I broke an egg
watched the yolk
in the whorehouse
of my soul
of my yolk
over your breast
as I kneel
limp disaster hung
on my brittle facade
exit by the door
i now look at
this egg will
not taste any better
The Girl Reveals a Thigh
The girl reveals a thigh,
the girl reveals an ass cheek,
only she doesn’t show me that thing
— conch shell, beryl, emerald —
which blossoms, with four petals,
and contains the most sumptuous
pleasure, that hyperboreal zone,
a mixture of honey and asphalt,
a door sealed at the hinges
with a giddiness held captive,
a sacrificial altar without
the blood of the rite, the girl
doesn’t show me that thing.
And she is torturing me, this virgin
with her modesty making me dizzy
from the sudden blow struck
by a vision of her luminous breasts,
her pink and black beauty
that winds itself into a ball,
wrinkled, intact, inaccessible,
that opens, then closes, then takes flight
and this female animal, by laughing,
dismisses what I might have asked her about,
about what should be given and even beyond
given, what should be eaten.
Oh, how the girl kills me,
turns my life into one in which
all hope is consumed
by shadow and sparkle.
Rubbing up against her leg. The fingers
discover the slow, curving,
animal-like secrets, yet
they are the greatest mystery,
always crude, nocturnal,
the three-pronged key to the urn,
this concealed craziness, it doesn’t
give me anything to go on at all.
Before it never would have provoked me.
Living didn’t have a purpose,
the feelings walked around lost,
time wasn’t set loose
nor did death come to subject me
to the light of the morningstar,
which at this hour is already the first star,
violent, rising up like nausea
in the wild beasts at the zoo.
How I might know her skin,
where it is concave and convex,
her pores, the golden skin
of her belly! But her sex
has been kept a secret of the state.
How I might know the cold, dewy
meadow of her flesh,
where a snake rouses from sleep
and traces its path
back and forth, among all the tremors!
But what perfume would there be
in an unseen cave? what enchantment
what tightness, what sweetness,
what pure, pristine line
calls me and leads me away?
It might offer me all its beauty
and I would kiss or bite
and draw blood: I would.
But her pubis refuses me.
In the burning night, in the day
her thighs come together.
Like a deserted inn
closed on the inside by a latch,
her thighs seal themselves,
seclude themselves, save themselves,
and who said that
I could make her my slave?
I could debate this possibility
without a glimmer of hope for victory,
already her body erases itself,
already its glory tarnishes,
already I am made different by that thing
which wounds me on the inside,
and now I don’t know for certain
if my thirst was more ferocious because of
that thing of hers that I might have possessed.
There are other fountains, other hungers,
other thighs of other animals: the world is
vast and the forgetting profound.
Maybe today the girl in the daylight . . .
Maybe. For certain it never will be.
And if it hides itself away
with such fugues and arabesques
and such stubborn secrecy,
on what day will it open?
What would need to change for it to offer
itself to me on an already cold night,
its pink and black blossom in the snow,
never visited by me,
that boat carrying incense that I can’t board?
Or is there no boat carrying incense at all . . .
