| Tuesday, January 04, 2005 |
| Ecce homo |
I do not dream about It.
I do dream on It.
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posted by MORGAR @ 4:14 PM  |
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| Sunday, November 07, 2004 |
| Haikú |
Poetry is dead
whereas
poetry is death.
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| posted by MORGAR @ 1:32 PM |
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| Monday, October 18, 2004 |
| Spanish Haikú |
The shape of my thought cannot coincide with my thought.
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| posted by MORGAR @ 4:37 AM |
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| Friday, October 15, 2004 |
| Used to be that I was honest |
Used to be
that I was a lemur.
And world did not spur
me anymore.
You said pink I said black.
I say you don’t say
you think I don’t think.
Yours is a flowery dress and this is a grey thought,
a remarkable sweat, brought
—back—
by the diverse cotton of the earth.
Used to be
that I was a lemur.
What I did, I kept looking at random blossoms.
Sounds had widely,
wildly,
embraced autumn.
I kept thinking
I was
inside
this prude petal
you blatantly picked up from the New Yorkish streets
in order to throw it on the forgotten islands.
Used to be
that I was a lemur.
Remember?
It turns now that
I actually was a lemur.
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| posted by MORGAR @ 6:13 AM |
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| Haikú |
I think I
am
reversed to you.
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| posted by MORGAR @ 5:48 AM |
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| Thursday, September 16, 2004 |
| Brazilian Haikú |
For the first time,
since that horrible day,
we had sex
and I did not run away.
If you had paid attention,
if you had placed your ears closer,
you would've heard
this perfect, selfish, lonely
earth's beat.
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| posted by MORGAR @ 6:27 AM |
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| Thursday, September 02, 2004 |
| German Haikú |
I was working.
I looked up to myself while someone was trying to
look down on me.
So I climbed up
to the 16th floor
of this skyscraper.
No one here.
And I wrote this humble poem.
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| posted by MORGAR @ 6:32 AM |
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| The Clarity of Vain |
A clown is screaming amidst the ocre jungle.
He
is
god.
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| posted by MORGAR @ 6:31 AM |
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| Sunday, August 22, 2004 |
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Writing poems in English is fucking easy.
Writing good poems in English is fucking hard.
Speaking in English is fucking easy.
Speaking creatively in English is fucking hard.
50% of the English words come from Latin.
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| posted by MORGAR @ 6:50 AM |
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| The Black Growth |
I found animals
Picking up stones
On the sides of the road.
When you die,
Consciousness,
Remember this humble body, and this bold soul,
Remember they’ve been always loving you,
Remember strikes oh oh
You are part of the triangle of life.
Consciousness, body, soul.
What is it about America that brings to my heart such amounts of melancholy?
Bridles,
Deaf bridges
On line
Regurgitate trucks of sand. Local pain.
What is this tragedy? Not understandable
To steal is a bit bitter.
Consciousness, remember the flavor of emotions, body cry big boats non-soul
Bi-loneliness. Cerebral sadness—dead punk—Spanish flowers.
Hesitate
Existing or not
yes No
no Yes
Go on
Pretending what I am not.
Hypocrisy indolence karma
I could go on.
I could pretend.
But last day
I could not stand the eyesight
of the black growth of hatred
and indifference.
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| posted by MORGAR @ 6:44 AM |
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| About Me |
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![]()
Name: MORGAR
Home: India
About Me: Soy periodista y me gusta la poesía. Trabajo en la India.
See my complete profile
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