War Poetry V

Una tarde soleada
te mataron
y el huerto ni se inmutó,
no sopló el viento
ni siquiera un poco más fuerte
de lo normal
para aquella época del año.

Desde entonces, con simpleza,
en un hueco de la antigua muralla
ha crecido una brizna agostada
pero testaruda,
como vieja estrella de cabaret.

De la misma forma que
solamente algunos acarician la piedra
sintiendo la textura de siglos,
iré yo a mirar de cerca la brizna
de tu honor y tu memoria,
que allí permanecerán
hasta que nuevas murallas
haya que edificar
en nieves venideras
bajo cruces florecidas.

---

War Poetry IV

Cuando te disparen al pecho
con esa bala que mata pueblo y canto,
querré creer que queda otra mañana
para todavía abonar los campos
con la sangre de los que hasta aquí nos trajeron.
¡Ciegos!

Bajo el ciprés el último llanto estéril
de la ceguera arrepentida.
¡Qué cosa tan triste!

En su vano intento de fertilizar
su pérdida con el trozo de mar
que llevamos dentro,
único patrimonio no pecaminoso
que no se nos intenta arrebatar
el primer día.

Pero ¡mira!
ya entran en la iglesia
con torvas antorchas de odio.
Ya defecan en el pórtico
manchando con su sucia presencia
la piedra de siglos;
- su torpe pero noble empeño
despreciado -
cantos pisoteados por barbarismos.

Moja tu espada en el vino del último día
y corre a lanzarte que ya tardas.
Corramos todos ladera abajo...
aquel estandarte de allí,
el que parece arder al sol de poniente,
ese el nuestro.

---

Folkpoem III

Patria fecunda
y castigada...
Tiempo ha que dejaron de resonar
las cantigas de flauta y monte
en el abandono,
en absoluto solemne.

Querría esconderme
en tu vientre mesetario,
serpenteando,
como viento en matorral,
en lo oscuro de la historia
nunca recordada.
Tan en su minucia reconcentrada
que se pasea ajena por la Historia,
inadvertida.

Querré salvarte
Pero no se si me quedarán fuerzas
Viendo tus campos muertos
Y tus hijos postrados.

---

War Poetry II

The lands will be regain’d
and the backlash will be brutal
and relentless.

It will happen after the long long night
of heat and fear,
yes, the dreadful sights,
when the enemy sleeps…
and the desire gets unstoppable.

We’ll slit their throats
and send them sinking into the flames
to no god and no heaven
for there are no such follies.

The lands will be regain’d
until we fail again
and Nature’s sun sets upon us
in motherly embrace.

---

Untitled

Four corners did the world have
at the time.
In each a beggar sat a-staring like
cheese merchant and king,
shepherd and piper,
miser and nobles mightier.
With time
the rain the corners did polish
and the beggars drowned in hunger.
Now the ghosts haunt
the empty market stalls of the past.
The sagas have been buried.
Their continuity postponed
for lack of plausible denouements.

---

Folkpoem II

Patria rocosa escondida
tras los confines del valle umbrío.

Sombra que se sabe sin verse
más allá de la última piedra de la aldea.

Donde solo los muchachos se atreven
con tren y fusil y
olor de heno y pino en el pelo
y el pueblo en el pecho
antes del rescoldo del desamor
y el desamparo otoñal del pastor.

---

War Poetry I

Ride into the white kingdom of old
couched in the fanfare of the far purity
of remembrance.
All that’s truly sacred
has been dismantled
stone by stone.
The hunters have failed prey to themselves.
It’s time to run into the forests,
hiding in wait till the ships vanish
into the horizon twilight.
Meanwhile, we’ll carve stones and
forge brooches for our women,
who have despised us in unison.
The arrowhead must be polished,
if we find it in its burial of the mind.
When the blindness lifts up
we’ll ride into the white kingdom again,
but it will no be without its blood toll.
Always the blood.
To clear up the white, you need some red.

---

Poem X

Get caught up in the rain.
It seems
the sky has a sense
of yearning
a talent for longing.

The comforting mountains
the lovelorn landscape
we tear apart
taking pieces of ourselves
with it
to the sea.

The silence of the heart
when in awe.
When out of myself.

Hear. See. Be not.

---

Poem IX

When no redemption at all
shows up at night,
my head keeps on spinning
under the mute clouds
of the city's sodium glare.

Witnessing today
is a mute activity.
All is silent in the face of
clear restlessness.
How we learnt to constrain
from the very day one
of this prearrenged fight.

Sirens are ringing loud
yet we sleep dumb
for days on end.

Am I the only one
who silently stares
through the frosted glasses
of our windows
and our reasons?
This frost is crap.
I can cleary see the forms!

I say, it is possible
to remove the intoxication.
Who is poisoning my watershed
at night?
No lawrentian snake,
but mighty enemies
who cunningly break us apart
in intestine conflict.

Unite we must!
The enemy has infiltrated us!
Pull out your knives,
sharpen your eyes and your teeth,
for the war is at hand!!

---

Poem VIII

The solstice of blood
is rearing up again.
No more will the bard sing
of harvest fields blooming.

Here we walk,
hands tied together,
to the endless night.

When the foe makes his promise
and your weakness takes his toll,
the blood will be awakened by the call
of the fields and the firelights.

---

Poem VII

Deep diamond ridge
of offenders lost to faith.
Those who willingly
have surrendered
do not matter to us
at all,
their sight to blindness
by way of a promise made
in most unfavourable conditions.
Hills and groves
and burning bushes
all around graveyards
desecrated.
The building of memory
torn down,
once made of laughter
and tears.

