Numbers and letters

Poetry by TS Hidalgo  ⊕ Graffiti Art Photography by Michael Marrotti


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,


* 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.




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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