Your morning always reaches over my headboard,
in full view,
invading your few quiet gestures soaking in cotton.
You think I don’t understand.
You think I’m a switchblade and you’ll run out of street,
now take these cranberries and crush them against your
Take a look at your seepage
and my emptiness.
This is eternal, love,
and you are not it.
I have a new piece published in The Screech Owl today. It hasn’t been previously published. I hope you’ll take a minute and check it out. It’s a little ways down the page….it’s called – It’s Just That The Moon’s Got Me – Let me know what you think!
She wears a wet blue dress
and if you undress her
she is not vulnerable or
violated. She is a curved
and proud body;
He is molded. He is ceramic mannequins turning sick
against the sea. Noon splits pavement and silicon swallows
in a frenzied gulp.
She is airless, something to know and fear.
When clouds steal our stars, she calls to the moon, carrying all of her love and loyalty back to shore,
while he steals her pearls
in the dark.
This is where she could drip blood
if it could drip
outside of the body,
but she is internal.
Penetration can happen if lead solders
On a bluish/gray scale,
she was never meant to be loved,
or shot out of a pistol
well below the speed of sound.
I am in love with this art. It is incredible.
Originally posted on Beyond Language:
Click images for higher resolution
Title: A strange sea/ began seeping into the hole/ where I keep my love/ for incomprehensible/ things.
Acrylic on Canvas
Title: Stream of Consciousness VI
Acrylic on Canvas
Title: Random Impulse
Acrylic on Canvas
©2014 Pablo Saborío
Some eyes open like black holes,
gravitationally throwing memorial stones through a moment,
letting time break a silence that lingers in every muscle,
every finger tip
for a soft crash of acknowledgment.
Other eyes move like flat lines and we must guess. Ache drips from our palms like candle wax, hot with the stench of regret
I remember the first taste of his
time, brutal pine in November’s icy driveway. I know his eyes opened
to our flavor together,
but now he walks in such a quick
rush; as if the Earth might split without eating him up
and he talks,
like voices do
when they should,
but not one blink wrinkles,
Were you, yourself, a stranger with no clear account of his dying?
An accident crowned that day.
A ticket arrived, golden and hollow,
at his bedside.
He board a ship in the morning
that carried no heartbeat
I think this is all we talk about.
A mad voyage where listeners were
not, until now.
And were we strange to his fable, with his legs up on the couch?
I should say to him, I am not.
There are two bodies I know,
inside and out.
I fasten their heads together in knots around my chest
on my own mad voyage that carries no heart,
that is strange to his hand on my shoulder, softly at rest from the world.
Hunger drips down her lips
with metallic intent;
the air is busy,
I follow her startled shadow
across the sky, where she carves
adjusts her lie.
I am an untruth,
a moment of virtue,
a black sheep stretched
over her flowering plateau.
This is no place for love,
or for night,
or for sky.
This is a burial of the
of her and I.
This desert is muddy today,
rats scamper under fury.
Little girls chew
off November toes. They kneel in provocation, stretched t-shirt
over back yard fences.
Dogs bark like bitches, I count them – they live free
with dirty kneecaps, laughing at me. It is fair, I know.
It’s the clock,
just; disgusting me.
The rats scurry down wet streets
where my sister plays with
spores. I stalk her like cat play
while she plucks
lice from her
Her nudity is a familiar tub
where streetlights meet
Once, she was me. We shared
charcoal milkshakes and
flirted with shapes of sour
angels. Now, great love,
is dust of dead skin.
She is piles of vomit under
In twenty years, I will be solid.
Midnight will dream of my desert
and sick rats walking in
late, chasing yellow
mold across tarred gutters
where her soul growls empty,
nothing to spare.
Originally posted on The Rivendale Review:
It’s Movember again and men all over the world are growing facial hair in order to draw attention to mens’ health issues. In years past the heroic Mo Bros* have focused on raising awareness of our vulnerability to prostate and testicular cancer. But by far the biggest risk to men’s lives comes from another problem and it’s simply this:
If you’re a man you’re more likely to kill yourself than if you’re a woman. In the UK, in 2012, 5891 people are recorded as having taken their own lives, of whom 75% were men. Suicide is now the biggest killer of men under 35 in the UK, though you’re actually more likely to take your life if you’re a man in the 35 to 50 bracket – it’s just that the other major killer, coronary heart disease, begins to catch up the older we get, so skewing the statistic a…
View original 943 more words