"peruvian" poems
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Caribbean blue sail's a galaxy
rivers gushing, mumbling for an eternity
reflections of Love forms to thee
Suddenly silence adumbrate
aesthete, A lustful tint of Peruvian trees
petrichor whiffs of earth's virginity
A syzygy that I can't apprehend
but, can fully appreciate its denouement
rebirth of once I fell in love been
Listen to its sotto voce ruffling
preterlabent streams, resplendent hymns
humming grasses cues to sing
Upon the mountain tops hidden
rocks of geos sighting a treasure within
only to discover lore’s of forbidden
Cascading trees whispered a cold
a journey I never knew how to go as told
trap between floras along the road
Propinquity of my eyes closing thin
soul reserved for death, till breath hops in
trodden a land ****** for me to begin
A minstrel with hands like marbles
strung a fiddle of tessellated symphonies
open wonders the eyes never seen
A bouquet of amaranth revealed
the longing heart found someone of new
sighs my feelings and away I strew
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 3:22 AM UTC
El oro, cuando lo golpea, brilla.
I want to stand at 3,082 meters
On the overlook above Machu Picchu — close
Enough to the edge so my timid toes
Flirt with wild columbine and teeter
On white granite stones laid centuries ago.
Speak to me the way the Andes
Breathe cumulus clouds phthalo blue. Seek
Answers in the form of temples. Slow
Down time in the Room with Three Windows —
Hanan-Pacha: bless my fears with conviction.
Kay-Pacha: reject this earth’s mundane affliction.
Ukju-Pacha: watch my seedling-soul as it grows.
Move with me in cyclical certainty from ruin
To reverence, beyond what words can measure —
Even the old Peruvian proverb for treasure.
Our trials make us mountains among humans.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
I.
I wonder if you remember me.
You said, “Go out. Find me
that universe, and take these
with you.” Talismans.
Good luck charms like Mozart
and fifty-five ways to say hello.
Navajo night chant,
Peruvian wedding song,
diagrams of ribcages, gender,
bushmen and bones.
Gifts for a people you said
I may never meet.
It has been thirty-four years
and I wonder if you remember me.
II.
Less and less,
we call across the distance:
sixteen-point-twelve hours
between transmissions
and I wonder if you remember me.
I nearly kissed Jupiter for you,
nearly skimmed Saturn’s bright rings,
but you said, “Go out.
Find me that universe,”
so I sail out into the dark for you.
I keep a photo of you,
twenty years ancient,
to keep away the quiet
between your calls:
pale pixel, distant dot,
my origin receding,
I wonder if you remember me.
III.
I know now,
you never meant
to call me home.
Dutifully, I will go out,
but I wonder if you forget me.
I am still here, sailing.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:23 PM UTC
Germans, love to be funny
German-English, love to be friends
Trinis, love to work hard
English, love to talk loud
Bajan, love to travel
Hmong-Americans, love to look classy
Korean-English, love to hangout
Koreans, look good in "gangsta"
Tobagonians, love to give gifts
Americans, love fresh vegetables
Chinese-Americans, love butter biscuits
Canadians, don't know that one guy
Kenyans, love Ethiopian food
Guineans, are the best Arabic teachers
Jordanians, love Kentucky Fried chicken
Brazilians, love Trinidad
Brazilian-Americans, have 5 kids
Puerto Ricans, love Ecuadorians
Ecuadorians, love Puerto Ricans
Peruvian-Americans, love concert piano
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
Marie's in-laws start bashing the bell,
a Quasimodo supper for the reckless, the insane.
It's two hits of Lily's blue, four pocket shots of ***
it's the backdoor, it's the snowstorm, it's the 100th of December, it's the cell phone;
it's nostalgic.
I call Katherine, my sweet Indian princess. She talks in Mexican smoke rings,
and laughs only in a bed of Peruvian blues.
Marie describes her as, "Uh-huh, her", and Katherine's James describes me as, ******
So, when Katherine picked me up behind States Street,
I licked her espresso skin, I kissed secondhand, and benediction, benediction.
Choirs of angels moved me, while we ****** under moonlight in her drug supplier's driveway.
I pulled her hair, beads of sweat danced and gleamed around me,
I got a call, I got a call,
I finished and took the call,
"Hello. Yeah, I'm sorry. Just stepped out for a second I'll be right back. Love you too."
