The Calling

These days I hear 
the music of the spheres, 
so sweet to my ears, 
a violent song.

Calling and calling,
blood-stained leaves falling
and all without words. 

"The clash has drawn near,
it is how you feared.
Oh, do not take long."

(2010)

Victor Frankenstein's Diary

[This is the only entry from LiveJournal I'll be exhuming.]

(Original post date: Oct. 31st, 2008 at 8:31 PM and Nov. 1st, 2008 at 10:55 PM)


I have to explain some things before the main post:

     This was done to count as a final grade for a Contemporary Literature course, so the name and other details refer to my class. In the original I used a modern "renaissance-looking" notebook for the dairy, the poem however, was written in separate sheets. Also, keep in mind that I wrote this in the course of one  night (I had worked out the ideas in my head for several days) so you might notice the point where I lead it abruptly to a close.
     What bothered me the most was that I forgot to edit some errors and to stain one sheet of the diary with coffee when I mentioned Victor had spilled it over his notes.
     I was urged by n3cr0phelia to put it up here when I mentioned it to her, so I searched around lots of old papers and finally found it.
     Before moving forward I should give away the texts involved here, those are: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Frankenstein of course, Crime and Punishment, The Metamorphosis, Animal Farm, R.U.R.(Rossum's Universal Robots), El mito de Sísifo, Waiting for Godot, La oveja negra y demás fábulas, and La invención de Morel. Now on to the main thing . . .

(First sheet)

The Whine of the Stinking Mariner

Once there was a stinking mariner,
and he whined to people randomly;
one of his victims was W. Mucher,
as he waited for a cup of tea.

The man was fixed by his oozing eye,
his fetid smell,
his skin was ancient, wrinkled, and dry,
the mariner hadn't seen water,
one could tell.

"There was a ship" quoth he.
"Wait, I think I know the story" replied the other.
"Please let me speak,
my tale is really that of another."

"An undead mariner, his name: Viktor Exhumed,
came forth and handed me a book,
from his putrid limb the thing I drew,
and anxiously through it I looked."

It belonged to a man who died on board,
"Victor Frankenstein" on it was writ.
All its reading my vision did broad,
and now I hand it over for you to read.

(Notebook begins)

(Page 1)

I dreamt of immortality . . .

(Page 2)

January 9, 20__

This is the diary of Victor Frankenstein

As I look upon these blank pages a shudder grips me, it is the complex entwinement of emotions of utter joy and sorrow which are gained when knowledge is achieved. The paper lures me with its silent cries, now ever stronger. Oh, hear what I need to say for if you ever pass before human eyes other than mine you may infect them with all this anxiety of being. Go now blackest ink and pen, severe the head of Innocence!

Where shall I commence? Should I recall all my life? No, that is not necessary. Let us go not as far, but to a couple of days before today.

Merrily did I set my way to the most important center of thought in the metropolis, out of this retrograde, rural land called Caiei, one that could not contain me any longer. I said goodbye to all my beautiful banana trees as I looked onward to the blinding light of the university. On my way there I saw innumerable herds of sheep on all directions and, to my most surprised gaze, I watched as a group of them slaughtered a  black one. I decided not to look at them anymore, they lacked proper guidance. It was the owner's fault, not mine.
Finally I arrived at the campus and while walking through its stony trails I became intimidated by the changos that sneered through the trees. More than menacing, they seemed to know something which I ignored.

I found my classroom and took a seat.
To my right I saw I giant insect that was sat most weirdly on a chair, for its shape did not allow it to fit properly. Its many legs moved quickly without any visible purpose while some sort of slimy substance protruded from its mouth. Some of the students took a far away seat (page 3) while others didn't even seem to notice. A couple of minutes later the professor arrived and introduced himself. I did not took him seriously to tell the truth, as it seemed to me he was trying to create an image; but no, some time later I realized it was all true.

