Tags
Horacio Lobos Luna, literature, lobosluna, lyric, poem, poetry
Zdzislaw Beksinski
It is not madness.
Can you see this blood?
This blood
spreaded through too many old
books and new screens
is my own blood.
The splatter of a wound, maybe.
The spilling of an intense joy, perhaps.
Just like that, with no culprits,
with not a single emocional anomie,
it was left as an indelible
trace of the unspeakable,
of the tangible
of the liveable.
It was needed be poured
with careless gesture
of routine
and oblivion,
with the frenzy of a red
dawn about
to burst
between the daybreak
of a feast and the quietness
of a hangover
lost in its own
refreshing dream.
You may say this sharp
and redish blade
does not explain everything.
So what?
Could be that the stainless steel
of the fleeting days
opened a little my veins
or my hand swoop down
over shadows
in the darkness of a deep night,
among tight
clusters of solar flowers,
that in the tinkle
of the euphoria
its cutting edge wounded
my flesh with the fruition
of a sweet must.
And then the blood,
and then the red badge
watered without rhyme or reason,
just like that,
as a word spilled
hopeless and unnoticed
before some eyes that gaze at it
and the mouth that bleed it out.
No, it is not madness.
This blood
is my own blood.
Searing Words 