The 27

My lost 27

there is where those Ducks fly

eternal summer

no ice but for your scotch

no Phonies to bear-

no winter souls.

rescue the Brother

get the Girl

never miss, 

never Miss,

never Forget.

A Dream

Light, darkness

Goddess Persephone  

Light of the enlightened

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About Cities, Deserts and the Ocean

Misty days ahead, no shadows recognize my dark figure. The nostalgia sunshine is still bright in my retina, burning holes in the memento. Assist me in blowing out the fog surrounding the tales of past mirth while lining up new buildings that will eventually get lost in this dampness of me. The desert is not big enough to hold up so much, nor the ocean deep enough to make forgiveness an option to sail in the winds of time towards a new shore, where arid sand shall be waiting for my arrival. The masquerade is getting old, the party drawing to an end; will our faces be as bright as our trivial would-be-smiles? The clock is innocent for the passing time, yet it is a blackberry attaching sense of past to the ankle of its bearers. Tick another second for me you damn clock. I would hope for my recollections to be as effective as the sands of the desert, that forget after each breeze, but remembrance is strong in me, building a massive metropolis out of meaningless hours. 

Morbo

Aniquilación

Literature Makes Nothing Happen

[i]...In the physical realm, say reality, literature has had but little effect throughout history. By a poem such as "Easter, 1916", William B. Yeats could not bring back to life the dead rioters, not even could he heal the injured. At this level, literature becomes a null, useless tool. It had never, and will never have any effect at this level. "Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry./Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still." (Auden-34-35). Auden could not be more accurate, although powerfully written as it might be; poetry is hopeless at transforming the physical realm.[ii]

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[i] Fragmento de un ensayo encontrado en un bolsillo de una campera que hacia como tres años que no usaba, el invierno trae sus recuerdos con olor a viejo.

[ii] No voy a traducir todo el fragmento, solo les dejo la mejor frase “la desvariante Irlanda te hirió a la poesía./ Ahora Irlanda tiene su locura y su clima como siempre". No lean todo el fragmento, les resalto que esa es la única línea que vale la pena.

Rubro π

Se solicita c/caracter de urgencia una musa c/experiencia, en lo posible una Talía o Terpsícore (no excluyente). Que sepa coser*, que sepa bordar, que sepa abrir la puerta para ir a jugar**.

Presentarse por la mañana con CV y foto, por la tarde con mates y medialunas, o por la noche con ganas de abrir la puerta para ir a jugar.

*No contiene error tipografico, aunque la "g" esta cerca de la "s", no?.
**No lease con ninguna segunda intención a esta frase.

Rojo y Negro

La danza entre luz y sombra deja vestigios sobre mi cuerpo del gran desgarro. No aparece más, se fué, le olvidé. Con sal y agua curo heridas que abiertas supuran olvido, abandono, traición. No soy más lo que fuí; eso se fue con el agua que me dejo limpiar el recuerdo.