"pablo" poems
Ríete de la noche,
Pagtawanan mo ang gabi,
Laugh at the night,
del día, de la luna,
ang araw, ang buwan,
at the day, at the moon,
ríete de las calles
torcidas de la isla,
*pagtawanan mo ang liku-likong
landas sa isla,*
**laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,**
ríete de este torpe
muchacho que te quiere,
*pagtawanan mo ang torpeng
lalaking ito na nagmamahal sa iyo,*
**laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,**
pero cuando yo abro
los ojos y los cierro,
*ngunit kapag bubuksan at
isasara ko ang aking mga mata,*
**but when I open
my eyes and close them,**
cuando mis pasos van,
kapag ako ay umalis,
when my steps go,
cuando vuelven mis pasos,
kapag ako ay muling bumalik,
when my steps return,
niégame el pan, el aire,
la luz, la primavera
ipagkait mo na sa akin ang tinapay, ang hangin, ang liwanag at ang tagsibol,
**deny me bread, air,
light, spring,**
pero tu risa nunca
porque me moriría.
*wag lamang ang iyong mga ngiti
dahil ito ay aking ikasasawi.*
**but never your laughter
for I would die.**
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
***** I'm dreaming*2),..nigga I'm believing,.. I'm chasing hope & faith mane..I'm chasing my dreams, ***** I'm believing, I'm chasing (my goals & aspirations2)..nigga I'm believing,nigga I'm dreaming (Yeah2)..(nigga I'm dreaming*2)
Dreaming..nigga I'm believing, ***** I'm dreaming.. Dreaming..I'm (having hope & faith2)..nigga I'm believing.., (I'm having hope & faith2)..nigga I'm dreaming, ***** I'm believing, (I'm having hope & faith2)..Yeah..(nigga I'm dreaming2)..Nigga I'm believing, Im (dreaming2)..I'm chasing hope mane,..(I'm chasing my goals & aspirations2)//nigga I'm dreaming, ***** I'm believing, I'm chasing (my goals & aspirations2)..Aye..(I'm dreaming3)..dreaming, ***** I'm believing , I'm chasing (my goals & aspirations*3)..(nigga I'm dreaming, my ***** I'm believing*2)..(I'm chasing hope & faith *2)..mane,
I ain't chasing after fame, I ain't chasing none of these hos either,..(nigga I'm dreaming2)..nigga I'm believing,..I'm dreaming, I'm chasing (my goals & aspirations3)..nigga, I'm believing, ***** I'm dreaming, ***** (I'm believing2)..(Im dreaming3)..dreaming..,aye..I'm chasing, (my goals & aspirations*3)..
Goals & Aspirations.. Aye
That's what I'm chasing after like a hungry cheetah, I never been a cheater, ***** Imma believer, a true believer, a King Yeah..Aye, I'm chasing my goals & aspirations, &( I'm speeding*2) like,fuck the laws I'm going past the speed limit, **** a stop sign, no braking, I'm in drive ***** Its so hard being patient, but I'm tryna be Aye, no time waiting , no time waisting, none of my days being wasted..Im so wavey..Aye, Yeah I'm getting so faded, so wasted, Lord please forgive me even , tho I smoke alot of **** on a regular basis, that's (my medication2)..& I need it, it helps me from going (crazy2)..,I ain't never had **** partner, I come from nothing, I ain't had alot of money at a point of time in my life , I was so broke my ***** all I ever had was my goals , dreams, & aspirations, Yeah I was dreaming, & believing, I was chasing after hope & faith.., not after no females mane,Aye..
Nobody can't tell me nothing paparazzi better stay away from my face, aye I ain't on that Kanye West **** I ain't selling my soul for a happy meal ***** In happy all ready, God owns me, So I'm investing in my own worth homie, Yeah..I'm building my on corporation..Aye man..
***** I'm dreaming*2),..nigga I'm believing,.. I'm chasing hope & faith mane..I'm chasing my dreams, ***** I'm believing, I'm chasing (my goals & aspirations2)..nigga I'm believing,nigga I'm dreaming (Yeah2)..(nigga I'm dreaming*2)
Dreaming..
