Prickly Metareality (English)

“Poetry must be produced in struggle against impossibility”

    -José I. Plúguez

This is, thus, the last poem I write.

While the dust falls like snow over taverns washed with rotten wine

I have cut my nose agonizing to describe a flower without petals.

The lucid dreams that don’t even predict the clinking of my anxious guts keep me awake.

In the background, I hear music where

my lost verses which no one dared to read, camouflage.

I crumble as I smell the salt deserts as they wilted.

Tired of drying liters of Chinese ink as I turn everything

into bags of bloodstained bones that do not say a thing.

Of freezing the sand on my shoulders to check if my moles are growing.

A drop of snow on an oven that stenches like wood

Reminds me that the priest stinks like the bald beggars.

I have given up

I am abruptly forcing these words to fit

Now I am determined to cut my beard with an axe

Knowing that not even my errors are original.

I am fed up with chewing rotten fish scales

For eating what I write.

I enjoy sabotaging this poem that I write not to think.

Much has taken me much to bury it in the depth.

Forgetting that it is a diamond,

That the more buried it is, the harder it gets.

We all end up blaming the wind.

Illusively thinking that it is the last one I would give to the waves