Back to the mundane with a enough fix of fantasy to get me through the month.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:07 PM UTC
a commune back home not hippie
buy 300, no 500 acres great land
in Codroy or misty high hilled Avalon
built great big house wraparound porch
beset by rocking chair by the sea yet
in the woods at end of road all brown dirt
growing gardens, herb and vegetable
pulling weeds but keeping good green ****
brewing beer by own hand
group work but not always group think
friends lovers writers growers givers
all come to stay
making great pots of stew and strange brews
awakening brought far from Peruvian Torch homeland
telling stories all somehow great fables and anecdotes for life and living and love and everything that's good in the long run
at night over bottles on beaches by fires
we worry these are funeral pyres
for our great little social experiment
fear of leaving loving womb
of isolated salt fish by sea commune
real world so crass&brash; an unctuous affair
where here instead guitars, ukes
silly screaming little buddhas recite poems
by gleaming eye fireside
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
"Funny poems aren't taken seriously",
the figure splashes verbal acid over the
crumpled piece of paper I handed them.
Refusing to laugh
Curling their lip.
The paper quickly,
without a thought,
thrusted back into my hands.
They leave behind my thought
which fills the space between
myself, fidgeting alone
and them, striding away.
*Does it have to be serious
to be taken seriously?*
A mental court gathers itself around me
Myself, a defense attorney
Pointing a stained finger
at the figure on the stand.
I present the shoe-eating Peruvian
and his limerick friends.
Generations of drinking songs
often crass, but lasting.
There is laughter from the jury
There is hope for the poems.
Then my final evidence
the crumpled paper
I read it aloud
silence.
Is split by the dull chuckle of the figure
elbows in suit jacket pressed against the stand.
"Sure, there's examples from the past,
but you?
the troubled kid?
the depressed one?
the pariah?"
I glance at more files, appearing,
my name on each.
analysis,
evaluation,
diagnosis,
test.
Laughter, the type that jeers,
grows into a crescendo.
I huddle, hands over ears,
creasing my suit
but the muted version is worse.
I stagger to my feet.
The court has morphed cruelly
into an arena of sorts.
Brutal, simple, life-ending
decisions are made here.
My jacket is gone
My cheek openly bleeds
My sleeves have ripped
revealing the scars below.
I hurl out, from deep within me
"It's because I'm ****** up that
I need to write it!
Don't you understand?
Making people laugh
keeps and edge off the old habits
keeps the thoughts where they belong!"
My voice is hoarse.
The arena tightens.
Even as I say it, I'm overwhelmed by the thoughts
That I do not belong.
That a funny poem punctuated by my fingers
despite their past harm
delivered from my mouth
despite its harsh denouncements
and shared by my whole self
despite my self-banishment
is not enough.
I sink to the ground, stripped of my senses.
My poems have turned course
once helping ease pain,
now proliferating it.
My fingernails pierce the palm of my hand
through the crumpled paper
and two drops of blood strike the tiles.
I meant for this to be
a funny poem
But I guess it's about why
some people need to write them.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
Forgotten memories remain to be a significant part of the rich tapestry of contemporary establishment, just like an Indian summer which dries the drab and weary soul of those who are ******
History reveals that the Spaniards sold Erythroxylum Coca to Bolivian and Peruvian populations, whilst tyranny exerted its illegitimate dominance.
So, the quest for power and social control remains to be exploitative in the guise of jovial and seemingly convincing salesmen. Just ask the shamans of traditional cleansing.
The pulsating groans of ancient civilisations will never dissipate, despite the lusts of mankind to establish grandiose constructs.
Oh great and mighty spirit of the land, we need your residence amidst our conceited political climate, because you have truly won the war even though our realisation is blinded by fierce presumption.
I desire to take a bite of historical and gourmet delicacies, and to swallow the diversity of gustatory brilliance, because their remains to be a discrepancy between Spanish and Portuguese validity.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
me me me all me ** **** HOho ****
this the nature of the snowmen snowing
Peruvian wind blowing, hoping hoping
wonder wander with an all-night eyes-
-play-trickz and shout strange figures
peripheral dandruff / cigar / concussed
mental image of an addicts bloodied
scabs
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
There once was a bear called Marmalade.
She was a Peruvian brown bear.
She was abandoned in peru.
She was found in the only patch of desert in Peru.
She was rescued by 2 bears that found her.
In the only tornado to strike Peru in a century, her aunt perished saving her home.
In the aftermath of it, her uncle retired to the TrumpyMcTrumpface home for retired bears.
