WHAT ARE THOSE DÉMODÉ BOOKS
THAT THOU LIKEST TO READ AND TO STUDY SO MUCH?
BECAUSE I WANT VERY MUCH TO ASK THEM SOMETHING:
HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE READ BY THEE?
HOW SPLENDID IS IT TO BE SUDDENLY
CHOSEN AND HELD BY THY HANDS,
CARESSED BY THY VERY SENSUAL FINGERS,
AND OGLED BY THY EYES, EVERYWHERE?
LINE BY LINE, LETTER BY LETTER
OH WHAT AUDACITY! ECSTATIC EUPHORIA!
HOW TO SURVIVE TO SUCH ENRAPTURING ALLURANCE?
HOW IS IT THAT IN THY WARM AND TENDER HANDS,
IN THE MIDST OF LECTURE —VERA VICTORIA!—,
THE BOOKS DO NOT SPONTANEOUSLY BURN, CONTENT?
I don’t care about the weather:
those luminous eyes of thine
look wondrous with sunlight,
and even with electric storms…
Only a thunderbolt can be as electric
as the colour of thy iris.
Today I could not avoid taking a nap
when tiredness forced me to rest,
but my imagination compensated me,
with abysmal dreams of music and rhyme.
The solar beams against my eyes collide,
Continue reading Solely present
reflected by the surfaces of the things,
and perturb my soul, provoking me colourful ideas,
that appear to have a grand profound sense
for which I manipulate my will,
nourish my hope,
and my life continue.
Thy simulated stoicism…
Thou art concentrated,
but inside not so quiet,
as thy body looks,
for in thy soul a storm succeeds.
Continue reading Violinist of gold
Betwixt the edifices I look towards the heaven,
while inspired singing I walk.
I take the enormous pencil,
soak it with ink,
and agitate it upwards.
The gouts of colour contrast
crashing against the black welkin.
With the impact each one in ten more transforms.
And the night remains refulgent,
drizzled with ink of humid fire.
-Sir… I think that…
-I was going to express you a thought, but I decided to autocensor myself and not to do it.
Capitalist Moral Prudence
to power to continue [alive]
suffering, which some
how seems better than to stay
in the oblivion and not even
power to stay.
And if he dies being hero…
But heroes must be known.
I dreamt thee yesterday:
Pneuma, wind, birds, love…
Two strings and a bandoneon.
Poems with my feather I sketched thee:
Azure ink on thy paper skin.
of platinum windows
and not of crystal.
enlivened thy magnetism,
our bodies we united,
and with mist
the stars we faded.
«Say no to the impossible»
they adverted me,
but they never met thee.
Neither did I.
desire want: serene want desire
I want not to lie
and I desire not to lie.
I want two sapphires quasi virid,
Continue reading Mi absurdo deseo: Sereno querer
pure snow surrounded by ringlets;
wind and echo, chants and yells,
et pallid mel dearly dulcet.