* * *
in those glancing shadows
of inky truth and pattern
there would be no ennui,
condemn not capitulate
to the bugle call of atrocity,
it is only anarchy
that has to be illustrated
by pencil sharp sword
render and portray
a prophets wisdom abused
to generate and perpetuate
a list of abhorrent terror
activated by those
with misguided sense of being
steady hand describes
that no single act
will be unaccounted
a channel for truth
that should not be
a satirists end
#je suis charlie
#je suis ahmed
a thick rope about my neck
tethered me to harbor wall
goat to oceans sacrifice,
lights and windows of those
who do not feel this way,
having taken the bus
found myself here,
bagged empty bottle
at my feet,
if any cigarette’s remained
i would of lit one
tasted toasted tobacco
tongue on teeth
chin to chest,
dark swirl foam
nymphs invite embrace
no fear in my heart
not the the fear i had felt
before she touched
fingertips before stepping
out of the door
closed my eyes wished to fall
forward and accept that
yet i flew
leaving behind the wall
and those if they had looked
would of observed
World Poetry Day 2014
ants led the way to the old boathouse
planks softened and warped
shingle roof dipped,
door scraped rough to touch
inside musty scent of the past decaying,
memories inserted of another life,
stacked next to tins forgotten and paint,
metal mottled chrome flaked
still cold to the touch,
infused with a past when
there where echoes of a young
family that once been
part of me,
lifting one out
stiff opening action,
outside in the air
it could of turned to dust,
instead it bore my weight
now i had passed an elegant age
lighter not so heavy,
eyes dimmed slowly in slumber,
this chair was symbolic in it’s structure
i did not want to move
with wild turkey
and some cigars,
would i see the sunrise
that would have to wait till morning
image from recyclart.org
Not Worth It
You say it is not worth
putting the blue I sleep under the sheets,
pass by, knowing nothing,
turning a blind eye to what happens,
keep the thirst of stars locked.
You say it’s not worth
losing the love speech,
that reason street,
that joy breaks his words,
that passion confess: there’s no blood.
I tell you not worth
the gray always get away with it,
the black rescind an
and say “cross and Stripes” to Glee air.
‘ll be back to the load and I say here will not be
hiding his head under the wing,
say “did not know”, “I’m outside”,
“living in my tower, and only I know nothing.”
you say, and I repeat it is not worth.
Te digo que no vale
meter el sueño azul bajo las sábanas,
pasar de largo, no saber nada,
hacer la vista gorda a lo que pasa,
guardar la sed de estrellas bajo llave.
Te digo que no vale
que el amor pierda el habla,
que la razón se calle,
que la alegría rompa sus palabras,
que la pasión confiese: aquí no hay sangre.
Te digo que no vale
que el gris siempre se salga con la suya,
que el negro se desmande
y diga “cruz y raya” al júbilo del aire.
Vuelvo a la carga y te digo: aquí no cabe
esconder la cabeza bajo el ala,
decir “no sabía”, “estoy al margen”,
”vivo en mi torre, sólo y no sé nada”.
Te digo y te repito que no vale.
I salute you and greet friend chant
as if I had always known.
can not be wrong after you’ve heard.
Thou art of the sun I’ve waited so long.
Hail friend hug you excited
through the fog through which the day.
With a wealth of poetry and light
the darkest corner had been lit.
The path you teach me I is not unknown.
‘ve gone for it without knowing calm.
before your words reach my soul
and your ideas had burnt my life.
It is true that these years have not lived
, but only the time spent beyond us
that there are higher star without even suspecting
that the great century forging many have passed.
You gave your freedom is like giving everything
for the joy in ringing the bell.
A piece of your life brindas every morning
for the whole world to get out of the mud.
I assure friend who had never been
so close to life at this time.
doubt where your breath comes not possible.
You go by the plain of a clear sky.
Poet I declare that your accent is deep
in the veins that carry the rivers of a planet.
poet I declare that you are a poet
and sing announce that tomorrow the world.
I declare that writing poetry poet
is the true state of man
is singing the truth is to call by name
the demon holding the evil day and night.
The poet is the cry that the earth releases
the first mountain currency aurora
bell song playing when
the first heart that hurts the war.
Posted in art without ever untie
his unity with the peoples of the whole vision
the poet is the man who is first to point
to gain impetus to the sea combat.
The poet is the town that refuses to die
in sudden night where everything is forgotten.
Where there is no freedom there is no poet alive.
No bird fly where the air does not exist.
I declare that the poet is a rage
when something goes against the sun to guide us.
poet languishes if the earth cools
when there is no heart, no justice.
Poet I declare that the hard way
of the poet is always found a brother.
poet I declare that the poet is human
but sometimes we do foresee the divine.
Yo te saludo amigo te saludo y te canto
igual que si te hubiera de siempre conocido.
No puedo equivocarme después de haberte oído.
