Poetry
Francesc, Deliquesce
Two indolents deliquesce into one
another
Too unyielding to acquiesce to the
other
With my chin, I write my name
On the back of his neck
So
he remembers who I am
As
if this chicken scratch
Will
claw its way into his dreams.
Counter-clockwise,
I circle his crown
And
this ratty, scuffed up Ikea sofa
Becomes
a throne for two.
Neither
of us support the monarchy,
So
it’s best to imagine this L-shaped heap of fabric
As
the bench down the street,
Where
the rumble of Renfe
Wrangles
with the taxi horns.
An
urban libretto without words,
Directing
the silence between us.
My
signature did its job,
as
he rolled back over,
chin-to-chin, he had one request:
“Underneath
all our jokes and mumbles,
I need to hear you say it one more time”
Durrësi
Surrender to this
bulevard
Ignoring the
urban fabric,
their most
cumbersome calling card.
Surrender to this
dormitory,
a flacid reminder
that
every address can
untell its story.
At least we float
along in this basement.
Bunker of love,
of trust, and, yes, displacement
Ten acts of
death, of life,
true bonds
begotten.
This place has
fallen,
but refuses to be
forgotten.
Forgotten vestige
of summers past,
No more concrete
embrace, no sail, no mast
Formerly known as
their pool.
Only a bulldozer
would be so cruel.
Three hundred
meters away, a house
Two times he
visits, forgetting his
spouse
Five stories of
brick which
bleed salt and
yellow
Leaving one sad,
awkwardly
romantic fellow.
After You
No,
“after you”, I
insist.
“Tu primer, veí”, you purr.
Holding the door
for a stranger rings hollow
They don’t pinch
my ass as a thank you.
No pretending to
slam the door on their face
to make them jump.
When I swoop in
with a vampirical neck kiss,
I’m the crazy one now
For you, I was
the knight in sequined armor.
They just want to
call the cops.
No one whistles
from the street
To make sure I
get my leche
before Aldi closes at 9 pm
Another weekend,
another bender
with no chocolate
milk to calm my innards.
I stare into the
mirror
Waiting for your
swipe
to wipe away the
forgotten leftovers
of last night’s
lipstick.
A wet, dirty
bathroom towel is no match
for your saliva-covered thumb.
Fitting you
requested no funeral,
You knew you’d
haunt my walk,
Difficult prick
until the end.
Except,
there is no end.
There is no “after you”.
Left, Behind
1 step to the
left, 2 steps behind
Following my
instructions to the T.
Completely unlike
you.
Even more unlike
me.
You waited for
the lights to align
Not knowing what
I was waiting for.
Hushed breath
Trains squealing
in the distance
Circuit completed.
What provoked the
silence
while you traced
my retinas?
Aligned in the
light’s synchronicity
I bathe alone in
the electricity.
When I look to
the left,
It’s the same as
what’s behind.
The city that
defined us
Confines me in
kind.
Found & Lost
A foreign prompt
to which you could never subscribe
but it helps to
soften the blows
as I navigate
these alleys unescorted
blocking out the
echoes, the pavers’ purrs,
when there was no
distinction
between the
bricks’ divides
and our parallel
strides.
Four of a kind,
evidently too
much to ask for.
The last kiss on
the forehead
still burns with
ardour of the first
burning, harder,
as these words are read
Yet, I relish
this sting,
unable to forget
the last words you said.
Who wants to cry
in the city,
with its glares,
stares,
and unnerving
lights?
Give me the sea,
where waves
confuse tears
for one of their own.
Yet, I’m here on
our bench,
where they refuse
to cease.
I hope when I
lost my foil
you found your
peace.
Jetset Jester
A jester jests
He falls
He crumbles
A foreign land
Giving solace
In cryptic
mumbles
Eixample - Part 1 [This Chamfered City]
…if I may be so
forward to address you
as such.
It’s certainly
not the first time we met
You don’t
remember me, do you?
The bridge, the
pylons?
Screeching sirens?
… making sure the backdoor’s locked?
A vision, if I
was a soothsayer, or a sage
A place, for I am
neither.
Arguing the finer
points of existential rights
to his metal
deities:
Telepathic
telephone pole, how majestic!
Gleaming garbage
can, rat-nest of the gods!
Bang, swoosh,
gurgle, dgrxkl;4tgl;gh2
Fair points (most
of them)
Perfectly
perpendicular streets
and chamfered corners
Never able to
comprehend
the futures we dreamt.
Never able to
comprehend
the futures we etched
Before the sun
set the concrete.
Between glaring
interludes of silence.
Eixample - Part 2 [This 15 minute City]
To one, it’s a bollard’s ballad
A virtuous attempt to understand the
street
To another, a frenetic word salad
Meant to bewilder the place where space
and place meet
Difficult to digest or easy to swallow
It’s a matter of context, my love.
My imprudently-salacious
Can be your moral high ground:
A sign to yield
Or one to follow
Instead of
circumventing this wayward pole,
Sit down, block
traffic
Soak up the scene
Beguiled by this
Ballardian bollard,
Remind yourself:
Sometimes sitting
on the sidewalk
Is just as
necessary
As a solitary
stroll
Perfectly perpendicular streets and
chamfered corners
No humor in their right angles.
No joy at the crease where the asphalt
kisses the pavement goodnight.
No love in their eyes.
I suppose that’s what sets us apart.
15 minutes is never enough, but it’s a
start.
Eixample - Part III [This Dominant City]
Let the keepers keep their gates,
Let these lines act a key to the city
For all who wish
to enter
When does a word
end?
With the last
letter?
Or when it stops
ringing in our head?
When
does the city end and we begin?
When
we refuse to breathe in unison?
Or,
when there's no more love found where we tread?
Armed with the
might of metaphor
I can try to
persuade my latent logic of an intersection,
A chair, a bench,
a memory, or an amalgamation of all four
Armrests propping
up these weatherworn elbows,
Trying to convince
me of its unrecognized splendor
For a moment, I
believe its nonsense
Even if the
woodworm’s piles of dust grizzle another story
What good is it,
writing an elegy
if the one person
who deserves to hear it, refuses?
What, then, of
verse spoken to a bench or a chair?
Those who,
instead of comforting, could only stare?
How can one be so
enamored with this dominant city?
When it gives not
one fucking ounce of love, of humor, of pity?