I ain't chasing after fame, I ain't chasing none of these hos either,..(nigga I'm dreaming2)..nigga I'm believing,..I'm dreaming, I'm chasing (my goals & aspirations3)..nigga
Uhh,Yeah
/This is (only for the Real3)..if you don't know well then now you know nigga/3,..
Aye, if you don't know ***** then pull a chair up & listen, Turn this **** up & listen, Blaze one up, (& listen2), pay attention..This is (Only For The Real2)..Aye
I'm teaching ****** lessons like a teacher ***** I didn't have to go to college to teach ***** but that doesn't mean I can't teach you ***** I was blessed wit this gift from God, thank you so much Heavenly Father, thank you so much Jesus Christ, Ayo we all can learn something from each other, we all sisters & brothers word, Uhh..
Let's come together, let's stand up to this curropted government system, rise up & destroy them..Uhh, Aye I usta be all alone man, so lonely stuck in my room writing hits all day, I been a big factor my ***** man I always been the man, Yeah..Uhh, I ain't conceited either my ***** I'm just saying I'm confident,.. (Yeah nigga*2)..
I just been (chasing my dreams & aspirations2)..I write (masterpieces2) Pablo Picasso type of **** if you don't know well now you know this is (Only For The Real*2)..Aye,..
/Im chasing my goals & aspirations2..(my goals & aspirations2)/*2
(Aye, we all on*3..)..now..we all on..now
(Aye, we all on*3..)..now..we all on..now
/Aye it doesn't matter what anybody gotta say about ya, forget a doubter let them hate man, if you dream it see it in yo mind, & believe it, then you can achieve it/*2
**** right..my *****
if you dream it see it in yo mind, & believe it, then you can achieve it..for real dawg..Ayr
You can become anything that you want my ***** for real dawg, gotta push yo self, uplift yo self if nobody else will, chase after hope & faith, chase (your goals 2), chase (your dreams2) & your aspirations, don't ever stop ***** Cuhz, (anything you put your mind too you can achieve it,*2) Yeah mane, you can..Uhh
***** I'm dreaming, I'm chasing hope & faith, I'm chasing my goals & aspirations/*3
(Goals & aspirations*3)..aye
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
The root
Of ambition
Is ambivalent
There's no “one cause”
No one causes
A man
To make life decisions
In a day
It takes
Much more
For
A man to be successful
And real
With his inner-self
Accepting
The cards dealt
With the stamina
To play through
Exercising his will
With the feel
Lingering in every pore
Unsure
Of obstacles ahead
Headstrong
Through barricades
Bearing the bruises
Trampling
Over your own
Feet
Defeat
Seen in battle
But the war’s on
And the war zone
Isn’t limited
To a few
Years
Like ages 19-22
Whose to do
Worse
Who has more
Money
CARS
Clothes
And hoes
And whose vision
Is so small
To tack them
with success
All in all
And attack those
Who lack the
Wills
To move forward
And ignorantly
Attach it
With a phenomena
Of
Your unknowing
Root of ambition
Can spread
Like weeds
And weeds
Can **** ambition
Or spread
Like seeds
How many men
Dive
Head first under the influence
Or rise above
High
From the same drug
Barack Obama
Michael Phelps
William Shakespeare
Bill Clinton
Lebron James
Pablo Picasso
The Beatles
Jay-Z
Bob Marley
Conan O’Brien
Dr Francis Crick. (Nobel Prize Winner)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Salvador Dali
Victor Hugo
Kareem Abdul-Jabar
Snoop Dogg
Dr. Dre
Stephen King
Just to name a few
Maybe
Just maybe
It has nothing to do
With success
Or you.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 1:11 AM UTC
Maisusulat ko ang pinakamalulungkot na tula ngayong gabi.
Maisusulat, halimbawa:
“Ang gabi’y mabituin, at nanginginig, asul,
ang mga tala sa dako pa roon.”
Umiikot sa langit ang hangin ng gabi, umaawit.
Maisusulat ko ang pinakamalulungkot na tula ngayong gabi.
Siya’y inibig ko, at kung minsan ako’y inibig din niya.
Sa mga gabing tulad nito,
niyakap ko siyang mahigpit
at hinagkan sa lilim ng walang-hanggang langit.
Ako’y inibig niya, kung minsan siya’y inibig ko rin.
