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Concepcíon

The roads are criss-crossed

Mud and dust

But very tidy

With wagons and horses

 

Some wonderful buildings, colonial-style

Sleepy as if from a century ago

Loading a boat with fruit and produce

For another town

 

Calm, small town

Very sane

I like it here

It`s very quiet

 

Except for the noises

Of occasional bikes

Or cars,

So extreme their roars!

 

 

 

Settled communities need a stranger,

A wanderer, someone who comes and surprises;

Thus it has always been,

Thus does the Moon refill Her light!

 

The human mind needs a display

Like fireworks of thought and feeling,

A Symphony of Anton Bruckner,

A Tone Poem of Richard Strauss,

Or, of course, and most supreme,

A Music Drama of Wagner:

The flashing spirits of strange despair,

 

The effulgent bursts of a riverflow,

The dark suns breaking lights

Of divine spectra and stupendous flames:

Why to flow on the Río Paraguay

Up to Corumbá, slowly amid flights

Of jabirus, macaws, roseate spoonbills,

Fantasies immense of the interior mind,

Playing with the dreams of Objective Nature,

The Pantanal of Carpincho and Mborevi.

 

 

 

O how can I tell

Of the yearning for thou

Grand river with island

Never satisfied

Why I desire

Not the mother but wrongly

The daughter of thou

In deep stupidity

 

O impossible being

Like an island in a river

Is all I can know,

Never am I full

Deep in emptiness

No belief in God,

I have my Pantheism

Feeling of the Divine

In all Nature and Being

But I hate Religion

There is no God

Sitting as a bearded fool

Dividing Spirit from Matter

Way up in the sky

Making me feel guilty

When life is difficult enough

Without such a fatuous fantasm

And why did He create

Everything so crazily

Human beings with such tendencies

Just so to say

You have Free Will, so all is your fault.

Any God of that kind

Would be a sadist

Creating such possibility of pain

Providing a Hell for those who fail

His lousey obstacles

Burning them in all Eternity

Because He created them thus

I would hate such a God

If He dared to exist

Which He doesn`t

 

When the body dies

So does the spirit

And all re-enters the Cosmic Whole

Whatever that may mean.

There is some transcendent Beauty

Some transcendent Spirit of Goodness

A feeling, a force, beyond understanding

In the Universe, a Divinity of Existence,

But not a God, or gods, or if there are

I hate them all, and I would prefer to suffer

In their hells, rather than try to find

Acceptance in their rottenness.

 

Only in your sweet arms

That I do not have now

Is bliss, but then I know

How Paradise was born.

 

As a child, I believed in God,

But then I learnt, when so deserted,

What an evil mirage it all was,

Dancing menacing tortures for a lost

Teenager, fuelled by nasty men

With power to poison me.

Therefore I wage war

Against all full-scale ideologies

That seek to impose upon the naive

What their imposers wish to see.

Just think for yourself, as Nietszche said,

Be a human being, lost and alone,

Walking high upon the clouds

Until all crashes you down

And accept, after your trivial moment

Bouncing in this sea of chaos,

That you will die, and disappear.

But hold your dignity, and believe

That what you do for what is good

Is real, because you know

In your own being, that it is,

And stuff all the garbage that flies around,

Trust only in yourself.

 

O gut it to your deep

Spasm beyond thought.

Does the beat continue?

To hell if it does not

 

Just die, and float away

Who cares, not even the frogs

That bark upon a drooping quagmire

Haggling with the fires,

Spit a poodle into the grange,

They are goofed up to their brains.

 

Because the hogs eat the spleens

Of tadpoles when they enter their teens

Jookies quip and splod a doop

Before the rain pooves a poop

 

And many a croupe plays its sting

Amid the various drowning rings

When hoopla is not more a grog

And none breathes, not even Bad Dog.

 

White splash free dog

Dog fish drip

 

Spat!  Spit

I feel so bad

Sorry to everyone

Clocked like a crock to the ultimate dock

I spoop, a coglit drooper in stang

 

 

 

O let`s die, disperse

Into the other atoms

Half in love with Death

Or that Nightingale on Hampstead Heath

Leave regrets behind

And all inadequacies

All the mistakes of stalking on this earth

If there could be an Immaculate Conception

Why not an Immaculate Death?

 

Spat!

Not a splat is a fishcrook true!

Here I decline

And brig into brew

There is always a boogie in a glop-filled sphere

There perhaps I can dream anew

 

I cannot understand

Why he hated me so

From the moment of my unwilled birth

Plucked from a dark womb,

 

But it was my joy, too

To be so foreign to every sky

Never was I a pea in a pod

And that is something wonderful

Because you view the dawn in a special way

When you should never have been there at all

Those streaking drunken colours are pure

Madness, exploding beyond all normality

 

I have always heard those streams

Like holiness of mystic dreams

Whether I should or not, unsure

I sink like gold into every beauty

As my soul is sometimes on hard fire

Like a meteorite bursting through the sky,

I know not why, nor how, nor for what,

But I never sleep, but for these dreams.

When the world hurts too much,

I must learn to float away,

Why I am so, I do not know,

Perhaps it was all because I strayed.

But, from what, I cannot see

Clearly; that perfect path

Seems absurd in light of barbed

Wires that spread so totally.

 

In flayed flesh at times the stars

Shine cruelly upon the stones,

The deadening rocks that scream in flames,

The burrs of the desert, surrounding cactuses,

Spiking the air in desperate yearnings,

Bite with despairing mouths into the empty sky,

Where nothing lives, only cold winds fly.

Better not be born, throw your heart

In black pieces to the wolves who howl,

The river sucks all who sing

And all my foolish cells droop.


Biografía

Tim Cloudsley nació Cambridge, Inglaterra. Es sociologo, escritor y poeta. Trabajó como profesor en la Escuela de Idiomas, de la Universidad Industrial de Santander, Bucaramanga en el ámbito de estudios culturales y literatura.


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