This Calls for an Exorcism!
I wanted to belt one of those nasty
guttural screams, like a long-dead
hollywood actress in a movie I’m too
afraid to watch. “I hate gore” I tell
people, but how poetic it must feel to be
covered in the innards of a pig. Pretty,
done-up face splattered in thick blood and
smeared in sweat, ink and bile, perfume.
I’m logical. But sometimes I’m clawing.
At my eyes, and neck. Like a possessed.
A panic, conceived and birthed in the manic of
self-loathing.
“‘I’m not a real poet’ says the poet”
Said a poet,
now says I.
On the bathroom floor, in the dark,
I shake with rage and lust
for violence. Force my nails into my palms: I need to lap up the blood, that I swear pools in the basin of my fist like tears once did in the crease on either side of my nose. I’m not wailing out of pain, but
the satisfaction of tearing
my warming skin from my frailing
bones. I have to tell my mother to
hide the scissors: my gut feels awfully pierce-able. Take the towel from my
long, strong fingers; I’m trying to suffocate myself. Every tendon in this body is trying to bend the wrong way. I’ve convinced my parents to order the
priest, hold me down and chant a
prayer. Pull the Devil out of this growing chest. Rip me open and carve me out. Unravel my intestines like a roll of film. My restless arms need the authorities to strap me to a bed and shriek in my face ‘till
I come to my senses. End me, infect
me, declare me brain-dead, I’d rather be numb than curling in my bed. I’m gasping
and grasping at the door.
I’m scared that I like it,
this spirit in my veins, it never controlled me until today. So, I heard the voices
over the phone, all I want is for Mama to listen. My eyes are screaming and trying their best “this calls for an exorcism!”
Roaring (Screaming) 20s
It is the Roaring (Screaming) 20s.
Everyone is in their own world
we all think we deserve one.
We are all at war, we are rotting,
twisted,
mentally ill.
We all hate,
worship,
envy one another.
I am grinning on the sidelines,
like a Goddess
above them all!
Can't decipher,
who is playing the game?
who is manipulating the referee?
I am busy admiring myself
watching my shapely reflection on this mirrored ceiling
as I float through the water.
Gaining self awareness at ten
watching grown men have revelations
I had at eleven.
Tell me my generation is all narcissistic teens
I’d love to hear it,
happy to be a part of it!
Happy to watch us be blamed
for destroying a planet we were labored into
a mere minute ago (we are infants in this timeline)
Happy to be called lazy,
spoiled,
incomparable to the God-like generations before us.
We are going to raise children
who watch the world collapse
on (Apple) VR headsets.
Irony tastes like my grandmother's cooking
when she tells me
my Peers will be the downfall!
When she drove Volkswagens
smoked a pack a day
showered for an hour every time
She and I both think its laughable
how we fight the people
we are inevitably intertwined with.
Going down together
blaming the people
we pull with us (Our elders are the weighted leeches on our ankles)
I am no god
no savior.
Just laughing at our silly flailing arms trying to resist gravity.
Oh well, I suppose we are in too deep
I suggest we keep kicking
our bodies will surface eventually.
The aliens can find our fucked up palaces.
The Real Bird Who Was
I am not a real bird, says the bird that is,
His coiled intestines heavy in his soft belly.
He gathers bark flakes and wooly hair for his nest,
Gathering with wings that should fly.
If I were a real bird, says the bird,
I would do what they do. The bird
watches a trigon of his feather-kin in the sky,
And presses his pinioned wingtips into the wet ground.
The bird plops heavy onto the earth,
Swallowing a worm as he saturates in nutrient packed dirt.
The worm sticks, glued to his tonsils,
And he develops a smell as he rolls over, crushing his wings beneath him.
He gazes with an ache at the seasonally disappearing flocks,
Claws at himself from the inside.
Real birds fly, says the bird who doesn’t,
As he pushes his head in the water and remains just a second too long.
On a branch, he lifts a wing, raises a leg.
He tilts slowly off and the world seems to spin,
But it spins until it doesn't, until the bird recoils,
Nosediving into his breast and imagining what the others would say
If they saw him.
I’m not a real bird, thinks the bird,
I can't be seen if it is like this.
He feels a phantom pain at the gone tip of his wing,
And quietly sheds both tear and feather.
Lost in my own city
I can manage to find gold in a cigarette
Bet you didn’t know that, did you?
I’ll teach you how, but you must swear on your hometown
You’ll never have the nerve to tell another soul
Ok
Are you ready?
The trick is simple as pie and twice as sweet
First off, be born
You may think you’ve got that one down already
But unless you came here through the wrung-out sorrow of you father blasting into your
mother’s womb
You’d be mistaken
Second
Learn everything this world has to offer, quickly as you can
Don’t bother fact-checking, you know your friends in big media aren’t here to lie to you
Third
Find out the truth
You feel that don’t you?
