Monthly Archives: November 2012

Abhorred good-bye…

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On the remember* of the other shore, a mountain…
Alive and well like the intentions of a sparrow,
condemned to never know the north of south…

So wide, so tall, so barren;
unmoved as the existence, stern…
refusing any shipwrecked’s prayer,
for just a little bit of space…

A cave on high dwells empty,
as the perspectives of its former heart…

(What has become of thee, existence?
Where dwells thy spirit, soul?
Where is thy substance?
Why are thy purses empty, why?)

………………………………….

It’s back-tide, shore,
so time is coming,
to say the same
abhorred good-bye…

*conscious and deliberate reforging of a verb into (so far…) a non-existent noun…

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The Girl with…

image

No one’s afraid anymore
of fragile girls with dragons
tattooed anywhere in between
the top of their heads
and the long, old train which
left the day innocence
and hope
were last seen in their tears…
When dies, innocence leaves a hollow scar,
in which hope lays before the final door slam,
an egg.
It lays there petrified, deep beneath pages
of runaway gospels.

On the day when all guardian angels
will cover away the sight of dying children,
a mighty flaming sword shall fall…

That day, the fragile girls shall return.
With their dragons.

Social Poem 3

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“Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?”

No one out there to remember,
no one to reply.
Innocence is past, with
no one to imagine what is was…
Legions of faded poppies
marching quietly over ashes
of once resurrected hopes;

When I was younger
I remember dreaming about being older;
now that I’m older
I don’t dare dreaming anymore.
Only at noons, early afternoons,
maybe evenings I dream,
long, nearly frozen
worm holes leading into another Oz,
where guitar strings are still used over
stretched swan necks in an absolutely
harmlessly musical manner,
and over microscopic black holes
too small to swallow any sound…

If I’d have to choose between
Jesus and Buddha,
I’ll have my granny,
because she always added to her
not even written down love
sweet plum dumplings with cinnamon,
and bought me a guitar out of her pension
against my dad’s will who said he’ll
smash it to my head,
and ice cream and custard cream
and suffered me drain half her coffee with
a dozen sugar cubes…

She died before finishing to fry
my life’s pile of pancakes,
so here I am, maple syrup
golden syrup, cinnamon,
brown sugar and all…
Still waiting,
immature grown-up with nowhere to go,
just realising Oz is not even a place,

just another granny’s absence where

Dorothy is barefoot,
frying lion steaks
in tin pans
over straw fires…

Social Poem 2

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Why is it that every bit of a stone raised to hit with,
arrives precisely at nearly every moment
of each day,
straight away,
against my very, every tooth
left unsmashed by previous,
attempts
to secure ’em a well deserved p(a)lace
in the newly appointed
Paradise for Handheld Teeth Smashing Stones.

In that very Paradise, a self appointed,
self revolving social arm,
penetrates back and forth,
back and forth and again, through thin layers of width,
(like grandma’s wooden spoon getting in and out
water’s boiling skin,
gently moving-removing eggs)
granting stones and hands
never-ending crimson ribbon padded mass graves:
Lourdeses for each and every barren
gum hole…
There chlorine is being added by the same
self revolving social spinster
Just to ensure gum disease are kept
at (pirate) bay…

Then at midnight,
all this bleached parade joins
the endless ranks of
desperate housewives scourging
through leftover papers
for whatever coupons
of love…

“Are you dead yet? Asked a frightened angel
sent to make sure no devil would dare unplug
my:
Heart (Jarvik)
Lung (the other’s out…)
Brain(s)
Urinal drains (kidneys sold to buy the Jarvik…)
also to make sure my colostomy bag
will never be emptied
of life’s all dues…
Because that would be a sacrilege
against the sanctity of (f)lies…
————————————-
And the devil presented (him/her)self before God and said:
“Do you see your job?”

And God said:
“No.”

Che Guevara…

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I finally understood
my absolute incapacity
to understand life…
I have no idea what is it,
where does it come from,
what is it made of…

Hansel and Gretel once told me,
that life as we know it,
comes from deep forests;
but you can’t trust ’em:
I’ve been told they’re just
pathetic PR agents of
Willy Wonka’s ancestors…

And there’s Adam and Eve…
Oh, please…
At least remove the M & S tags
from your Oxfam rags…

Cousteau & Co. suggested we crawled
out of oceans:
yeah, sure…
What about Sponge Bob and Patrick, huh?

Every year,
precisely at midnight,
I’ll close my left eye,
pretending that darkness,
is just the brighter side
of light…