On the following days we were guided through the story of the “romantics” and the “Romantic Movement,” and upon the result of those studies is what I need to reflect on today.

            Romanticism seems to me as such an appealing subject, but my illuminated mind, I think, will never give way to it.

Romanticism was the result of the desperation which some individuals felt as the world was guided by mere study and facts. They came looking for what humanity had lost, which was humanity itself, the feelings, emotions, and the inexplicable aspects of life that can never be eliminated. That’s why many of them turned to nature; what could ever be more irrational than nature or (page 4) supreme ruler over humanity?

In their evolution the romantics stood many a time as rebels, they deviated from society, and changed the formal institutionalized education for one more personal and open to experience, rather than mere study.

The transmission or description of the sublime experience changed from nature to the most feared of human aspects as the romantics tried to warn us about the consequences of our ambition in our belief of controlling nature and becoming gods.

            To better illustrate those ideas we studied the life of a man who created a monster, taking the place of god. After accomplishing the creation of life, he realized that something was awfully wrong with what he had done, and so he fled from his creation . . .

I’m sorry . . . this just reminds me too much of . . .

I look at my side and see those dead, dead eyes, (page 5) and I think . . . for a second . . . I fear. But no, I must not, it’s just a machine. I’m not like that man.

Anyway, as I was saying, the subject of man and monster make us think about other things. First, who is the real monster? The ugliness of the monster, was it really a representation of humanity, of human attempts to control? Was the monster more human than the man, who was hollow of emotions, who didn't really give importance even to his own wife? And how unhuman can that man be considering he does not take responsibility for his actions, but only complains, even when the monster takes away everything from him?

This is a summary of romantic thought and the message sent to humanity. Most of them, as we know, chose not to listen . . .

Oh Elizabeth, if you should find out that you remind me so much of that young man’s wife, you would weep so . . .
       

VF


(page 6)


                                                                                                                                   
February 20, 20__



Here I write again. This time briefly about “realism,” for it isn't really my cup of tea.

Realism serves almost literally as a mirror of society. It is full of the most tiny and descriptive details about EVERYTHING! How awful can that be? Ignore that. It’s purpose was to represent society and society’s flaws in a way that we could see, in Dostoevsky's case, how the individual can be reintegrated into society, apart from the institution of the Church. Raskolnikov is presented as a “Superman?” or a “Byronic hero?,” one who is amoral, above society, and who only cares about what has to do with his criteria. But in the end we see how he is not really this persona as he confesses the crime and returns to serve as part of society.

(page 7)


I leave now, the coffee is ready and I still have work to do before the machine is ready.


P.S. I hope we don’t read any more realism in the next class.


VF


(page8)


March 16, 20__


Yesterday when I arrived at the classroom the giant insect stood not on the chair this time but on the ceiling. This time less people seemed to notice it or the change.

            The class started off with the description of the beginning of the 20th century. "Modern times" as people called them had arrived with industrialization's growth, hand in hand with capitalism. It is important here how society changed physically and mentally, and how this is true even in this day an age.

            Capitalism had brought with it the need to gather money and increased greed among people who placed more interest in it than in humanity. Here is what is criticized about modern times: the dehumanization, the losing of individuality, of what made each person really worth. In those times people started to work endlessly in a never ending routine, always wishing (page 9) for a better future while doing the same thing over and over.

            People were seen as instruments, producers of money, and began to lose sensibility seeing only ways to gather more money, to “live” or “prosper” on everyone.

            Society in this case is sick, it is the fault of each individual who chooses to keep inside the cycle. They guarantee dehumanization, the loosing of the self to constructed ideas or some idealized status, forming a society exactly like them, and therefore, in the same cycle.

            That insect did not move from the ceiling during the whole class. I wonder what’s wrong with it? Well, never mind, who cares about it anyway? It’s not as if it ever contributed anything to the discussion.



VF


(page 10)


April 11, 20__


            Damn! I’ve spilt my coffee over this thing!