---

Poem VI

Shittisms Series I

Let me tell you
I'm horny
in ways I cannot explain.

The certainty is devastating
and yet thrilling.

I've sailed further today
that I ever dared.

But the sea seems
to go on forever.

Gambling with avenues of lust.
Could a jackpot be a dangerous thing?

---

Poem V

Shittisms Series I


I feel like a xerox machine.
Not today especially,
but most days, yes.

Let me elaborate.
'Tis simple.

You put some input
(most usually it's bad quality
for starters),
you lower the toner levels
to almost a minimun.

And you press my button
(no, not that kind of button).
The killer routine
soft-rubber
user-friendly button.

Tiredly I start.
And I produce a bad copy
of your input shit
for you.

Sometimes then
you just walk away tired.
Othertimes then
blue murder ensues
and fucks are expleted
amidst exhibitions of blood rush,
corporate bravado,
workplace fencing,
and general crap clap.

That it then.
I quietly sit away.
Wainting for the standby phase.
When the night comes
and the office is empty.

---

Poem IV

Shittisms Series I

Say a bomb goes off in the Tate,
will that mean
art will be even more of a institutionalised
cripple bastard?

Will more bottles be opened
in the wineries of cool art-oriented
coach-potato livingroom burgueoiese red-star
communist revolutionaries?

sipping merlot apparelled in che t-shirts,
praising castro
while buying ikea,
pouring shit on their glass houses roofs,
and diesel or seagull jeans clad
or whatever brand is favored these days
(favored here meaning
imposed on the non-criterial mindless...
wear to be seen).
SHOES TO MATCH!! FUCK!!
Is that too much to ask...?
Big tits too.
And a beer. Please.

What's the purpose of
owning expensive clothing
if you are a manic depressive
that stays at home
out of sheer fear
venturing out only when
when...
I don't really know when.
You can always listen to Radiohead
and buy their cds.
Even if you hate them,
the artwork is cool
and they are a must.
Alternatively,
as this is not a dictatorship,
you can go for Coldplay,
Bjork or some other arty crap.

I repeat, this is a must.

Is your mac working ok?
Such a shiny piece of crap.
Hope it helps you get laid.

---

Poem III

Work in progress


Bad job experiences
stick to my hull
like barnacles hell-bent.
Corporate algae,
especially the sort
with a mind to it,
stench like fuck
and poison what could be
crystal clear waters.

Toxicity levels
are unusually high
these days.

The stream flows strong.
Fuckers come and go.
Easy-fuck, easy-die.
Cinicism is the new big.
Not a new idea, though.

Waiting for the spark
to start back again.

---

Poem II

The radiation levels
are unusually high
these days.

Is Mr. Useful Idiot in town?

Nook and cranny corrossion.
TV-sponsored sickness of the day.
This avian thing
is but another way
to drive the cash home,
wads of it,
piling up the lies
and the smoke screen.

Your brain's codepage
is wrong.
Let us rewire your patterns.
So you'll be happier
in no control.

Overindulge.
You deserve it.

Everything that makes you lose
the perspective.
Everything that makes you lose
your own steer.
Everything that makes you lose
rationality.

Good.
Satisfied.
Peccata minuta.
The common good.
Sacrifice (yourself, of course, ! us );

---

Poem I

Every little animal,
ant or rat,
is racing now,
skidding in place in their vehicles
crusading the emotional landslide.
Terrifyingly not in control.

                  (Being among the firsts in the rat race
                  won't make you stop being a rat
                  in the first place)
                           (( yeah ) the idea is T.R.I.T.E. )...



         Trying to pull muscle
         Trying to build up life not senseless
         Coming to work is so unproductive

         Energy depletion
         Hurt
          Anger management trainee
          ( and not a succesful one )
          Deterrence
          against crimes of thought
          being implemented
          right now
          in your immediate surroundings.
          You aware?
          They made you think that.
          They made you think
          you were clever.

          They made you think
          one day you'd make it...

          [ yeah, quit this temporary job
          [[ step out this phase
          [[[ and make it big now big time,
          [[[[ HA
          [[[[[ that's how they keep us down
          [[[[[[ with rock-star, porn-         star, reality-tv
          [[[[[[[ easy-comes success stories
          [[[[[[[ from babbling cunts
          ]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]

          That is a higher calling indeed.
          Appeasing the masses like that.
          But here it goes again.
          The cuckoo calls to coffee and buns.
          Gym pressure later.
          I gotta get me some new BMW.

          Yeah, so arty.
          Wineries and art galleries.
          Supposed to understand.

          you are in control, 

          endless consumption cycle,

          essentials for this winter

          the circular economy, yeah

    
          That's what holds the game together.
          Pretence.
          False chanelled thinking.
          Actually being chanelled
          from somewhere else.

          Not the countryside, no.
          That's going fast too.
          Treacle.
          Tar.
          Concrete.
          Old bored steel.
          Now Indian or Chinese.
          Failing National Champions

          rescued once again with your money.
          Opinion polls.
          Whose opinion?
          Yours?
          Don't make me laugh, man!


Every little animal,
ant or rat...
Wait, the ant was supposed to be positive, innit?
Hard-working and such...
making room for the future.

Provisioning.
Operations.
Supply Chain Management.
Entrepeniseurship.
Deep hate of all things not understood.
Fear and envy patterns
against all new ideas
from somebody else.
Empowering questions?
Most people will never conceive them.
Because they're skidding
into their cul-de-sac career planing
going nowhere fucking fast
accumulating more bills on the way down.

Gravity is fun.
Down looks like upwards progress.
Maybe we are all living
in the wrong coordinates.

To be continued.

---