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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