Numbers and letters

Poetry by TS Hidalgo  ⊕ Graffiti Art Photography by Michael Marrotti

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Sometimes, I tend to think that the profession of book editor

is the profession of a straw man.

I enjoy a lot, I really mean,

when I meet book editors,

who, after leaving their 9 to 5, find it urgent to blow off steam

(and they talk, then, harsh, about li-te-ra-tu-re;

about diamonds, also,

or about still-not-definitively-submerged dreams):

and, back into the fold, after a <<And now, what do I do?>>,

they take soma

(which, as we all remember,

has all the advantages of Christianity and alcohol,

without any of the side effects):

they are editing rubbish

(they seek rubbish,

they select rubbish),

that 100% suits a thorough marketing plan:

an Excel table is a full of possibilities living organism.

They live in this schizophrenia.

Row, row with all your strength!:

it is detestable to see a completely calm sea.  20161015_180303

the horror, the horror

 

<<Fucking Hell, I can´t believe it!,

what is the Valle de los Caídos* doing in the middle of Paradise?>>,

xxxx asked, on their honeymoon,

when they arrived at the USS Arizona Memorial

(ranked No. 1 out of 312 things to do in Honolulu,

according to TripAdvisor).

Subtle paradox, right?

Following that argument,

Hawaii itself happens to be the leader,

out of 51 states,

in a matter of homeless per million inhabitants.

Further still,

some Pacific islands remain uninhabited,

because of atomic tests

(including Bikini Atoll,

smaller than the world´s smallest swimsuit).

In a nutshell,

a sort of paradise, in its version Jekyll and Hyde:

Gauguin become White trash,

living within nothing less than a barrack of fair,

facing a courtyard filled with rubble

(or perhaps a vehicle that does not work).

What for, then, a Purgatory,

with seven cornices?

(not to mention the Ante-Purgatory).

Light is merely a reflection on the lens,

maybe.

* A basilica-monument near Madrid dedicated to those fighters who died in the Spanish Civil War, and in which former Spanish dictator Francisco Franco was buried.

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Nostalgia

 

On the streets, in the squares, from the balconies,

near the port:

all our perimeter was a huge barricade

(and we recorded everything because we were afraid).

The sea was a natural retreat,

and the surrender was an unthinkable thing:

much blood had been shed,

a lot,

to spoil with a white flag

(to avoid losing custom, we released a few laughs, barefoot,

crossing ourselves at regular intervals.

And, then, nothing, just silence).

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Global artists and writers dedicated to sharing creativity around the world.

1 Comment

  1. I appreciate the candor of the first poem. Calling people out on their bullshit should happen more often. And here I thought I was the only one putting in the effort. Two digital thumbs up are rightfully yours.

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