Paanong hindi iibigin ang mga mata niyang malamlam?
Maisusulat ko ang pinakamalulungkot na tula ngayong gabi.
Isipin lang: Hindi ko siya kapiling.
Nawala siya sa akin.
Dinggin ang gabing malawak,
mas malawak pagkat wala siya.
At ang tula’y pumapatak sa diwa,
parang hamog sa parang.
Ano ngayon kung di siya mapangalagaan ng aking pag-ibig?
Ang gabi’y mabituin, at siya’y hindi ko kapiling.
Iyon lamang.
Sa malayo, may umaawit.
Sa malayo.
Diwa ko’y hindi mapalagay sa kanyang pagkawala.
Anyong lalapit ang paningin kong naghahanap sa kanya.
Puso’y naghahanap sa kanya, at siya’y hindi kapiling.
Ito ang dating gabing nagpaputi sa mga dating punongkahoy.
Tayo, na nagmula sa panahong iyon, ay di na tulad ng dati.
Hindi ko na siya iniibig, oo, pero inibig ko siyang lubos.
Tinig ko’y humalik sa hangin para dumampi sa kanyang pandinig.
Sa iba. Siya’y sa iba na.
Tulad ng mga dati kong halik.
Tinig, maningning na katawan.
Mga matang walang-hanggan.
Hindi ko na siya iniibig, oo, pero baka iniibig ko siya.
Napakaikli ng pag-ibig, at napakabata ng paglimot.
Pagkat sa mga gabing tulad nito’y yakap ko siyang mahigpit,
diwa ko’y di mapalagay sa kanyang pagkawala.
Ito marahil ang huling hapding ipadarama niya sa akin,
at ito na marahil ang huling tulang iaalay ko sa kanya.
“Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines” ni Pablo Neruda
sinalin sa Filipino ni Jose Lacaba.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
#
***My mind to frolic, with words of Frost
Slides between and then is lost
Drifting ‘round to fellows long
My thirst is deep; desires strong
Filled with all that Maya says
Flits in and out my meddling head
And ah, when Pablo speaks of love
My heart's aflutter with pure white doves
Around the beat, who else but Poe
A deep dark place I've come to know
I stop to ponder the words worth
As if I've nursed them from their birth
I settle to hear the rambling brook
Where Gwendolyn baits my eager hook
Then ‘long comes Oscar, running wild
I listen like an eager child
When Langston paints his colored hues
His canvas fills my point of view
Not just the finest spinning me
To this state of flux and reverie
For verses drift from near and far
Forever reaching for the stars
Feeding on the gentle night
I languish in the word's delight
Finding rhyme from ‘neath the skin
The place where passion's settled in
To fill my cup, appease my soul
Till hunger's sated, fat and whole
The empty space behind my eyes
Is filled with life's sweet lullabies
And when at last, I lay to rest
I'm filled with cadence of the best***
#
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:24 AM UTC
The short-order cook and the dishwasher
argue the relative merits
of Rilke’s Elegies
against Eliot’s Four Quartets,
but the delivery man who brings eggs
suggests they have forgotten Les fleurs
du mal and Baudelaire. The waitress
carrying three plates and a coffee ***
can’t decide whom she loves more—
Rimbaud or Verlaine,
William Blake or William Wordsworth.
She refills the rabbi’s cup
(he’s reading Rumi),
asks what he thinks of Arthur Whaley.
In the booth behind them, a fat woman
feeds a small white poodle in her lap,
with whom she shares her spoon.
"It’s Rexroth’s translations of the Japanese,"
she says, "that one can’t live without:
May those who are born after me
Never travel such roads of love."
The revolving door proffers
a stranger in a long black coat, lost in the madhouse poems of John Clare.
As he waits to be seated,
the woman who owns the place
hands him a menu
in which he finds several handwritten poems
By Hafiz, Gibran, and Rabindranath Tagore.
The lunch hour’s crowded—
the owner wonders
if the stranger might share
my table. As he sits,
I put a finger to my lips,
and with my eyes ask him
to listen with me
to the young boy and the young girl
two tables away
taking turns reading aloud
the love poems of Pablo Neruda.
4.9k
One room away is a woman
who wants me to **** her.
She is beautiful, intelligent, and drunk.
I am ugly, intelligent, and sober.