Tú eres parte del sol que yo he esperado tanto.
Yo te saludo amigo te abrazo emocionado
a través de la niebla por donde pasa el día.
Con tu enorme caudal de luz y poesía
el rincón más oscuro se hubiera iluminado.
La senda que me enseñas no me es desconocida.
He marchado por ella sin conocer la calma.
Antes que tus palabras me llegaran al alma
ya habían tus ideas incendiado mi vida.
Es verdad que estos años no los hemos vivido
sino sólo pasado que el tiempo nos supera
que hay estrellas más altas sin sospechar siquiera
que forjando el gran siglo muchos han transcurrido.
Diste tu libertad que es como darlo todo
para que la alegría repique en la campana.
Un trozo de tu vida brindas cada mañana
para que el mundo entero pueda salir del lodo.
Yo te aseguro amigo que nunca había estado
tan cerca de la vida como en este momento.
No es posible la duda donde llega tu aliento.
Tú vas por la llanura de un cielo despejado.
Yo poeta declaro que tu acento es profundo
que llevas en las venas los ríos de un planeta.
Yo poeta declaro que tú eres poeta
porque anuncias y cantas el mañana del mundo.
Yo poeta declaro que escribir poesía
es decir el estado verdadero del hombre
es cantar la verdad es llamar por su nombre
al demonio que ejerce la maldad noche y día.
El poeta es el grito que libera la tierra
la primera montaña que divisa la aurora
la campana que toca la canción de la hora
el primer corazón que lastima la guerra.
Colocado en vanguardia sin que nunca desate
su unidad con los pueblos su visión del conjunto
el poeta es el hombre que primero está a punto
para hacerse con bríos a la mar del combate.
El poeta es el pueblo que a morir se resiste
en la súbita noche donde todo se olvida.
Donde no hay libertad no hay poeta con vida.
Ningún pájaro vuela donde el aire no existe.
Yo poeta declaro que la cólera es una
cuando hay algo que atenta contra el sol que nos guía.
Languidece el poeta si la tierra se enfría
cuando no hay corazón ni justicia ninguna.
Yo poeta declaro que en el duro camino
del tiempo el poeta se halla siempre un hermano.
Yo poeta declaro que el poeta es humano
aunque a veces nos haga presentir lo divino.
vibrant radiator harmony,
getting to his ears
before the daylight
ripped open his eyes,
and alphabet soup thoughts
swilled from side to side
in the bowl that is his skull,
twnty seven permutations
of how the day
would end up being,
rolling a cigarette,
strips of paper cut from
an old shelley poetry book
as if inhaling the words
would give creedence to his own,
that languished on pages
scattered like a womans dirty
underwear across the floor,
that masterpiece so often
rewritten not compiled,
new words scraped away the old
confidence from caffeine
lifted him to another level,
sun filled evey corner
a morning bronze age
renaissance to the heart,
sat up scratching legs
it would be complete
Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien
A woman and a ball: out of a sudden agreement
the world forms, in its inane rotation.
It begins with the fish, which inhabits the wasteland.
A curve sighs. Nothing swells immediately.
A mathematical point: the sphere,
void, terrestrial, a cloud of breath.
If the chimera doesn’t declare itself
in service and pure verse,
it will wail its words of truth.
The world revolves in an animal rush.
The most humble fish, of all the mud,
mired in the eye, bearing the colure.
A leg, or terror, arises, expands:
the air is the passion of the bather:
light, in recess, flashes and dies out.
A woman and a ball drop from a bristle,
a thin line of ice in which everything concludes,
matter the hand raises into view.
World in the air, simple being and aspect:
algae rising boldly within the descent.
A fish that bites its own tail bleeds mud.
Fabio, this passage and flow and writhing I’m thinking of
is the world: element, eruption: everything, nothing,
in the immense power.
From the rhythm: figures and the first creed,
and happiness, a lesson for the universe as it rolls
into time, pulling along its shell and ancient verse.
translated by Katie Silver and Rick London