A POEM OF SAMUEL TRIGUEROS
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Woman In Wheelchair Giving Blow Job
Trigueros, Honduras
NO PROFILE
A Harris Schiff,
to the heart of the empire
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing
voice called dark cavern,
stinking of death, oblivion
a thick, nothing.
Nothing
fired smoke and shrapnel. Nothing
wanted disintegration, fading
all that shine, burning
,
against the domination of his shadow.
"Do not die," Nothing to cry;
"Do not die, not die"
Nothing is as old as the battle of the ages. Nothing
The murmur fills the walls day and night climbs
bones, bleeding
time
fills the air with rotten schools
the smell of gunpowder and closure. Nothing wants
streets:
cut throat, light puffs
bartered a sad bit of ash,
cold tongue in the bell of the cry. Nothing
we want transmuted into memory, abolished
in horizons,
silent. Nothing hates
landscapes.
The air you breathe Nothing is square.
Nada Sea is an offense,
Sleepless in their island of poverty:
is a history of the sea peoples who recites,
interminable attempts to muzzle Nothing
and bays, endless beaches
(Normandy, Playa Giron, Trujillo) .
Nothing is bitter. Nothing is shielded
tenderness.
Nothing touches nothing. Nothing. Nothing
has no father, no mother.
Nothing is sterile.
In the bed of rotting leaves Nothing. Nothing
has a collection of butterflies
with pins on the back,
a collection of wide-eyed at the death, purple nail
with remnants of skin
-angry-eat ants.
Nothing is a philanthropist in the best sense of cannibalism:
Nothing makes a feast with our hearts, brush your dog
with our thoughts
paste (before he became a bullet hole and squeezed
our heads). Nothing lives
death embalmed
swimming
face up on the essence of the destination.
A miscalculation,
an involuntary gesture of tenderness, are only
nothings for nothing.
Nothing is never wrong. Nothing
corrected ax finesse,
because nothing is before the omnipotence
Nothing is pre-potent.
When blood ablutions,
Nothing is said in the mirror on fire:
"There is nothing to prevent anyone from Nothing."
However,
Nothing suffers from hypertension, dreams of ghosts
whose hair still growing on the eve
and wrapped in terrors. Nada Mas
believes that nothing is forever and has become
tattoo on the back of the front: "In God we trust."
Nothing in the past was sometimes in civilian clothes, he sat on
hairdressers, memorizing names
national news,
called cut flush and
-between-
hurt and left a generous tip:
"To take a cup of coffee." This
that the future dead.
Nothing is a dead ever fresh:
green skin, sores, green, green flies
,
the green suit, green
hatred
a broom in the middle of the moors.
"Nothing has to die in our hands," the slogan we
.
his armchair in green, red Nothing
notes horizons
trembles softly;
says nothing, but knows
that the tide has
and nothing will be done, but
wait, wait
Nothing
its own inexorable.
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