All the great salivasSomeseconds,All the great salivas by oviedomedina
one believes in chugging down
the nearest pepper canister
available in the pantry
and then all the salt
(no matter if there is no trace of sea in it)
and then have the blandest plate
while being careful to not hiccup on the shards
proceed to lung out some open notebook pages
rehash all the ars poetica
be a predictable rebellious and a attitidunal everyfellow
and copychimp all the flowers, all the anguishes
all the families all the dramas all the flatteries
all the fleshy sweats
spice up all the blablablas
and at last long
the newest attempt
to be a parnassus.
Like a PostcardI saw a sea, once.Like a Postcard by oviedomedina
Man standing on a cliff
every posture you could expect,
proud feet staring at the inmenseness
a single wave the roar
(A cemetery, always at moonlight
roseclogged river, a gondola even in notItaly-
intelligent Alexes would say)
firm hand in the cane another in the hip
add the lightning
a ship or two,
( or a mast-killer spark!)
but no other land nor shore
excluding the oddly dry onlooker´s
Or was it a cliff-full shore
unblinking and unapologetic
while a wave apologizes
like a hurried and desperate rush hour pedestrian?
perhaps it was another sea,
one that wasn´t picked up gazed at by Boredom
and then tossed aside like the unwanted chores?
I saw a sea once, a themeless poet says,
and a hundred unoriginal ones
tried to turn that into flowers,
or whatever fancy strikes the
The Hundred Long Short StepsWatch tells meThe Hundred Long Short Steps by oviedomedina
it´s been two hours since I got swept
into the tides of pedestrians.
Skies hid and reappeared
And the bus money ha gone out cold inside
somewhere in my left pocket.
Miragesque, bus stops have come by and left
as the shoes feel more daring, more air inside the socks
more and more roads to be recorded by the soles
who have stopped protesting years ago.
"Why, when I was your age, I had to walk
all the was to Venus and Russia and back"
she would often comfortably say, proud upturned
haughty spine imposing on a sofa´s peace.
A horn blares, and up once again to the sidewalk
turn the skull and shoulders and squeeze
between the forever entangled tongues
(who can´t see their impending fall in three steps, two steps...)
Knees shrug, another neighborhood has blurred by
time is no burden
there are no troublesome missed calls
there is will on the feet
back there is half the city
and beyond is another neverending walkabout
and a certainity of joy.
Light in the city belowSometimes, my insomnia will wake me upLight in the city below by oviedomedina
will complain about the rumbling sewer lids
the odd pair of wheels
a car here or there
(I wonder if some policeman
some paramedic adrift in the empty midnight
will hope for a night were no sirens have to scream in urgency).
Above, high above the telephone wires,
in a floor where no lightpole´s gaze will ever reach
behind the halflidded gaze of the blind
my eyes hop back and forth to the afar windows,
this one is dark, this one is dark, that one isn´t;
and there´s another one, and over there too:
I will not wake up my window though
nor my neighbours
but there is-was-
a light not on the far buildings, not on the far houses
but on the lonely street, long after
the last sweeping trucks have left
there is a light:
no car, no bike, no truck,
no person with a lamp-
and I violently force my window to sleep
blankets clamp down like a trap around my horror
the light that wasn´t a light
is totally pedestrian
not interested in m
alien hand syndromeHis hand would itch and fidget.alien hand syndrome by kilkegard
It would grab pens or pencils
and doodle stick figure ballets
on napkins, tabletops, even walls.
Or sometimes it would write alien
words in strange cryptic alphabets
with a vertigo inducing speed.
When the hand found a keyboard
it was a violent staccato attack.
The hand caused so much trouble that
he needed to leave his quiet office job.
He found a new job as a handy man.
Working with hammers and wrenches
seemed to placate the hand,
at least for short periods of time.
The hand would work tirelessly till,
aching and blistered, it would hang limp
and listless at the end of the day.
the hand simply wanted
to find the other
smaller and softer
it longed to feel the
warmth of the other
for fingers wrap and
hands to clasp
and rest palm against palm
I miss ParisI want to walk thru the streets of Paris againI miss Paris by kilkegard
on a Sunday, a cold and rainy Sunday afternoon
just till I find a warm little cafe where they serve tea
a nice Assam with a little sugar and a splash of milk
then I'll sit in this warm cafe on this cold and rainy Sunday
I'll listen to the rain while I drink my tea...
and read your poetry
collegeher body sleeps there.college by ersatz-moon
wither the trip, the winter, the curled sleeping tea bud
the curved indica afternoon sleeps
sleeping sleep seeps through the place where spiders grew deep
red clouds swarm and swam in sweltering morning
in distasteful consciousness, in heartache
in half-formed conversations started by half-formed people
by floating heads and cherub hands
raised in childish prayer and
in sleep i torment the dark that never left me
or the two-faced ego that took tyranny over what was already dead
masculine energy radiates and illuminates
dear angel, i know you are there
(and what's in my head is only doom, wistful arms holding empty ideals to sleep )
she is cyclical, natural symmetry manifest, red energy
& black eros
(remember, remember what she reassures in you
note: you are not alone, and never alone
because there is no such thing as being alone, we are all part of the ongoing, part of the movie, and we come to see the universe as a cyclical dance and nothing else