If it was fire, I would be burned across my liver.
If it was water, I would be floating belly-up one hundred miles down stream.
If it was a daydream, I would have plummeted from the heaven’s and crushed by heavy streets below.
I’ve always known the thick romance of being lost, deep in black brain jungles, where tigers eat tigers to build their own stripes.
My birth brought it. It was my placenta. We were strong together and now I am separated from eternity.
From the top of the blizzard
with buzzards ablaze,
the reaper stands watching,
waiting for skin to drop
or lungs to fall
waiting for the right moment
to steal fingers imprinted on
hearts beating on the sun,
and moons kissing under the tender lights of love.
He stands waiting, in every dream I dream, where your hands are
more than a memory,
waiting for me.
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.