L u l l a b y S i f t i n g s

Upon Observing Van Gogh’s Wheatfields with Crows

2010-01-27T22:11:00.000-04:00

Dusk is brushed with onyx crows

that break away the wind;

clouds dissipate in the cobalt sky

where the moon is blurred by torturous strokes

of turquoise light.

Two eyes creep

from an endless space of breathless weeps.

Suddenly, ravens tear at fields of rust and yellow chartreuse

where the land of death is plowed.

Violent beaks violate earth

to uncover the avenue of penitence

that leads towards the horizon

where life's gasp of air is lost.

Ravens and crows fly with murderous intent

while blood siftings fall on dirt

breeding feculent, putrid smells.

Not to breathe, but to die,

to sleep half-awake and wait

for murder to take over the body.

Paradoja del poeta

2009-02-18T23:31:00.000-04:00

Escribo,

existo.

Me lees,

dejo

de existir.

0 j 0 5

2009-02-17T14:29:00.000-04:00

Tomo prestado tu mirada

esquiva y vitalicia,

viciada y trunca,

para fragmentar el paisaje.

No pertenezco,

soy otro (no tuyo).

Pierdo mi cuerpo entre la multitud,
en la cascada

infinita

y turbia,

terca y cómplice
de la transgresión.

O's Change

2009-01-20T21:42:00.000-04:00

The spectacle of change is hauntingly numbing
the specters of (sur)'reality', of body counts forgotten.

Homage to Spain’s Anarchist Revolution

2008-11-16T21:29:00.000-04:00

Their shirts were broken into shreds of blood
while bullets tore their dreams, our hopes for change,
to root injustice out and share the world,
but Franco stopped the river’s flow.
Guernica’s just the start of rancid thoughts
that sucked the juice from dark and rebel veins.
And still, the struggle went on as gunless
farmers fought the foul disciples of Christ,
taking down the cross with their muddied arms.
Refusing to be slaves, their screams and cries
still echo a resistance that lives in me.
The leafless trees that sprung from Guernica
now sway in rythm mourning the defeat;
inside my mind their branches bloom stubbornly;
the dried up soil is tainted black and red,
But freedom still breathes in Anarchy.

Thought (Never Made)

2008-09-18T20:46:00.001-04:00

He dwelled by the murkey waters
of horror,
and shame.

The ripples in the lake
moved the dirt
toward his ripped-string-shoes.

Mud over dust,
over the salty tears
of hollowness and fear.

The broken skin on his chest
a thoughtful reminder
of instances gone.

The awkward look
of abandonment in his eyes
surveyed the path ahead.

A triad of numbness
waltzed its way to his ears
and hummed a disonance –

Variations on a theme of Paganini,
of Dante and hell.

Being afraid
while the parade makes its way
he suffered until the last moment
of pain and dismay.

Torn and Sickled

2008-07-04T23:36:00.001-04:00

Stop!
Do not shout,
do not scream your thousand furies
of hate and torment.
His aphonic nature cannot
hold much more.

But where will the wretched lie?

Not in the stark naked bosom
which looks to veil
the violets that shrivel
and die.
It is a cemetery,
a land filled with tombs
and musket fire.

     – Do not be tempted to judge
        with your ill-willed verbosity.
     – You, mother,
        are a morose giant of extinction.

However stern,
his chained back
will crackle and turn
towards Hades.

Torn and sickled,
he is a creature,
a monster in exile,
a figure for the downtrodden.
Damned by the father,
cursed by the mother,
he is drifting on a black river
violently flowing
to the awesome end
of breath.

Ray Johnson's Nothings

2008-05-23T00:45:00.000-04:00

Jumping to conclusions
from the 247 with 67 on the 13th.

Dear Wilson McClough,
I need 14 ½ inch paper,
mainly in MNO QP color,
it brings out your words.

Elvis cries tears of blood
while bunnies jump for revenge.

…but in letters,
yes, letters…
gentle and truthful letters,
I understand the other’s ink dots.
…but then again,
“somebody will paint
beautiful faces all over the sky”.

We are motico.
I like that word;
it’s singular and plural at the same time.
You can pronounce it how you want to.

“How sad I am today”,
the coast is crowded by eels,
birds and their droppings,
I think their copies of mail art,
they are students from Buda Ray University
afterall.
You must know,
although perhaps no one will ever know,
some enigmas are meant to stay that way.

“Happy Death Day”.

