"santander" poems
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Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
I bet you're #$@&%*! other girls
who don't brush ***** out their curls
the type that rides santander bikes and
can't fall for people their mate likes, who
play piano when they say they will,
and write about romantic things, like walking tightropes
blowing glass or #$@&%*! in your room in spring
I bet you read to them in Latin, bet
they think you're chatting... utter #$@!
and that there's fairy lights above their beds
where you've cuddled all their friends,
it's almost poly, am i wrong? platonic head, you all get on
yes, and they sing
and look like disney when they're close
they're milkmaids, pornstars, near divine
no plasters needed, they shave fine
;
anyway,
I bet he'd love to #$@& them too,
because they're handy with their hands,
they have craft tables or play the bass in some punk band
and when they go to galleries they understand
why some artists are grouped with others when
to me it's all whatever, i'll see them all whatever
oh and bless! their kisses mean things
and mine are ill-thought-out and grime
they remind you of the time, with me it's always getting late...
i'm an r/truecrime date-
i think that dahmer's in my teeth
not great for someone scared of meat...
and when you, when you, when when, when, um, i
i bet you're #$@&%*! them and more,
i bet he'd love to do it too,
his ice clear veins like Finnish waters
your endless thirst for Athens' daughters
but i don't really want to know,
don't need you randomers to call;
no cigar shops, sketchpad summer,
not the clash or prop-up vogues
what i really need is sunlight
and myself
i miss her most
Jun 15, 2021
Jun 15, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
out of lust he detached
his eyes from the recording meter,
frames shifted apart,
he turned when all was already gone.
as he fiddled between elastic bands and clips
he realized :
time for another cigarette and a barley coffee.
with his friend’s eybrows
the patron of the corner bar ***** the sister,
too ****** not to deserve it at least in dreams.
a song popped up again
unwrapping fifteen years of ratafia candies .
as he crossed the street, again
the yellow light reminded him that santander
was a rainy city .
what mostly ****** him off was not being able to smoke on the street
Italian version written in 1995:
per concupiscenza staccò
gli occhi dal contatore,
l’immagine cambiò parte,
si voltò quando già non c’era.
giochicchiando tra l’elastico e le clips
si rese conto:
era tempo di un’altra sigaretta e un caffè d’orzo.
il signore del bar d’angolo
stuprava la sorella colle ciglia dell’amico,
troppo stronza per non meritarlo almeno in sogno.
una canzone si rifece viva
scartando almeno quindici anni di caramelle ratafià.
riattraversando
il giallo gli rammentò che santander
era una città piovosa.
soprattutto lo irritava il non poter fumare in strada.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
Los mendigos pelean por España
mendigando en París, en Roma, en Praga
y refrendando así, con mano gótica, rogante,
los pies de los Apóstoles, en Londres, en New York, en Méjico.
Los pordioseros luchan suplicando infernalmente
a Dios por Santander,
la lid en que ya nadie es derrotado.
A1 sufrimiento antiguo
danse, encarnízanse en llorar plomo social
al pie del individuo,
y atacan a gemidos, los mendigos,
matando con tan solo ser mendigos.
Ruegos de infantería,
en que el arma ruega del metal para arriba,
y ruega la ira, más acá de la pólvora iracunda.
Tácitos escuadrones que disparan,
con cadencia mortal, su mansedumbre,
desde un umbral, desde sí mismos, ¡ay! desde sí mismos.
Potenciales guerreros
sin calcetines al calzar el trueno,
satánicos, numéricos,
arrastrando sus títulos de fuerza,
migaja al cinto,
fusil doble calibre: sangre y sangre.
¡El poeta saluda al sufrimiento armado!
595
There has just been an
announcement over the
intercom in 2 languages.
Chien Perdu, Dog Lost.
Attention Attention, a
photo of Arly has been
posted at the Pursers
office, if anyone knows
of his whereabouts, can
you please contact us.
Hmmm, I say to that, he
is no loss, noisy little runt.
Hope the Gulls got him.
Time now 12:56 C.E.T on
board Connemara en route
to Cork from Santander.
12th November 2018.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 7:17 AM UTC
Hamaca is a 16th Century
Spanish word which describes
a suspended apparatus for
sleeping on, during the period
of The Armada's.
Here, aboard The Connemara
Ferry from Santander to Cork,
11th Nov 2018 the bunks are rigid
but our intestines are in bascule just
just like being on a See
^
Saw.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 8:25 AM UTC
De un gran «Te Deum» era el fausto día:
Bolívar, Santander, Sucre adelante,
Y con rico uniforme el ***** Infante»,
El primer uniforme que lucía.
En su sillón, nervioso se veía,
Y el sudor inundábale el semblante;
Y era tal su inquietud en ese instante
Que casi desmayarse parecía.
«¿Qué tendrá?» preguntaban, él, valiente,
Él, que en todo combate al ver al frente
A un español, le grita: «¡Cepos quedos!»
Y cuando estaba el Arzobispo alzando,
Ambas botas quitose murmurando:
«La libertad es buena hasta en los dedos».
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