Pedro Arango
Sunday’s Night Appeal
that Pale hand creeps up
and pulls on my shoulder
the night before liberty
is lost once again
The air that won’t
break as I try to go through it
Only the beautiful pigeon
can get past its strength
No shame in her wings
or the virus she carries
I wish to be her
When the sun rises then
Sunday, it’s Monday
the sleep won’t regret it
not coming home to spend
the night with me again
And you close your eyes
as it’s then you remember
the last seconds of freedom
are being spent in stress.
A Response
Your bitter stare will be the one
To look you in the mirror too
This be reverse so name him Juan
To fuck him up like they fucked you
If the solution’s to have none
Then cut your left nut and that’s solved
At first the weight won’t be a ton,
And he could be the one you loved
To use your verse as a device
Or see your words as logic pain
We’d go extinct with your advice
To not let loose the birthing rain
Conceive the child with tender care
And don’t you worry about the pain
To open his door would be rare
But will have not been in vain
Letter to a Hippie
You are no longer an individual
Ego death made you succumb
Your legs are roots that dance in soil
That image since you hugged the plant
And healed yourself with its powerful smoke
You burnt the nature you claim to love
But it’s childish and naive
To try to join the natural world
To fuse yourself into the ground
The one that turned to concrete long ago
One that you have yet to know,
You’ve never felt that natural world
The sound of language and the absence of roars
Evolution won’t turn its course
You called primitive asian tradition
You wished to be the ones you othered
And false prophets took advantage
As you stood stoned in the rain
Their lips were darker so you listened
It seems you’re as dumb as the animal
That you wish to become
So attempt to join the natural world
Through chemically processed visions of truth
What seems to be true about that I can’t say
Mask recreation as ancient tradition,
They’ll only believe you if they’re wearing the mask
It’s not ayahuasca or peyote you’re taking,
Let me remind you of that shameful fact
Even if your intentions are pure in their essence
Those are the wrong means to reach your pure end
The beauty in childhood yo try to recover;
Amusement in anything that catches the eye,
Shameless affection that must not be hidden,
I know it’s been lost, and you miss days of old
But a child isn’t brain dead, and he doesn’t roll joints.
The beauty is there, on this world which you hate
The one made of concrete and bricks that don’t end
You must simply look for it, in tiny details
This change that wish for, it won’t come if you run
Specially with the boost of the paper on your tongue
You’re too far from earth when you’re standing in mars
If it’s change that you want in the space you inhabit
You must transform the space by getting off your ass
Which I get has never been the simplest of tasks
When the hash glued said ass to your favorite couch
Let the particles of air make way for the glory,
of a man that’s awake with a gun in his hand
Whether it’s flowers or bullets that you load it with
Make sure that the hash won’t get your aim off track
This brain you were born with,
So beautiful in its capacity of articulate thought,
Of acknowledging beauty in whatever you want.
I demand an explanation so that I can understand
Why you’d numb such a beautiful brain in the now.
Part 1: Left
Astounded you stood, as deformation revealed itself in your baptised skin, called pure by the authoritarian priest-like fatherly figure
With your cheap teeth showing under the shadows designed by the merciful creator of public scrutiny
As the grin of filth that you called a mirror punched your mouth, bare knuckled as a driver’s memory, and cratered your jaw to meteoric proportions
The bone covered by human leather under your skin exposed by reflection, ardipithecus cranium, fresh, short cut grass as hair you dared to lawn in self-loathing
Samson’s strength was intricately connected to your own, in hair of universal freedom cut by asymmetrical mirror lovers
And now you’re weak, vacuumed skin that gives space to space, in jawbones and the photogenic ribcage absorbed
The rib-cage that has lovingly imprisoned your pumping heart, naive in sense, from loving all that is dangerous
The fat of fast-food meals gradually delivered to cycle your esophagus, Fat that coats your body with warmth of golden brown is now gone, seamlessly evaporated overnight
As the suit you were told to wear by disbelievers of your very own unfollowed religion, takes care of strengthening your body to german standards
The fat will now return to its needy owner, who leashed its ever changing properties like a chemist to a blood stained table
The true structure of emotionally resonant yet acceptable bones, reverses, to days of perfectly curated sunlight of caress and blurs of invented memory
The grin of filth on the ultra-plasma, high definition screen of truth, accessible to all willing to squirt knuckle jelly and pick up melted sand, has exposed the violence of being
That contemporary destruction that magically deprives sense from empathically resonating with the shrunken velocity of pain and exo-skeletal crunch
Whichever was the insect ignored by the higher power, imposed by the self, a psychopathic hint, hidden, he or she or it, and, or, you ignored its pain
And it will come back to lash your back and crucify you in geometrical roman fashion
But it was you! Psychic detective, who caught up to vengeance and self-loathed the row of Isaac faced sacrificial pawns that crowns your back disguised as a spine
But the scenario presented you as a headphone wearing Abraham, that the omnipotent angel himself could not stop
Thus blocking the possible roar of one hundred women giving birth from the cum of the omnipotent angel
And thus, holy reconciliation with the cross occurred, as you, distorted by external parties, went through the fourteen abstract stations of lema sabachthani
Incomparable suffering of the imagination has taken over your mind, to turn you into a dick.
