"miasmas" poems
She stands among the grey scape with
So many muted colours inside her.
But today is a day of monochrome miasmas-
Of grey gulls that skim the pewter river
With wings that know such measures.
The greyness leeches her to the technicolour
World she knew long ago
Somewhere down the river.
A cauldron of rage wages above her
Filled with the bursts of brigands of
Grey restless beauty.
There's a rainbow now!
As it archly
Shows its palette she sees the separation
Appear ever nearer...
Above the rainbow is cobalt
Beneath it a merely flat grey.
Underneath her umbrella she enjoys
The puttered thwacks of soft water indenting
Thin fabric with a firework crack.
Suddenly she's back
Her shoes are black and her eyes are grey.
She wishes everyone was a million miles away.
She wishes everyone could stay.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
No saben.
¡Perdonadlos!
No saben lo que han hecho,
lo que hacen,
por qué matan,
por qué hieren las piedras,
masacran los paisajes...
No saben.
No lo saben...
No saben por qué mueren.
Se nutren,
se han nutrido
de hediondas imposturas,
de cancerosos miasmas,
de vocablos sin pulpa,
sin carozo,
sin jugo,
de negras reses de humo,
de canciones en pasta,
de pasionales sombras con voces de ventrílocuo.
Viven
entre lo fétido,
una inquietud de orzuelo,
de vejiga pletórica,
de urticaria florida que cultiva el ayuno,
el sudor estancado,
la iniquidad encinta.
No creen.
No creen en nada
más que en el moco hervido.
en el ideal,
chirriante,
de las aplanadoras,
en las agrias arcadas
que atormentan al éter,
en todas las mentiras
que engendran las matrices de plomo derretido
el papel embobado
y en bobina.
Son blandos,
son de sebo,
de corrompido sebo triturado
por engranajes sádicos,
por ruidos asesinos,
por cuanto escupitajo se esconde en el anónimo,
para hundirles sus uñas de raíces cuadradas
y dotarlos de un alma de trapo de cocina.
Sólo piensan en cifras, en fórmulas, en pesos,
en sacarle provecho hasta a sus excrementos.
Escupen las veredas,
escupen los tranvías,
para eludir las horas
y demostrar que existen.
No pueden rebelarse.
Los empuja la inercia,
el terror,
el engaño,
las plumas sobornadas,
los consorcios sin **** que ha parido la usura
y que nunca se sacian de fabricar cadáveres.
Se niegan al coloquio del agua con las piedras.
Ignoran el misterio del gusano,
del aire.
Ven las nubes,
la arena,
y no caen de rodillas.
No quedan deslumbrados por vivir entre venas.
Sólo buscan la dicha en las suelas de goma.
Si se acercan a un árbol no es más que para mearlo.
Son capaces de todo con tal de no escucharse,
con tal de no estar solos.
¿Cómo,
cómo sabrían
lo que han hecho,
lo que hacen?
¿Algo tiene de extraño
que deserten del asco,
de la hiel,
del cansancio?
Sólo puede esperarse
que defiendan el plomo,
que mueran por el guano,
que cumplan la proeza
de arrasar lo que encuentren y exterminarlo todo,
para que el hambre extienda sus tapices de esparto
y desate su bolsa ahíta de calambres.
Son ferozmente crueles.
Son ferozmente estúpidos...
pero son inocentes.
¡Hay que compadecerlos!
839
Florica's vacant look
haunted by the spectres of doom,
occasionally bursting of wit.
Still wishing to be blinded
by that can't sleep love.
Not understanding all it was said
they assumed she was unhinged,
but neither of them care about.
Night sky lays in her half-closed mouth,
languidly merging with the ceaseless clattery sound.
Florica's glazed eyes,
her sore body rests now
in the miasmas of unconsciousness.
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 7:03 PM UTC
Sudden air full of winged seeds
Blowing froth on the dawn.
Season of simple joy
Wizarding light from the east.
Yellowing grass yawning
In the last of days of dry,
Zippy insect life slowing
To a tumble buzz, heavy
As sleep, just before sepia dreams
Begin to comfort the earth,
Fruit pungency replacing heady miasmas.
It’s like leaving a bright clearing for a forest
Sanctuary, light dimmed by cool shadows,
The gentle change of one life-state
For another.
,
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 4:34 AM UTC
Through longing
and loneliness
I've now found
A home in this
place where we all share
Our secret, sacred selves
In this kinship,
I have found
I am secure
I feared
I was a fool
To speak of bliss
In constant sorrow
I feared of
Weaving webs of words
Too thick
To let the light shine through
Only gandering, instead
Upon a meal of
Conceptual fortitude
But with a mind full of cobwebs
And miasmas of parasitic insects
I will do whatever it takes
To keep myself thriving
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 8:40 PM UTC
*coming to consciousness is a must
yet its painful to retain all these words
sordid shards of nothingness
i am learned for i know that i've learned nothing
except what i’ve earned by remembering
plenty of ways to fake a riot
keep quiet or dry it in the sun
sheltered on the run
blasts from guns to gynecologists
solecisms and syllogisms
miasmas of the mind
time unwinds in butterfly defenses
semblances of the freedom we traded
resemblances to our mothers
and our grandfathers in helmets
filled with money left to rot in the sun’s basement
the used ones who wait for their retirement plans
to conclude their lives with guttural fluctuations
effluent and stagnant waters, frenetic daughters
portraits of amazement
the lazy masters sadly agree to replace them
sweaty fixtures grasped our hands and minds
sign language kept silent
stretched out in striated alignments
cut me some slack
for there can be no turning back from this place
she gave everything away save the furniture
which wasn’t hers anyway
once it takes a hold of you
it doesn’t like to let go of you
grab the fire by its nose
and release the hose
if you wish to control the soul
water pouring from our bones
i bow down to your ground
we are going home
arguing no more
our moist hearts becoming clearer, nearer
i am breathing louder in my own theater
and in my own studio i am making music
that makes the flowers bloom*
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 8:42 PM UTC