Drizzle

When I was a kid, I remember my father

Going to the store with a thick wad of bills

And buying stuff left and right, improvising,

Giving in to the darkest urges of the consumer

Psyche and mythology that somehow convinces

Us all that gratification lies in the release and exchange of money

For shit.

I get the same urge now, my father dead and all,

The old bicycle he bought one day on a whim

Rusting away in the big dumping pile of useless

Memories. I get the urge to show the world

How fucking successful, how suave I am. What a fucking mover

And shaker I have become, lost in the lust

Of the present time. How incredibly crazy is all, congealing

Like a frozen mist that will never thaw. The fear of losing

That which can never be gained, or attained,

The chains that perpetuate the idiotic mirage

We all buy into, believing one thick wad of paper bills

Will provide the necessary happiness we think

Lies around the corner.

We do not own the present, or the past. The only

Kindness we know resides plainly in the crevices

Of our imagined dreams.

I, then, wanna dream my fears away,

Leaving the rest to rot like forgotten fridge foodstuff.

I want to forget the unnecessary societal roles I learned

From my father, and release the wildness locked inside

Like an endangered ape awaiting for the ultimate salvation. Like a jungle

Junkie getting soaked by the unending drizzle of time.

Quàntica

Què és un pas, si no l'ínfim manifest

de la indecisió que ens pot i ens venç

com ho faria sens dubte si volgués?

I qui voldria deturar-se en sec,

desaparèixer entre les boires molles

i l'atzar del morir? L'heroi, sens dubte,

però no el de la tele, preparat

per tota avinentesa, que un guió

li mostra el bon camí, ni el que ha triomfat,

empastifat del seu èxit lliscós,

que depèn del que en diuen i el que fan;

sinó l'heroi intrèpid i ferreny,

aferrissat en la lluita i l'atac,

que no tem els segons i és lluny del temps.

Però ni així del tot un pot estar

segur, l'ocasió s'amaga llesta

darrera els plecs de la monotonia.

I com un Batman que vola en la negra

solitud de granit entre el perill,

valent i confiat, vulnerable,

que el cop traïdor que li espera darrera

la cantonada no veu, cec de veres

a la fúria roja de l'immens desert

de l'oblit i la manca més profunda,

qui aixecaria el peu ronser i dormit

cap a la immensa plana del destí?

Epigrama Furiós

No demanis perdó per res: abrasa

els idiotes amb el làser càustic

dels teus ulls neandertals i foragita

les rates vils fuetejant-les vives:

escorxa l'estupidesa del món.

Trodden Goddess

You ride the bus like a sorrowful flock
Of geese who have long ago lost their way—
Gray and majestic in their slow advance,
They seem to hover forever in stillness.
You gather in this space like distilled droplets
Condensed against the glaring light of morning
That emanates from everywhere around you.
Sad, happy faces of primeval goddesses
Trodden down by the darkness. Wake up now,
Destroy the insanity that smothers you,
The wild schemes of sick men who have forgotten
Their mothers and their daughters—and become
Free, dakinis, creators—no, creatices
Of a new inextinguishable fire
Were we can all bathe again, like the children
Of Evolution, never staying still.
So I say to you, a wild, crazy man,
Lost like you in this meaningless morass:
Flap, flap your magnificent wings and fly.

Rose

My mother went to the grave with a Three-

Dee printed rose upon her chest so still.

I had created the file in Blender

A few weeks prior to her final parting.

Perfect square poligons like the precise

Modernity of our screwed-up relationship.

She was a modern girl, free and unbound

By details of propriety and bullshit,

A 60's woman stuck in a medieval,

Fascist, oppressive, backwards country: Spain.

A beauty unrecognized by all, except

By her son here who's writing in despair,

For complete lack of words. Isn't it funny

How words don't cover up for our inadequacy?

Except I would, now that I see more clearly,

Flood her with endless chatter and caresses,

Scan her whole, turn her into an immortal

Model, creepy but sweet, proud and eternal.

I'm afraid even this would not suffice

To erase the deep glitch left behind by her,

So this matrix of craze will have to do

Until we join again in the recycled

Vortex of matter that resembles light.

Caps cots

M'assec a dins del metro i vaig mirant
la gent mirant-se el mòbil, transportada,
no per les rodes fosques del rovell
del temps robat a desitjos llunyans,
sinó per aures de somriures lleus.
Recordo quan, de petit, agafava
el metro atapeït de tristor sòlida,
un garbuix de fracassos oblidats.
Aquesta trista imatge ja no hi és,
va fugir fa molt temps, foragitada.
Per bé que és cert que, sí, llegíem més
mentre creuàvem els túnels convulsos
de creosota i llums abandonats,
també és cert que percebo una harmonia
angèlica utopia humanitat
abocats uns als altres, enllaçats,
whatsapps entortolligats amb anhels
agosarats, sorneguers i feliços
de retrobar-se per fi despullats
de regles socials i teranyines
que a poc a poc ens escanyen i ens fan
pàl·lida carn submisa i abatuda.
Per tant, llanceu les xarxes, escampeu
els filaments eteris de l'amor!

Oreneta

Voleiadissa oreneta burella
vagareja humil entre el foc
oberta al cel, titiŀlant per pitança:
xiscla fi, silenciosa com fum,
fugissera.