Part 2: Right
A spiral on your face, molded by the holy creator with second-hand clay, takes a beauty of its own, perceivable only by the empathic friend with mirrored flaws
Who sprinkled crooked rain over your ethereal dream, for him the thinker of the soul, has coragioussly removed the self-importance of flaws
While you spend your days on the mirror tormented, by the meticulously designed standards of beauty that transform but are no longer malleable after their creation
As the dopated, energetic skin fights stability, rooting for an entropy of contradictory nature, for control is found in refracted distortions of matter
Pope Innocent X weighed its influence of post-war vitality, on the holy reflection of egocentric fuckboys you despised, yet make up
Ever feel stupid and then know you really are, said the corrupted flipper, sent television, to the underground of motorik, dissonant grooves of punks more punk than punk itself
As the veteran screams in your ear, of what only those with a place in the history books of winners will amount to, you have not been the streets
You high class mediocre dog, leashed to a strap of brand leather that came from some small house in Italy and was kissed by the pope, like a sick child with a hopeless mother
leashed you were by the mother superior, who with the best of catholic intentions protected you from the dangers of the downward spiral you walk on top of every day
As black eagles hunt for the poor, who run in flames inside the gutters under your toilet, with fear and the blurred moral encouraged for survival
You appear radioactive when covered by the dark, like a hong-kong neon street sign that glows on the misery of whores, smoking whatever may be lit up by the devil’s torch
Yet you have never witnessed the harm that angels dressed in green uniforms can inflict on the weak angels, with featherless bones covered in the skin of dead bats
They cannot fly, so how is it then, that the son under the golden rooftop who has never embarked on a revealing adventure like the size shifting siddartha, can complain
Those questions are the ones that have morphed your face, and now you cannot see like the american depiction of the oriental man
To breathe is hard then, even in the air of the palace, which has been washed in magical soap that eliminates 99.9 percent of germs
Your lungs look for air, but the holy creator has softened the clay of melted ribs he made you from, to eliminate your nostrils
And now even the ambient music in the lobby of the psychiatrist’s office can’t even calm the rage the builds up like a prehistoric fire, for every rage is the first rage
You have taken the virginity of the stones you clashed for the pleasure and warmth of the fire that hates, and loathes the illogical threat of an enemy
You’re cartoonish deformations are perceived by those masters of disguise, who read the articles in filthy magazines for information on the biology of cunt
It hurts, oh so much, the contractions of the meat, soon to be ash, that lives under your skin and over your bones, the man who aches is still waiting to know what he will give birth to.
Part 3: Centre
You have now become a lover of kryptonite, a patreon to the painter behind delicious flaw, loved by the imaginary press of the mirror
Scream in agony, as you turn into a hairless monkey, chained to the aesthetically pleasing concrete walls, for your very own atrocity exhibition
Where apples will be thrown in the maximalist nature of ridiculing, built on a set of commandments written by ill-faced prophets, standing on the figurative representation of logic
A poem within a poem will emerge, as memory takes one back to the absolute confusion, of pretending to understand subjectivity
And ambiguity takes the rails of the horse of shame, as the prisoner wants to get rest with no posthumous awake
So scream as belief is fed to you, disguised in the last meal before being hanged in the ideological noose of collective freedom
Hoping that the air that accompanies noise will act as a wave of childish independence, stabbed by the man who made others call him puberty
Turn your head to the floating heads on the street, which strive for answers by reading that which will only raise more questions,
Until their globe like aesthetic explodes in a cacophony of assonant visuals and dissonant screams
While those marked with the sign of parallel creeds walk fully clothed in disguised tranquility of winter’s heat, deceit!
As you rested under the arm of mama bear, who’s pelt deteriorated under the unbearable light of loving her corrupted creation
The same one marked with a seal the day he first found adrenaline on breaking the ethics supposedly created by nature
Who traveled within the confines of confusion, in the dark alleyways of the mind, filled with whores giving birth to saints
Who were viciously raped by angels that may not take care of the baby, so as to deprive them of the religious experience
As god decided she was not to represent the largest cult in the universe, while he took lives in anger, for St. Peter didn’t update the heavenly phonebook
As ever changing absolute truths that can change, for the perfect being must perfect his once perfect creation to reach perfection
And you, who decided to take breaks in between the making your declaration, and found yourself enjoying teenage snuff films, cause you had no pain of your own
Only to find you were diagnosed with pain, and imitating the ridiculous behavior of the god was now justifiable by the wise men in the oracle
With a degree on martyrdom you stood, telling those who reflected as less on your refracted character of how you made the sacrifice to not tell your truths
You were found writing a poem, as the face of stoic behavior faded to a non-existent future.