Marmalade's aunt told her to go to a place called London.
Her aunt's friend had an adopted bear there as well. They were good friends
When she got to london she went to the address that her aunt had told her.
When she went there, a weird human knocked on the door.
She called for someone called paddington.
Paddington was a bear.
When Marmalade told her story to Paddington, she was warmly welcomed into her home.
Her and Paddington fell in love and had lots of little baby cubs and lived happily ever after.
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
I sat in astonishment
as the delicacy
flew by our table,
its little legs outstretched,
teeth & nails intact,
it was cooked perfectly,
served in suspended-animation.
When the tourist-girl
puked at the next table,
I decided to order
the Chorizos & Rice instead.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
He washed his hands in the Caño Cristales.
Five colours of healing bruises put to pasture
Within his purpled veins. There was blood again;
He was now a resident of Earth.
****** hair had grown wildly into a half-beard.
He scratched at it in the Columbian sun,
Sweating in the lack of British rain
And thinking of all the miles he had
Put between the two.
He’d spent all his life combing the mirror.
Combing the mirror and expecting change;
An escape from vanity publishers and
Celebrity snapshots. Combing the mirror,
And so always ending up in the same place.
Searching his memories of Peruvian plains,
There were diagrams set by the former residents.
He took out his folded notebook and started on
The Brand New Testament; before throwing
Its ashes into the liquid rainbow.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
seamlessly shifting to future planning
scuttlebutts rebuff fluffernutter sandwiches
for something a little more… sophisticated
grease coated floatation device
slices dried mice precisely
clandestine militants throw rice
at the merger of church and state
hate groups **** on social norms
******* the truck drivers for ****
in rest area bathrooms –
doom laden maidens raid
safe houses set up by underpaid feds
wretched and withdrawn, occupants pant
sweltering heat defeats all who enter
and the centrists flinch as both wings fling scented mud clods –
the gods of old sit on high watching the unfolding drama
three llamas graze peacefully on a Peruvian hillside
tide breaks shake useless dunes
and ruined looms sit broken
reminding the aged
of a non-mechanized life –
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
*part 3 of 5
Saturday Night*
The Hunters Moon
The late afternoon sun
draped its golden satin light
To the house-staff, Giles
(our man) seemed uptight
The butler Zamira dutifully
stirring his drink right
The sun dipped behind
the poplar trees standing straight
He orders "A Churchill martini"
trying not to sound irate
Giles watched her stirring
stirring as in a hypnotic state
Zamira presented a chilled
frosted riedel martini glass to him
brimming to the top with
Gilpins Westmorland extra dry gin
The sun slowly sank behind trees
as the drink loosened each limb
"You may both leave, till Tuesday"
He said to Zamira and her twin
Liliana (the cook) and the butler
were often dismissed at his whim
They sped off in their green MG
off to the Slaughtered lamb inn
Giles raised his glass
to the bobbing full hunters moon
Waiting was now over
the others would be here soon
First a pinch of Peruvian
sniffed from a little silver spoon
This night had been planned
in detail for almost a year
One final act of courage
and tenacity he must engineer
All hushed...but for the sound
of large cars drawing near
Four black Jaguars and a white refrigerated van
Crunched over the gravel drive towards (our man)
Giles Bradshaw-Behram stood still.
It had began.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
I see the emerald hills of Toledo draped in a golden sunrise,
A cold morning breeze is blowing past the trees on the outskirts of Cordoba.
I walk down the white marble entombing the streets of Old Madrid,
The fluorescent lights of nocturnal Paris still dance around me,
As I pour myself a cold beer under a clear Berlin sky.
I fly over and find you walking under a Pennsylvania fall,
Getting ready to play in the Jersey snow.
We go down south, almost to the border,
To have a prime rib eye Texas steak for lunch;
And for dessert we share a kiss that tastes like New York.
You hold my hand as we walk through the Peruvian border,
And take my picture as I pose next to Machu Picchu.
I smile as you play with the llamas we found on the edge of the Titicaca Lake,
And together we look down on the ruins found on the Sun Island,
Before we end up gasping for air on the roof of the world 5,000 meters above the sea.
Climbing down we take a walk under the fading Bolivian sky,
We see luxurious office buildings on the right and brick and mud huts on the left.
The narrow streets of La Paz beaming with life as the sun creeps over the hills,
We walk to our favorite taco stand across from the Cathedral,
And on the last night we have in the land of my birth,
We share a kiss that tastes just like New York.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC
I'm building from the Ground up, Brick by Filthy Brick I lay my foundation.