Even though my highest and best
tells me to walk away with a smile,
my core screams for a ruining.
One room away is a drunk, *****
dripping work of art who is also
very, very lucky.
Charles tells me to listen to
my **** and Pablo whispers a reminder
to remember the smell
of early morning wheat
and your eyelashes
while Walt and I gaze at the stars
and think of death.
I smile to myself,
soaking in the after glow
of vanilla chai, good ****
and dead poets.
One room away is a woman
who's fate was in my sadistic hands.
Two rooms away is a twelve year old
who is dreaming of flag football
and Vans and getting to
level 37 of Skyrim
and one day,
after he wakes up
and after we have our
toaster strudel,
and somewhere in between
me stopping for coffee
and dropping him off,
I'll remind him
that good ***** is everywhere
so take your time and do it right
and when you just don't want to
look at their face,
make some tea,
catch a buzz,
and read some poetry.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
it was the Cubist who created the space and color that
everywhere today assails our eyes
in uniform architecture and monotonous
design; the various branches of modern art
through tedious & exhaustive experiment
& research creating a massive cultural sinkhole
whose banal discoveries unveil for all the sameness
of form, line and color;
Quote from Gorky's 'Camouflage', 1942: I like the heat;
the tenderness; the edible; the lusciousness;
the song of a single person
in a bathtub full of water.
I like Ucello, Grunewald, Ingres,
the drawings and sketches for paintings
of Seurat and that man Pablo Picasso;
I measure all things by weight.
In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series,
26 June 1942
I love Mougouch, Gorky's wife. What about papa Cézanne;
I like the wheat fields, the plow, the apricots,
those flirts of the sun. And bread above all.
My lever is the purple; About 194 feet away
from our house in Armenia on the road to the
spring my father had a little garden with
a few apple trees which had retired
from giving fruit;
this garden was identified as the _'Garden of Wish Fulfillment'_
often I had seen my mother and the other village women
exposing their naked bosoms, taking the soft,
dependable ******* in their hands &
rubbing them on the rocks; above all this
standing an enormous tree all bleached
under the sun, rain & cold, deprived of leaves.
This was the Holy Tree [quoted in 1942]
In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series,
26 June 1942
I don't like that word 'finished'.
When something is finished,
that means it's dead, doesn't it?
I believe in everlastingness;
I never finish a painting – I just stop
working on it for a while.
I like painting because it's something
I can never come to the end of;
sometimes I paint a picture,
then I paint it all out. Sometimes
I'm working on fifteen or twenty
pictures at the same time; I do that
b/c I want to – b/c I change my
mind so often; The thing to do is
always to keep starting to paint;
never finishing the painting [quoted in 1948]
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 4:39 PM UTC
Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.
Como todas las cosas estan llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mia.
Mariposa de sueno, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolia.
Me gustas cuando callas y estas como distante.
Y estas como quejandote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
dejame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.
Dejame que te hable tambien con tu silencio
claro como una lampara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.
Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.
I like you when you are quiet because it is as though you are absent,
and you hear me from far away, and my voice does not touch you.
It looks as though your eyes had flown away
and it looks as if a kiss had sealed your mouth.
Like all things are full of my soul
You emerge from the things, full of my soul.
Dream butterfly, you look like my soul,
and you look like a melancoly word.
I like you when you are quiet and it is as though you are distant.
It is as though you are complaining, butterfly in lullaby.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
let me fall quiet with your own silence.
Let me also speak to you with your silence
Clear like a lamp, simple like a ring.
You are like the night, quiet and constellated.
Your silence is of a star, so far away and solitary.
I like you when you are quiet because it is as though you are absent.
Distant and painful as if you had died.