Polyethylene Sequence

2008-05-23T00:44:00.000-04:00

It was a charcoal night
with white paint spots on the ceiling.
The breeze was cold
and the silence I was accustomed to
was exchanged with a ghastly howl in the wind.
Nobody was there,
(not even the stray rats
clumsily running for a rotten piece of cheese)
the city was deserted,
only a foul stench of rot gravitated to my nose,
but I was left behind to wander,
or so I thought.

I looked upwards,
to the vault of heaven
and saw the crescent as Jupiter
with a circumference as big as the sun.
It grew wider and bigger,
brighter and whiter,
wooing and blinding.
As I coldly stood,
watching how the moon
crashed into my neighbor’s door,
an epiphany dawned on me.

The numbness of my bones
began to dissipate.
I realized
that perhaps
loneliness was just an illusion,
a polyethylene sequence
that needed to be broken.
And so I climbed over
the moon’s pâté surface
and ate my solitude
until forenoon.

Sonnet - To Love

2008-05-23T00:24:00.001-04:00

She is a vulture gnawing off the fetid
skin from my bones, an oleander blooming
always beautiful, deadly and twisted.
“But burn, and break, and blow the lust that’s looming!”,
I said with my eyelids tightly sewn.
Be it Eros, Isis or Venus,
she is the murderous caretaker of moans
silently wretching the spirit, our loss.
“Throw away your sheath and come near me,
stab my chest with your grim nails, let me writhe”.
A feeling of muted melodies overwhelms me,
blood spews and taints the assassin’s scythe.
Breathlessly waiting for my time to end
Love eats out of my abdomen.

Debord's Bad Dream

2008-04-16T20:10:00.000-04:00

Today,
you can
buy
your

Self.

A Situation That Knows No End

2008-04-15T22:26:00.000-04:00

“Don’t beg for the right to live – take it”.
- Paris Graffitti, May 1968

“Work is the blackmail of survival”,
the means to gasp haphazardly.
It is all part of the deceit,
to fertilize the soil
with your sweat
so there can sprout
more chains of privation.
Fingers burnt
spit is spent,
while the snail
lurks near your realm.
After all,
Dachau is the world,
a microcosm of plunder
and hunger;
a place were
arbeit macht nie frei.
So jiggle your chains
and dance to heir rhythm,
if you like to keep on
with your beating.

- Less

2008-04-08T03:49:00.000-04:00

A new splinter on the ground
leads to the foothill,
a precipice on the top
and a drop at the bottom.
Dusk sets on the desert;
billows of hot air
grow from the shattered earth.
Breathless,
windless,
and timeless,
a crown of dust circles his head.
Gasping,
he waits for someone.
His putrid hands
are swollen with emptiness.
Nothing creeps
but the Sun
and when darkness looms
he lays helpless
wishing the thin air
would let him collapse.

My Childhood Was Greeted...

2008-04-08T02:56:00.002-04:00

by a thunderous cloud,

broken hands of dry dirt

unearthed the funeral pyre.

i, with ageless eyes, played

in the vast green backyard of stones.

Each next to an’other,

what a display of uniformity!

Everyone was dressed in opera,

a song was sunged aloud,

shards of rotten flesh

lay on the rusty barbed-wire.

March of the dead,

tombs of the undead,

harmony of death

melody for shortness of breath.

A gathering of some sort

which i couldn’t quite understand.

Mom, dad, grandpa’ and Abo,

but where’s my grandma and Aba?

Oh! There they are,

still,

cold,

in a dark woodened car.

“Let me play in it, let me share it with grandma”

i said in the high-pitched voice of mine.

Not even she responded to my plea

whilst drops of sadness

quenched the body-hungry earth.

Haiku

2008-04-08T02:56:00.001-04:00

The maple wood
of an old guitar is bare
with aged broken strings.
__________

White keys left unplayed
their counterparts sound ok
the blues borned that day.
__________

No words to fill
the blank paper
in front.

Solitariness Fugue

2008-04-08T02:54:00.000-04:00

My fruitless tree
awaits the next season,
with no seeds,
no leaves,
no chance for reason.
For this loathsome despair of woods
will not
cease to exist.
I,
the loner
of thoughts
among a crowd of loners,
burst into lines
which may mean nothing.
But then again,
a world without nothings
is a world
without
everything/anything.
(Damn those binary relations and my unnecessary interventions!)

My breath shortens,
the rhythmic quality
of my heart
and lungs decreases.
Progress, progress is here!
I did not invite it,
but in my home
it has come
to feast
of my worker livings.

March straight,
march still,
march with a hum,
follow the lead,
follow the song.

My tears
dry up
in the new Hades
flesh and bone have built
and we have watched
from the sidelines.
Emotions,
no need for those now,
except for
a guiltless hypocritical pity.
A cello with no strings lulls us into sleep.