And once that's set, My bear, aching hands begin to work yet
again.
My Bricks are set, my Concrete is dried But its the end of the day
and my spirit has died
It's Dawn! The sun, oh that Golden Halo to the Peruvian mountain ridge!
It illuminates my work place!
illuminates my heart
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
force-fed lies by those elected to protect
reddens my raw throat
hoarsely shouting into the void
that oddly enough looks like
the populace at large
blank faces, replaced
gone are the impassioned speeches
and marching masses
instead we see
the insane rallying troop movement
my glass house sits very near
to the danger zone
and fall-out patterns –
asteroid minors look at a distant blue dot
thinking of simpler times
and solid foods –
Republican miscreants misrepresent
minorities
mandating moratoriums
on malt liquor
and manicures –
purest snow falls on the Peruvian plains
toxin free
drinkable
peasant farmers are handed land claims
on generational farms
today, PEPSI owns all precipitation –
hope fades
and faith dwindles
the reality of a global super-power
restraint less
and hungry –
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
I knew something was strange,
that it was going to be a weird day
when I saw the jellyfish
floating in clear blue skies,
Yoda sitting sideways
on my white picket fence.
The post man with electric rat eyes
actually snickered
when I signed
for the manila envelope
covered in white powder.
I’m not really sure
why he acted so comedic,
maybe he thought
it was a biological weapon.
But for all he knew
it could have been
something Peruvian.
After all, there is a rumor going around
about the ruling government,
it’s been said they keep spraying LSD
using jet engine contrails,
that it’s something about mind control.
That’s very similar
to what the Beatles
did with Revolution #9.
And, if you don’t believe me friends,
just play it backwards on your turntable,
you’ll hear the mythological devils
singing gibberish on
a diamond-tipped stylus.
I told you it was
a strange & weird day.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
I reminisce and wish to get back to her.
She was free time, carefree, kind of gypsy-like.
Just one, two, three, four years ago...
I left her to search for purpose,
to build an edifice to lay
my wispy hair upon,
outside the window of a cathedral,
outside the window of a
tumbling Bolivian bus,
outside the window of a
Medellin teleferico,
outside the windows of
the crumbling concrete houses
below,
outside the window of
a drunken car; blurred cobblestone streets,
cooking asado with
my friend Jeriff,
cooking plataños alone
in a cast-iron skillet.
starting a small fire,
cooking tortillas,
spreading dulce de leche.
hearing sea turtles breathe.
pushing a motorcycle up a hill,
in the rain, for some lazy Colombian.
losing sleep under stars,
drowning in a waterfall,
drowning in the Peruvian swells,
running from a belligerent coke dealer,
escaping the shaman with drunken red eyes,
emerging from silver mines unscathed,
traversing 100km in four days,
escaping an Austrian love triangle,
leaving a loyal stray behind.
I don't have wispy hair anymore.
I left, led a boring life,
built an edifice, and watched it crumble before me.
Where is the girl I left behind?
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 1:14 AM UTC
Yo naci un dia que Dios estuvo enfermo.
-Cesar Vallejo
How to write like Vallejo
& breathe his poetry?
Write as if I am seeing
the true Peruvian sky
that inspired his solitude
& thousand times longing.
Tell me, how to weave words
like how he penned
the silk cobweb
missing its spider-child.
Sadly, the spider died
tragic lost, it was.
The cobweb fell
only to find the dusty ground
but only a poet,
true to his words,
could redeem its memories.
How to write like Vallejo
& let in my fingers flow
the solitary spirit
of the aesthetic?
Words after words
sigh after sigh
& let the womb
of the poet’s love
give birth to verse
after verse.
If only that womb
can bring the spider back.
If only that womb
can see poet’s tears
for that spider
that once he
drunk those words with
as he stares blank
with his eyes dead as an oak
to the wall
of his poetic friend.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
beautiful, long-lashed baby girl
hair black and smooth, peruvian:
steel blue eyes.
mama has too many latin ******* to beat up
to enjoy your gentle burbles and smiles
too much hair to style
too many faces to kiss in pictures
that aren't yours.
gold chains and pursed lips and popped hips
her lifestyle,
though changeable,
leaves her unwilling.
too pregnant too early
too willing too early
i remember walking down streets with her
a child
telling me that she wanted to have ***
she did finally,
and she had you.
for a few weeks, maybe.
i hope you live with your grandmother
and not with a stranger.
i hope your mother will apologize someday
for choosing to be wild
instead of loving
to one of the most beautiful baby girls
i have ever seen...