A word then, a smile is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it is not true.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 9:05 AM UTC
~ dad said she'd be famous ~
*"...a doctor
or diva
like lena horne,"* he said
he'd been doing odd day jobs
and driving cabs deep into the night
through these mean city streets
since ella's debut
at the apollo
and his smile
grew wider than
jackie o's
reservoir in central park
when this bouncing baby girl
made her grand debut
into his world
the dimples on her
cherub caramel cheeks
were irresistibly pinchable
and those twinkling eyes
knew she'd be spoiled infinitely
like a fruit-fly in a box
of rotten apples
~ reality check ~
....if you look closely
you might still see one dimple;
but the twinkles departed
back in '75
....and the burns
on her fingertips
and blistered lips
....and the bones....
jutting like the bones
of refugees and anorexics
....missing flesh
...and the tracks
on her forearms
and filthy jeans
.....and the eyes....
shifting like the eyes
of senators and thieves
....telling lies
.....and the rotting corpse
in a black garbage bag
in fresh kills
multiple choices removed
from the doctor
and diva of daddy's dreams
hijacked by dream-killers:
*smack
crack
and addiction*
~ P (Pablo)
(8/1/2013)
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Scene 1:
(Periwinkle room, Jigglypuff poster, soft alternative music)
I stomp in,
Niagara Falls streaming
Throw his copy of Pablo Neruda poetry into the trash
And start reading Virginia Woolf
Poetic revolution.
That’ll show him
Scene 2:
(Cafe atmosphere, fading laughter, upbeat music)
Whoa. That guy. Not that one.
The one on the left
Kinda nice, kinda cute
And he laughed at my joke
Jane Austen romances
and Zooey Glass daydreams
fill my waking moments
Scene 3:
(Restaurant, muffled conversations, classical music)
What is he staring at? Who is he staring at?
Oh no awkward conversation gap
Say something,
quick, anything
“The weather is nice tonight, yeah?”
Not that.
But he laughs
Night saved
Scene 4:
(Outside the restaurant, night breezes, car noises)
“That was nice,”
He casually mentions
Yeah. Nice.
Not great. Amazing. Life-altering.
Nice.
The same adjective used to describe the weather
Devoid of meaning.
Scene 5:
(Car, radio on silent, crickets chirping)
“I wanted to give you something”
Hands me,
Oh dear god no,
A copy of Neruda
That ****** Neruda.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
I will hear your voice
Singing joyful hymns
Between chores
On Saturday morn;
I will see your smile of radiance
On the faces of my sisters and nieces;
And your boundless energy
Will manifest in the limbs
Of my sons and nephews;
And the legacy
Of a Nubian Queen
From Islington Village
On the breezy bank
Of the majestic Berbice river,
Shall reign eternal...
~ Pablo (#formom)
10/25/2013
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud
Two of us, alone, as one
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin
Your slender legs, columns that taught
The Greeks in Helens age, touched the water
And the sky. I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes
I hold your skin, my Selkie
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance
In the country of the sun
We end at the house in Umbria
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
Low and wide
against the tide
A partisan -
a part of him
un - fascistionable
Poppa's boat -
- Pablo's mujer
Pilar -
for us her story
well told
- For whom
the bell tolls.
r ~ 10/19/14
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
hi,
first time?
no? hmmm
im siam and you are?
cold turkey.
cold turkey, nice name.
is that for real coz im starting to believe it.
sigh, of course not!
as if siam is your real name duh!
haha
do you want to go out and have life outside
or you just want to sit back and relax as if you enjoy all this ****
what do you want siam?
im free.
sure!
*****
no thanks,
im done with 1 bottle already.
weak!
kiddin, hi im oyster and you are?
oyster, sound scandal isnt it?
yah,
i know.
im free,
sure.
who am i?
rabbit?
cement?
who am i?
say it louder,
who am i?
pablo,
oslo,
just do it!
done.
same.
wait,
what's your name again?
it doesnt matter anyway,
call me whatever you like.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 6:59 AM UTC
I'll tell you a story about two young brothers.
Like fire and smoke, that's what was said.
Always together, laughing and singing,
Sharing adventures, sharing their bread.
One day these two brothers both became lovers.
Yes! They both fell in love at the very same time.
Though always before they'd shared all their secrets,
This was a secret they would not confide.
Each of the brothers went into the garden.
One picked a red rose, the other a white.
They rode off at sunset, not one word between them
In opposing directions, into the night.
At the balcony window of her father's veranda
Rosa is anxiously scanning the street
Pablo is late now, soon Hector will ride up
This cannot happen! They surely will meet!
Rosa hears hoof beats from different directions,
Riders approaching along cobbled streets.
Each bearing a rose, and a heart full of passion
Brothers no more, but two rivals that meet.
A challenge is offered and is quickly accepted.