The loss of every direction you thought you new
But its still somehow beautiful outside
Now go buy that first cigarette
You can thank me later
Open Eyes
the rocks echo giddy laughter
a radio balanced unsteadily upon a paddle board
splashes of a dogs paws in the water
as he skitters in circles
soaked with warmth to the bone
music on the beach sends ripples through the lake
small fishes bobbing along
disturbed only by grabbing hands
shrieks replace laughter
as a minnow squirms in your palms
the boat rocks and
we flip
plunging into the cold
bubbles erupting under our bodies
your hair floats around your face
prompting thoughts of eels and gods
my admiration stays mine
as my mind melts into water
your beauty for only me alone to hold
you tug me back to the surface
and the water in my brain slides away
the rocks echo giddy laughter
flower girl
some see objects in the earth where I see lungs.
eyes in the oceanic sky peering down on my
limp overturned body.
i see golden beetles in pupils and stardust on skin,
though nobody will see me like that.
not when i have grown moss out of hair follicles and
flowers out of fingertips.
So that i can blend into the ground.
the floating eyelids above blink to find me but now
i am breathing inside the earth.
where footsteps and handprints on my flesh fire marks
and bruises that don’t appear in the night.
the moon is the only one who’s truly heard my cry
seen my hurt and listened to my poetry.
the shriveled-up poetry that only have
fragments of me.
tiny remnants that shout “i was here”
and although i’m almost down to dirt,
people pick my flowers.
and every person i’ve ever met has taken a piece a me.
1:00 AM Light
I Lie.
Restless in bed.
Each time I feel my eyes droop,
I am compelled
to watch the golden light beside my bed
fade away
each time I bundle up in blankets
only to realize the perfect seal
keeping the solitary 1am light
at bay is gone.
I fiddle with the strings
on my blinds
trying to replicate
the blinding comfort my bedside sun in a jar
had produced.
pushing the fidgeting engine beneath my skin
towards a moment to lie down
I whisper to myself to ignore
the ice plunging deep into my pupils
yet the pressure of the night
creates cracks in the walls
lines sewn across imperfect darkness.
suffocating in it
my night
I understand what it must be like
to be in a car crash
for time to expand
like the pupil of my eye
and yet I lay lonely.
SUSURROS DE LA NOCHE
El aura de la noche
gime en avalanchas,
serpenteante, candorosa,
transpirando color.
Montada sobre nubes
tus brazos, cual férreas aspas,
emprenden cabalgatas, eternas,
por sobre el éxtasis del amor.
Remolinos de seda,
entrelazados al gozo,
mientras espasmos fragorosos
beben aguardiente del crear.
WHISPERS OF THE NIGHT
the aura of the night
moans in avalanches,
meandering, candid,
sweating colour.
mounted on clouds
your arms, which iron blades,
they embark on cavalcades, eternal,
above the ecstasy of love.
silk swirls,
intertwined with joy,
while roaring spasms
they drink brandy of creation.
---------------
BREVE BIOGRAFÍA de:
Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO.
Nacido en Gödeken, Santa Fe, República Argentina. Escritor, poeta, Jurado en certámenes literarios Internacionales. Periodismo digital. Docente Universitario de la Facultad de Derecho de la UNR, en la asignatura Historia Constitucional Argentina. Miembro del CICSO (Centro de investigaciones en Ciencias Sociales). Secretario Técnico de REDIM.
Se ha desempeñado como Corresponsal Especial en diversas revistas internacionales de Arte y Literatura (Cañ@santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
Integra la Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Unión Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), la Fundación César Égido Serrano, Naciones Unidas de las Letras (Ave Viajera y Proyecto Mundial Semillas de Juventud), entre otras. Actualmente es colaborador especial de Revista Poética AZAHAR (España), Revista Literaria-artístico PLUMA y TINTERO (España), Revista Literaria KENAVÒ (Italia) y Revista OFRANDA LITERARA (Rumania) donde también integra el Colegio Editorial.
Ha obtenido distinciones y premios en certámenes y concursos internacionales de cuentos, narrativa, micro relato y poesía. Publicó libros (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) y participe de antologías y revistas publicadas y traducidas en más de 100 países.
Ha sido designado como Embajador de la Palabra y la Paz por diversas instituciones: WWPO (USA), Círculo de Embajadores Universales de la Paz (Francia / Suiza), Fundación César Égido Serrano y Museo de la Palabra (España).
Reside en Rosario, Santa Fe, República Argentina.
BRIEF BIOGRAPHY of:
Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO
Born in Gödeken, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic. Writer, poet, jury in international literary contests. Digital journalism. University Professor at the Faculty of Law of the UNR, in the subject Argentine Constitutional History. Member of CICSO (Social Sciences Research Center). REDIM Technical Secretary.
He has worked as a Special Correspondent for various international Art and Literature magazines (Cañ @ santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
She is a member of the Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Union Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), the César Égido Serrano Foundation, the United Nations of Letters (Ave Viajera and the World Seeds of Youth Project), among others. Currently he is a special contributor to AZAHAR Poetic Magazine (Spain), PLUMA and TINTERO Literary-artistic Magazine (Spain), KENAVÒ Literary Magazine (Italy) and OFRANDA LITERARA Magazine (Romania) where he is also a member of the Editorial College.
He has obtained distinctions and prizes in international contests and contests for short stories, narrative, short story and poetry. He published books (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) and participated in anthologies and magazines published and translated in more than 100 countries.
He has been designated as Ambassador of the Word and Peace by various institutions: WWPO (USA), Circle of Universal Ambassadors of Peace (France / Switzerland), César Égido Serrano Foundation and Museum of the Word (Spain).
He resides in Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic.
