i the one barren in choir to
the year one prior, uno pre anno domini;
i too took to trust via a hunting dog's eye
the dog tamed and affiliated with being made
familiar with a homesickness of the woods among the boar;
i took domestication in his step:
be fed, sleep, entertain... entertain, sleep, be fed...
what a horrid existence being so abhorred from the original
escapade, in the river of nerves strained to impulse
a quasi-tsunami to breach the shore and become
a gargantuan hunger to eat the geography into a mapping
of a rewrite.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
Masses flooding
running, gushing
in sclerotic streets
from Heliopolis to downtown Cairo
and from the great pyramid
to the stone lions
of Pre-colonial royalty
over the river Nile
lost in the way for country heart
me, my soul, and couple of my friends
whom I lead to end arteries
of the city hemorrhagic
were shot by snipers
of Victorian
national police
and some years later,
I want to write a poem
let´s say cosmic
or universal
about that trio human
dream, death and deception
"Emilio, Lorenzo, Enrique
Fueron los tres en mis manos"
a cancer larynx revolution,
of bad alcohol and tobacco?
two holy hands of fate,
and one of eternal ************
and a bored Lenin setting behind a screen?
(the algorithm will do the masses
when the masses are ready to run )
but time as God
is a lazy surgeon
forgot a scalpel in my throat
and I am being cured of every thing
even the nasty hollow
of my tired voice.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 9:58 AM UTC
Senorita, nosedive in membranes
Seizure piano jazz fingers.
Lurch closer, I shimmy towards
you like Enrique Iglesias Technicolor
films
Centipedefeet tip-toeing beneath
pounding disco strobe lights.
Oscillations, Mac-arena side-leaps,
leviathan sidesteps to paradise
Glints of moonlight in her eyes
winking at me
She clicks her foot on earth
with Ye-ye-ye’s gyrating.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
I wandered the world
and I wandered with no aim
Everybody's colours changed
but yours remained the same
Their fleeting sparks of joy
was the pure love they used to claim
You thrived for a simple sanctuary
while they all fought for fame
they took the award
and we took the blame
An award for playing pretend
A blame for having no shame
It seems we lose every time
but we can always play again
play like the wounds have healed
play like it'll be a fair game
And in a room full of kings and queens
I would still call out your name
To tell you the world hasn't seen your kind
stay the same! Stay the same...
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 6:55 PM UTC
there's nothing quite like being rudely woken
by a cat - that sort of shadow you wish you
had to steer off the incubus...
only the ugliest of the norse founded
kiev...
i wonder, as i manage to peck a spider
off the corner of my room, drink,
then eat it, and subsequently imitate
regurgitation, upon having eaten body,
and then finding the legs,
these twisting, coiling artefacts of some
sort of disembodiment...
i really was planning to drink this whiskey
in the afternoon, then the rudeness of the cat
waking me,
then the rage against the machine
and the idea of a buddhist,
and then the voice, that would never
amount to the said theatric of burn ******
burn...
i can't compete being drunk and
it only being nearing 7 a.m.,
i can only cite:
paper boy took the day off.
and i lost count to
every counted sunday,
thinking it a monday;
and that's a half of a hey-yah! thong
bridget huan jonson jerking off
the next nesting jose johnson,
calling him enrique joe.
or: amazon god king
conquistador it's sunrise you ********
people have to "work",
yeah, they "work", they're
rhetoricians!
they're the embodiment of
what's spectacular about
western society...
high brow romancing of
the averted moral spectrum,
like i really did begin to start ******* cockroaches...
and these women were my sunrise...
keep the gangrenes,
the ******* the abbies...
i love that term,
it's like reviving: greengrocer...
like calling a pet donkey a
chihuahua and then for asking oral ***
calling it a sloppy-jappy...
as if it was aimed as sushi shooting
the raw argument.
hence the love of h'america...
no, i never admire or fashion
the idea of americans waking up
i the globalist part of new york,
that's gobalist, and the 24h oops...
oh wait, you didn't realise we were insomniac?!
fucl me... afternoon for them
is like pretending breakfast for the rest
of us...
i think the dieticians call
it fibre, or something twice as hard to digest,
twice as hard to constipate out on,
and thrice the name of a wife.
i really love they didn't
catch up on the insult:
it's a bit like eating humus,
or catching the sunset.
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 2:06 AM UTC
Standing at the confluence our souls I am ready
Ready for extremities and places beyond limits
To awaken emotions unknown to Enrique Iglesian's verse and prose
To make love to you than the wildest Pornographic script in Hollywood
To praise your vibe with all my lungs than any Roman in the Colosseum.
I am ready...
Ready to freeze heaven's supper for angels to look down and whisper, "Wow! That's an artistic **** before asking for a slip of the tongue forgiveness from the Holy One.
Psychopathic phrases like "choke me" to be the sweetest of our communication systems
I am ready...
Are you?
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 9:32 AM UTC