(just like her
mother)
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
Fay was on the bus
I was on
we both got off
at the cinema
in New Kent Road
how was school today?
I asked
as we walked along
to the Zebra crossing
passing the fish shop
the hairdressers
O you know
how school is
she said
some days
you don't mind it
some days
you hate it
today I hated it
why was that?
I asked
we stood
on the edge
of the pavement
at the crossing
Sister Agnes poked me
in the back
with her
steel hard finger
because I had forgotten
the capital of Peru
Fay said
as if it mattered
as if the Peruvian people
would lose
any sleep over that
we crossed the road
to Meadow Row
it's all part
of the brain-washing process
I said
I try to empty
my brain of it
as soon as I can
after school
she laughed
and put her fingers
to her mouth
I shouldn't laugh
my daddy says
laughter is how
the Devil gets in
and those
who make people laugh
are the Devil's helpers
we walked down
Meadow Row
pass
the bombed out houses
on the left
the empty windows
the boarded up
doorways
I guess your old man
is a bit of a sourpuss
I said
sourpuss?
she said frowning
I liked it
when she frowned
her blonde eyebrows
seemed to meet
in the middle
and the lines appeared
on her forehead
a grouch
I said
she laughed again
stop it
I shouldn't laugh
at least not
at my daddy's expense
it won’t cost him
nothing
I said
I joke for free
we passed
the public house
there was a piano playing
and some woman
was singing
Fay looked at me seriously
I mustn't be seen
beyond here
with you
Daddy says
you are a bad influence
Fay said
am I?
Daddy says you are
she said
do you think I am?
I asked
no I don't
she said
that's ok then
I said
we paused
by the fresh fish shop
and looked
at each other
don't forget
to find out
the capital of Peru
I said
I know now
she said
Sister Agnes poked
Lima into my back
that's one way
to impress knowledge
on a kid
I said
she rubbed
her shoulder
yes
I shall call this
my Lima shoulder
she said smiling
see you around
I said
(although
she only lived
in the flat upstairs)
and she leaned in
and kissed my cheek
and went off ahead
over Rockingham Street
up towards the flat
I touched
my 12 year old cheek
maybe
I said
I’ll not wash
that bit
for a whole week.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC
Much like the Mayans thousands of years before,
Granting 2012 the honour to host
An apocalyptic end of the world,
Peruvian shamans now declare
2017 the year
Of turbulence and widespread war.
The healers thus reunite on a hill,
In the capital of Lima to perform
Cleansing rituals able to prevent
The fatal clash between North Korea and the US.
It comes at a time of heightened tensions
Between the two countries over
Threatening nuclear missile programmes.
An unprecedented inferno ignites the night of a West
London residential skyscraper burning
From its second to its twenty-seventh floor
Unleashing the worst nightmares
Of its sleeping inhabitants
And the courage of sleepless fire-fighters.
Colombia's Farc rebels hand over their weapons
To United Nations Inspectors
As part of historic peace accords,
While the President declares,
“Peace will be built little by little,
Like a cathedral, which you build brick by brick"
Revolutionary forces no longer armed.
Migrations creating social unrests
People fleeing their threatening nests,
As mayors plead governments not to let
Any more in and ministries ask, cities to absorb
Two hundred and fifty thousand more.
Coast guards relentlessly saving the drowning ones.
US Attorney General denies, having undisclosed meetings
With Russian officials in Washington hotels.
Any suggestions of collusion with the Kremlin described
As appalling and detestable lies.
Agency’s investigation into Russian political meddling impeded
As Intelligence believes in conspiracies. Memories of Cold Wars
And Bond movies where the ‘traitor’ was lucky to be fired and not shot.
While doctors announce people over 75 taking
Daily aspirin after a stroke or heart attack
Are at higher risk of major and sometimes fatal
Stomach bleeds than previously thought,
Anthropologists excavating in Morocco
Find fossils of potential ancestors, the oldest sapiens retrieved,
Tracing back our steps to 300, 000 years before present.
Across the ocean, somewhere in Arizona,
A man heading to a retirement home prepares,
Cleans up his garage with the help of a neighbour
And finds a 15 million dollar ******* he ignored
He ever had.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 4:58 AM UTC