Their swords are both drawn before Rosa can speak.
She cries out to stop them, their blood's screaming louder.
They fight like two madmen and fall at her feet.
Their life ebbing from them, they lie there before her,
Rosa is sobbing, "Oh what have I done?"
She kisses their lips, so cold now and pallid,
And sheds her tears on them, so soon to be gone.
Bending over her lovers, they whisper to her,
"Take these two roses, and plant them tonight
on each side of your window, they'll grow up together.
Our love will be with you, though we die in this fight."
That's the story he told me, when I was a small boy,
When I asked my papa of that house on the right,
With it's balcony window grown over with roses,
Twining together, the red and the white.
And each day at sunset, Rosa goes to the old church.
She kneels at the altar to say her long prayers.
Lighting two candles before the Mother of Mercy,
One red and one white rose she lays gently there.
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 4:39 PM UTC
there are no limits
on speed,
no bumps to impede
that singular rush of inspiration,
that surging wave we ride
to euphoric highs
defying doubt and disbelief
within and throughout
these paths least-travelled
where rhythmic beats
of compulsion
thrill the air
way beyond the mean,
and we glide
over ambiguous bell
curves
dispelling conspicuous myths
and null hypotheses
with relative ease
where iambic warriors
and wordsmiths,
high on lyrical amphetamines,
wage epic battles
of verse and rhyme
and the blood of creativity
is spilled onto
finite scrolls and screens
where the thoughts and dreams
of poets, peasants and pimps
reign
eternal
~ P ( Pablo)
(8/2/2013)
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
pansy's screws weren't loose,
they were missing,
all of them,
leaving gaping holes
of unpredictable insanity
in her manic life
only 22,
and built like haya,
the mistress of desire
and lust,
every male nurse and
a certain shrink at the nut house
couldn't wait to ******
a missing ***** or two
into her
~ psychotherapy with a turgid twist ~
so mum the matron gave her
a protective room at our crib
only 13,
and built like *** wee
the hermit of lore,
I sat at the dinner table
opposite *****
she played footsie
with my naked toes
then gave me the crazy eye
as her lazy tongue
slid in...and out...
of her crazy mouth
~ she needed some pee-wee therapy ~
seed planted,
*** wee fed the fantasy
until it bore fruit:
a succulent apple
in his prurient mind
~ ready to be ...reaped ~
*** wee knocked on the door
~ silence ~
knock.....knock....
~ silence ~
*** wee turned the ****
and there she was...
~ en el desnudo ~
curves, ***** legs
open and inviting,
vacuous eyes staring at me,
daring me...
then she started screaming....
~ P (Pablo)
(7/28/2013)
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
When Pablo Neruda does it, it's beautiful art.
When I do it, it's cringy and desparate.
When Van Gogh does it, it's dedication.
When I do it, it's insanity and a restraining order.
When Picasso does it, it's cubism.
When I do it, it's scribbles.
When Robert Frost does it, it's wisdom.
When I do it, it's 'Facebook Garbage'.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 6:24 AM UTC
I once slept
with a few sophisticated rats,
5 to be exact,
on a pull-out couch
from a garage sale
in corona, queens
they had ivy league IQs;
double majors in
evasion and skullduggery,
and a crush on my left thumb....
*the one you ****** on as a kid...,*
posited dr diaz,
my shrink with an md
from the lesser antilles
like freaks,
they came out at night,
in indian file...
as the raging moon dipped
below my cracked glass window,
and a cimmerian shroud
swallowed its receding light,
and I snored...
on the couch,
left thumb hanging loose
near the floor
where a heavily highlighted
textbook lay wide open...
cued by the dipping moon
or the rhythmic rasp
ripping through the room
like a stihl chain saw,
the curious 5 whisked
over the persian rug,
or was it soiled chinese?
like I said
they had ivy league IQs....
thus my heavily cheesed
wire traps
remained engaged
but cheese-less...
as the curious 5 converged
around the couch
for dessert...
~
I skipped mgmt 301 at 10
and dr diaz gave me
a rabies shot:
4 doses ig,
a sterile bandage
for my shredded left thumb,
and a referral
to his realtor...
