“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