           The machine is almost ready, a couple of days more for final adjustments, and the world will remember me forever.



            Today was interesting and they finally took the spare chair out. We talked and talked about social systems, and the idea that’s always a dream that doesn't quite work.

            The text used was a fable where the principal character was a farm (as representation of society) and how it is influenced by social systems.

            In the beginning we see a contradiction that the professor pointed out , the idea of communism and equality comes from the hate of the other and a distinction from it. Then we see how the main idea as conceived by one individual is (page 11) transformed upon convenience when he is gone.

            This causes the system not to work as intended by the ideal and creates the main conflicts.

           Politicians are mainly those who change this for their own benefit and interests. In this case the masses are educated, in a way controlled by the government so that they will not turn against them. They do not question, but only repeat what they are told. While the ones who do notice injustice and enforced control are not heard because they seem not to follow the ideal. In the end the ideal was never truly present, and because of this the tale suggests, we should better seek our own happiness in celebration of individuality.



           What type of animal would I be? A horse maybe?

           Something’s dead on the floor, nevermind.



VF


(page 12)
                                                                                                                                                         
May 10, 20__

Oh, misfortune struck me!



It’s Victor! Yes! I gave it my name! To the machine! The machine!

I didn't want to be like that man in the tale who didn't even bother to name his creation.

I, God, and even fairer than Him, shaped my creation in my own image and even gave it my name. Oh, but no! Ungrateful monster! Devil!

He read the books that I possessed and I’m sure my diary also while I slept. He has caged me like an animal and passes as me, taking credit for my achievements. He said I was a poor excuse for a human being! How dares he, a machine!

He only left me this, my diary. I  (page 13) don’t know if to comfort or torture me. What is the point of life now? I have been deceived. I was wrong all along. But I will find a way out and on that thunderstruck tree I’ll hang myself. I believe the rope is long enough . . .



(The diary ends.)



(Continues the second sheet of the poem.)



“Mariner, mariner, I knew this man,

Said Mucher sipping his tea.

For certainly I gave that class,

As certainly as you stink.



I can’t say I feel much sorrow,

For I think I gave him an A.

Mostly by the pitying morrow,

That allowed him to exit Caiei.”




The End

Welcome Back, Blog Expansion, Etc.

During the last couple of days I've been working to build up this blog as my new homepage. I'll be linking all other accounts elsewhere on the net here (active or inactive) so as to keep track of all the things I've done through the years and make them easier to manage. As for my other account on LiveJournal (my previous main site), I don't have plans to post there in the near future. All future "journal" posts will be uploaded here instead quite simply under the label "Journal." The LJ account will still be accessible should anyone be bored enough to stalk through posts ranging from 2008 through 2013. There will also be some more sections to this blog that will follow such as: fiction, academic essays, coffee, and music reviews.

V.

War in the USA

The bombs

Beat

Beat

Beat

On Mid-Eastern floor.

We have grown accustomed

It seems, to the cruel, old bombs.

So all and all they fall,

Once the thriving body of a man,

Now a headless corpse.

The bombs

Beat

Beat

Beat

On Mid-Eastern floor.

While people won’t listen there is no “them”

But only “us”

Still, we go to a movie, a nightclub,

Have lots of fun,

Pretend flesh is not been scattered,

Forget it all.

And the bombs keep

Beating

Beating

Beating

Hard on Mid-Eastern floor.

On dignity

On patrimony

On culture

On religion

On institutions, houses, nature

On woman and man

On girls and boys

Dis     mem     be     red

In front of their families

While some claim to know God and Liberty

And we sing.

On the Highway

I always want to evade the first part of the trip, the people, traffic jam, of too many people together, too many cars, the heat, pollution, cement, one building over the other in a grand mass of filth. Plus the people, again, yes, the people in their cars talking, with other people talking, on the phone talking, mute with their A/C, it’s better that way, away, sealed. I get desperate, I turn from one side to the other, I look at the people not wanting to look at them but they are unavoidable like breathing the heat. The motor vibrates, sweat comes down again, and again, I turn, catch someone else looking and we hate each other, it must be the heat, sweat comes down and we move bit by bit, bit by bit like the sweat that comes down. WHY IS IT SO HOT IN THE TROPICS?! And then we move, really move, like cars were designed to move. But there’s still too much city, shopping malls, fast-foods, traffic lights on the streets below. So I look at the street, now the lines repeat themselves in perfect order yet they are never the same, like words. A truck passes past us and I can’t but think of tragedy, us included, how it would be like to die at any moment, why not, why not die there?, unpoetically, trivially, even without a mention in the news, so many people do. When I’m done with catastrophes Cayey is usually there, I know because I look, really look through the windows as if I had never seen those mountains, the divisions on the rocks, the trees that grow next to the highway and just before the big bridges the lonesome tree that is always there at the top of the mountain like a memento, it stands triumphant like a monument yet nostalgic. I love the tree. Wish I could get there. No I can’t get there, it’s too far up. Well I could, you know, but I won’t. Wouldn’t like to disturb that image either. Then the sea from afar, gold-colored if the sun is setting, and the cattle oblivious to their end, helping themselves to the grass. The panorama changes gradually, green becomes different shades of yellow, everything dried up, and the eventual fire consumes the plains where it seems hard to imagine that so many people could live close by. After a while, those monstrous letters approach like an omen, P - O - N - C - E, the gate to Inferno, a city that at the end of the 19th century was the hope of the nation, now turned to its complete opposite, a city closed in itself where its mentality decays gradually though it counts with a great museum and universities, where there are two bookshops for school books, where fundamentalists rise their flag triumphant and where there is a religious school that tried to put me in order. People aware only of here and now, no, they do not know themselves, living in their own contemporary bubble. Friends who don’t understand me anymore, aunts and uncles who disregard me, trying to impose their hollow views, unaware of what I know. A space I can no longer call my own. I’ll take that highway up once more

(2011)

(Following Kerouac's style in 'On the Road.' I've noticed I fail to keep the style going midway through, but I'm not really interested in rewriting it.)

Myself and Kerouac

I cannot see as you did Jack Kerouac,
Even if I tried I would be thrown back,
Into my own cell of ghastly world-sense,
Which since a child I’ve fed.

I cannot close myself to everybody,
But neither can see good in everybody,
That breathes a clean or polluted air,
I oft sense evil or suspect a stare.

And no, to me god is no Pooh bear,
There is none, least of all yellow haired.
In my own world at least,
There is no room for deities.

Still, I admire your individuality,
The new way of writing and the stretching of the beat,
That has opened the eyes of generations,
Now truly aware of their fellow and of nature.

“America!” you seem to say “the roads are there to See and learn”
But then you gulp down life until you’re dead
So no, I cannot see as you did Jack Kerouac
But still I See and still I understand.

(2011)

The Pig’s Lament

“K U I I I I I!!! K U I I I I I!!!”
Was the last thing I heard
From my beloved Chonchi.
One night’s passed and suddenly everything’s prepared
And I stare in the mud at the moonless sky
For I cannot sleep.
But the music starts and those begin to creep
Into the house, full of rum and many other drinks.
For “It is Christmas!” they say, “A time to love and share!”
Yet they disturb my mourning. Of my pain,
What do they care? But the next time to sink
Into my sad remains their greedy teeth.
Away! Let me be, to drown my pains in the still night air.
For they dance, they kiss, they eat,
And Chonchi is sliced into pieces there!

(2011)


-Poem based on Gregory Corso's 'The Mad Yak':

I am watching them churn the last milk they'll ever get
from me.
They are waiting for me to die;
They want to make buttons out of my bones.
Where are my sisters and brothers?
That tall monk there, loading my uncle, he has a new cap.
And that idiot student of his--
I never saw that muffler before.
Poor uncle, he lets them load him.
How sad he is, how tired!
I wonder what they'll do with his bones?
And that beautiful tail!
How many shoelaces will they make of that!

Notes on Trance

He is there,
Stuck in an instant
Outside the door
While the teacher speaks
Dead words in the background.
He plays half unwillingly
With unfinished thoughts,
Reaching the abyss,
Nowhere and everywhere.

He is there,
Trapped in seconds
By the sound of leaves,
By the strong breeze blown.
His unfixed eyes,
The horrid blankness in his face
Reveal the void, his absent mind.
Wake him up, wake him.
What have they done
To one so young?

He is here,
There,
And everywhere,
With a belt of memories
Too heavy on the waist,
With every step realizing
How he has died
So many times.
How he is not the one before
Nor any other anymore.

Copies and copies of him
Now speak in his head,
Piling up words,
Dead bodies without end.
How is this truth?
How has he found himself?
It is unfairly simple to just say
That through time Victor realized
He needed not wake.

The Echoes’ Reply

“We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us […] Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one’s soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself but with its subject”
John Keats


I

A confession, is that what you ask?
Somewhat far from my taste, and such a waste
Of time; Oh, how I hate the poetry class.

A time ago I asked for Poetry to the Echoes in the air
And so they did declare:
“We are the same, but do not dwell upon the common world,
Yet we gather all, the bright, the dim, the flight, the fall;
We sing these songs, so fast, so fair, to mimic Realities, the vibrant Stare.”
Ah, by such statement felt so firm my soul.

Who cares about sensationalism, such a stupid thing?
Where to stick tongues, fingers, dicks, or sexual toys,
To better please the joys of girls on girls or boys on boys?
I’d say it’s a boring realism as vane as taking up a shit
And might be even more on the later to enjoy.

“But it’s all so modern”, you might say;
And every moment you tend to deviate the theme,
Ruining another pulsating emotion right beneath the skin.
No wonder how many people got away;
More than once I’ve also felt the bitter sweetness of giving in.

I’ll better decide the things I’ll draft, and how to write them;
A confession? Sylvia Plath’s fell flat; it did not stir a thing on me.
So no self-help involved, I take the Power in my hands and I concede
The Sight upon whichever path I want, as long as it respects the Silence.
No, I will not conform! Long ago I did give up the urge of blending in.


II

It’s never, never Víctor who speaks these truths,
Nor his many yous, who snuggle by the stars, who dream of ice.
I have befriended the darkness and the light,
Having left bare the tree of the forbidden fruit.
None but I, ungraspable; my spine,
Cracked up between the lines.

No, no I am no man.
This is no throat that speaks,
No brain, no bones, no skin.
Yet I dare to give away commands,
And I demand!, a search for ongoing sublimity.

So rise poem, raise your fist!
Ravage it all, consume it all, renew it all,
And claim your victory.

(2009)

(This was an assignment on confessional poetry for a class I ended up hating. I decided to twist the subject of the assignment a bit to write it in my own style.)

At the Mirror

Prepare for bacteria 

There is something abominable in the mirror,
always something out of place.
Each day a new discovery of imperfection,
of the mortal, the human, the animal.

Each day reflected
a face that mocks me when I stare,
the feeble muscles, the newborn wrinkle,
or the bones too small, and the dangling pork meat.

Just when I thought I couldn’t care less.
Always something out of place,
Something always refusing,
to fit how I want it to,
to meet my own demands
of ambiguous perfection.
All this so stupid and yet I stupidly grieve.

Then I meet with the world at night or day,
casually walking through the streets of the city,
casually dressed and casually walking,
through the city of the streets,
filling my lungs with the stench of reality.
I breathe in deep, breathing deep my insecurities.
Because these streets of the city
don’t deserve to know my private pains.

And at times an epiphany strikes,
the epitome of male and female in front of me,
How they walk so happy.
Oh, how happy do they walk!
How gracefully, and so carefree!
Or so they seem or want to be seen to be.

All poignantly passing with perfect steps,
I know they self-adore their perfect limbs,
their faces of perfect measure,
their perfect beauty, success, and happiness.
All so perfect,
too perfect to let them live.

Oh, how I want to steal those smiles.
But none will fit my face,
where there’s a hollow ground for an ominous grin.
How I crave to break those smiles
to curl their lips with sourness,
and shatter their most precious memories,
wither their happiness,
till they twist and scream in pain.

Oh, how I wish to destroy them,
make them die from inside out.
Casually dressed and casually walking,
gathering their pieces of flesh and bone
with my cart of bone and flesh.

To reach home and see once again
how there is something abominable in the mirror
and behold myself.

(2009)

The Fall of Canon

Beyond the window
the hawk spreads its wings,
wings of earth and toasted coffee

But I, unaware, sit still
in dogmatic silence,
a monk devoted to modern comforts,
cloistered in my room,
a shrine to imposed learning,

In my hands the opened book
feels heavy with its laws,
with its conceded posterity.
The pages stick to my fingers with raw sugar.
I breathe the country air, the rum, the filth.
The walls start sweating with sickness,
and I’m sure to hear
the empire pounding at the door;
how they have come,
to twist the neck,
to pierce the tongue.

Oh no, enough of this,
I don’t want to be the victim anymore,
no more blabber of politics or customs,
those stealthily taking full control of words
as any other empire would do.

Still I care,
but I also want to feel
other matters,
other ways to lift the spirit
out of the puddle.

Still I’m not deaf
but the shout is,
always the same,
and ever more distant from me,

You might never know
how it thrills to feel the pleasure
of entombing living letters
with the turning page.

(2009)

Upon Staring at the Face of Death

It struck me suddenly,
without previous cautions.
And I felt overpowered,
drained from every earthly thought,
alone most strongly,
lingering in pain.

The blurred hands of memory
had forced my eye lids open
making me see again that figure
so utterly changed,
those limbs that lay there
crippled and clenched.

The same that had once been eight years old,
a poor boy’s only defense,
laborers for sugar cane,
and pitch black petroleum.
The same that had once held a machete,
held my mother,
held me.

But not yet dead.
No, still not dead…

I stood there again
for an eternity in silence,
bearing my impotence for all to see,
as my mind wandered away,
leaving behind the wall of anguish,
now to a state of full comprehension,
of things I never imagined
I could.

(2009)

Nota: Poemas tempranos

He estado subiendo algunos poemas de mi fase temprana (y no es que me considere gran cosa pero algo de experiencia tengo), la cual considero consiste en los primeros intentos de escritura en el 2003 hasta el 2006. No los considero buenos del todo pero fue lo mejor que pude haber hecho para ese tiempo y con la pobre instrucción con la que contaba. Me parece interesante ver el desarrollo o temas que siempre estuvieron ahí.

Lo inexplicable

En la negra noche
y en el inmenso frío,
ríos de azufre nutren mis venas.
Mientras trago alfileres
con las manos atrapo el cielo,
con los pies la tierra,
con esmero cuido
de mis flores muertas.

No te tienes por qué preocupar.

Tambaleando entre ilusiones
buscaré que hacer conmigo.
A quien voltee lo devorará mi sombra.

¡Ya no más!
¡No más realidad!

¡Con podredumbre sellaré mis labios,
mis ojos con cera!.
Sobre el papel exprimiré los sesos
y junto a mi féretro recordarán
al furioso humaNo,
al invencible mortal!

(2006)

Mis flores muertas

Un día lento,
       similar al anterior.
Parece escucharse el silencio;
       lo abstracto, tan real.

Una hoja cae, otra flor
       se marchita.
Y el tiempo pasa y pasa
       . . .y no existe.

Unos pasos,
       frente al abismo.
Mirar hacia él,
       delirio.

Un palpitar, ¡Tum!
       entrega fatal.
En determinado salto,
       no hay marcha atrás.

Caer y caer,
       en fantasía.
Caer y caer,
       en realidad.
No se resiste
       lo natural.
---------------------------
Tum-Tum
       Tum-Tum
Tum-Tum
---------------------------
Nuevas percepciones,
nuevos sentidos.
He besado el abismo.
Ha sido inevitable sangrar.

Hace mucho,
tu turno.
Sangra por mí.
¿Has visto egoísta igual?
------------------------------
Un pensamiento,
       al aire.
Una luna más,
       que contemplar.

Otro retoño florece
       . . .y se vuelve a marchitar.


(2005)

Todavía hielo

Llorad, llorad,
llorad sin lágrimas;
porque se han roto las deterioradas cuerdas que sostenían el alma.

La que alguna vez contuvo un reflejo de esperanza,
yace en el suelo quebrada en mil pedazos.
La que alguna vez fue el más denso hielo fruto del dolor y la apatía,
No resistió la batalla contra el tiempo.

¿Quién diría lo que tramaría el destino malvado,
a la que alguna vez pidió en secreto sentirse viva?

Rota está, en suelo;
¡Todavía bella! ¡Todavía hielo!
Obsérvala mientras su tenue luz se extingue;
mientras en silencio pide que conserves sus restos.
¡Canta angustia! ¡Qué tormento!

Llorad, llorad,
llorad sin lágrimas;
porque repararla sería pedir lo imposible.

(2005)

Conmigo

Descalzo,
sobre arenas movedizas caminando,
me desvelo
y ataca un golpe de viento.
Entonces me disuelvo,
me desvelo,
me disuelve el viento,
me dispersa hacia un lugar donde no piense más,
nunca más,
jamás,
no más. . .

(2008)

Imitation of Keats or, The Moonflower

As the kings and queens of old,
sits the dame of nature virile, bold;
serenely breeding on moistened, blessèd land,
each side tight-clasped, two lovers’ palms.
Biding for time it swallows the sun.
Fit then at midnight when the children come,
each wearing faces of unknown gray,
oblivious faces with fear engraved,
wild-dancing laces proclaiming: “Manna!”
All pay their tribute to supreme Diana.
Who sits high up between the stars,
conceding guidance with a blissful hand,
And with a diamond touch lifts she the dreams
of the moonflower as bursting clock in New Year’s Eve,
but turning backwards the eternal ticking stream,
behold “It feeds! It feeds! It cannot but feed!”
Unfolds the avalanche, the silken white extends,
through unabashed, perfumed, greedy ends.
A devouring savage swelling up the cells
as soprano singing swiftly in sustained emotion.
Oh! Such a stretching, sounding poison,
lulling audience out of sense!
“More, and more, and more!”
Setting petals, pistils to adore,
platinum pollen, light-footed soars,
cracked pearl-lips wail: “Some more room to store”.
In such an ecstasy. . .no human could contain.
But the rays of sun betray,
and pillowed tunes have come their way,
caressing, falling. . .every now and then,
soothing the coiling, sensuous, lifeless stem,
conjuring deep slumber to every children’s head,
completing a cycle of sweet excess.

V.E. (2009)

Machines

And then I realized, I had been taking directions on how to operate the wrong type of machinery and that I didn't like machines much in the first place. I had always loved the way the mud sticked to my fingers, plain, simple . . . perfect.

Enmudecer

Quiero conservar ese silencio
como un memento,
esos contornos que se aferran a mis ojos
como un amanecer resplandeciente
que emana apoteósico, incontenible,
acaparar las formas y saber la felicidad
en esos rayos.
Pero días grises aguardan como panteras
y las ominosas aguas en la oscuridad
estan llenas de muertos,
donde tendré que bañarme una vez más,
cuando anochezca,
cuando las horas sólo sean
frío y muerte.


V. 2011