~ P (Pablo)
(8/8/2013)
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
1. You buy flowers and a card as an excuse to write a poem, even though you're single.
2. When " How Do I love you, let me count the ways"... And you literally lost count.
3. When Cupid calls you corny.
4. When you make a poem out of those little heart candies.
5. Cupid throws up a little in his mouth after reading your exceedingly sweet sonnet.
6. You bought your kid Valentines day cards for his class and wrote haiku's on every one.
7. You ponder the box of chocolates, and how it is like life, though it sounds familiar, you title your poem "Life is Like a Box of Chocolates".
8. You buy roses and a card filled with your sweet words for your ex, though she calls you a stalker, you are glad she called you.
9. You recite Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, and you're in the shower.
10. You suddenly bulk up on Pablo Neruda, ready to take on the romantic world.
11.As you look at your hellopoetry site while driving, you see a smear of blood on the windshield, two small wings, and what looks like a bow and arrow.
12. When you write a poem and have no one to give it to, suddenly Mom is the best Valentine ever.
13. When you go on the big date, secretly you have your own penand paper in your back pocket, writing verses when you excuse yourself from the dinner table.
14. When you write a poem for your wife, your side girlfriend and your mistress, just because it feels romantic, it is Valentines after all.
15. When you give the wrong poem to your wife, instead of the mistress.
16. Your girlfriend is suddenly a diabetic due to your sweet poem.
17.When you write a poem on hellopoetry and dedicate it to your Valentine, even though you don't have one.
18. When you buy yourself roses and a box of chocolate, write a beautiful poem to yourself, you might be a romantic poet.
19. When your secret admirer is you, the secret poems don't have the same effect.
20. Last but no least, you might be a poet when you wonder if Cupid is lonely and write an invite in the form of a sonnet to see if the little guy will join you for a poetry reading.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
"Write what you know."
I want to write about
beautiful things,
but I only know
ugly.
Ugly hearts and stone blood.
Fetid loyalty.
I want to write about a love as pure as honey,
but all I know are the poison-tipped thorns of betrayal.
If I could put the right words
in the right order
at the right time
and explain what it means to lose you,
nobody would care.
I'd like to write about
my happy family,
laugh filled birthdays
and joyous gatherings,
but I only know
fractious,
secretive,
********
I want to touch another soul
make a connection with my words
share a part of my self
and help someone in the process,
but all I have been taught is
taking
keeping
lying
hiding
running
ruining.
I would love to write
like Pablo,
of wheat
and bread
and fields that don't weep,
but all I know are
desperate fumblings
in ******
beer soaked bathrooms,
back alley
drunken
********
by black
barely passable trannys,
diseases and
barely consensual bloodstains.
I cannot speak of such things.
It's bad enough I think about them,
even worse I write about them.
I write what I know.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
~~~
out of an arid ocean
You came up
hoary with barnacles
grey with skin
a spray of stars erupted
startled . awash
against its own night
and down again You go
to know the
mating of tendrils
the killing planes of seashores
the antiquities of the sun
were we there once?
in the phosphor seasons
we played with You
as You are even then
so self contained we found
no need to surrender
to the patient
winds of change
now You echo in
strange meridians
storming Your gusts
in far off topography
Your great tail
sings its starlight way
homing to its thunder
~~~
they came
oh, yes, they came
to harvest Your virtues
their decks slick
with Your blood
crimson stains ugly with lucre
their forest of masts
peopled by
Your ghosts
sing ! O leviathan ! sing
lift Your voice and
bellow to us
of Your lost pods
Your wonderful oceans
Your salty maternity
*Your
song
is
heard
by
GOD*
(c) soulsurvivor
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
when words are few,
or stuck in dictionaries
unused or unknown
like
compassion,
tyrants and wife-beaters
scream
with iron fists,
silencing fluent lips
in clotting streams of blood
...and machetes,
severing lucid limbs
from able bodies
in active states of articulation
...and guns,
the kryptonite of cowards
and buffoons,
the callow voice of philistines
and goons,
blasting cogent words
and vocal women
into oblivion
....and laboratories
where forensics of
fingerprint and dna
scream loudest,
sending tyrants and wife-beaters away
to sleep with the devil
in a shallow cell
on earth
or
hell below...
~ P (#Pablo#OTAWB)
(8/11/2013)
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC