Poem Friday,

Three wars at once
extending their legs and marching,
all the treasuries are darkened

newspapers flutter, with atrocities to report, they curtain the faces of the well-centered against rain from sun
My private suffering had been too heavy,
a small lunar bird who was
removed, eschewed
evicted from the branches of the wisteria tree in which
a city was built before
before the in vitro birth of fear
For fear had no mother

small and it weighs more than the Indian ocean

that pressed the island of the dead between its legs
and all the sand of the desert of Santiago del Estero
in my hands,
I am loneliness,
my tribe eradicated until my tribe became loneliness

now there is no more room, the world
an infested lung,
where will I crawl unto? I cannot be a good soldier
I cannot be a martyr carrying the people’s breadmill
and swim in the ocean of all their vast sweat
what gets called swimming is too often
a slow corrupt drowning, it takes an expert swimmer to know.

for I was no tourist in the sea without craft.
How am I going to live

–poem by Arturo Desimone, July 2014

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to the Literary Bureaucracy (poem)

you interrupt god
and you allow the chatter of winter mermaids 
their unearned triumph
triumph should be earned, 
I want to earn my death, one that is perfectly mine, 

so little is completely mine, maybe only my poems until

bureaucracy puts them in its mouth for a wine tasting

and says ”we absolutely cannot use this,

we need vinegar

for our American salad”

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poem haj poem today

not alone, not at all
my brother is the misunderstood carrier

of the cosmic knife
my brother: the chivalrous,  mercy-bringer
vilified as executioner

by  afraid villagers,  they expect to live forever,

they want to sleep with the famous and to vote for absolute evil

in the elections of the continent of good ideas

My sister is the muse, my lover yet another muse, and also my sister
my mother
the desert,
my only mother

and never breathe an oxymoron like father-land
never utter that lie, hateful toxic as frangipani grapes, they grow in desert islands too

my brother: the famished hoodlum waits just around the corner
his leg extended hoping to trip up a somnambulant
dreams are hoodlums, they break in to rob in the midday

they wear thin muslin over their eyes and see through it,

pretending to be pitiful blind men waiting by the traffic light by the lantern bright and useless

Somnambulants, at times, are unsuspecting

I am the son of Hajar, fed on Hajar’s milk

her mouth was parched then

the dietary law

forbade she drink of her own milk


we were once a Zoroastrian family circus,

the others died, I am the only survivor
and learned to drink from the sea, while letting the salt and death drop out the other end of my mouth and ear

technique, hard work, skills
neither a miracle nor gratitude
not an especially adept tongue
that refined what I licked up from hands just wading
here by the innocent wadi:
a desalination plant, the size of ten tears
was hidden in a point,
vowel-coordinate just above and behind my  second lung
next to a persecutor that propels me somnambulant
to look for more water, for night-miasmas
for fish for my mother Hajar’s medulla at night

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Against all Exorcisms

FOR An art with demons against an art of sublimation


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July 2, 2014 · 8:34 am

Poem I wrote while my other hand-eye read Jean Genet

from jg
that squealer queerer
answerer ghoul birdfaced,
of quandaries
from soul-brigade
that rat,  
that squanderer
hides-squeezing a sphinx into dark
invisibility his ass
 a conjurer of mysteries
he is equal to
a bird that eats carrion fish
sings carrion 
fish from coasts of Barbary lined with
white walls of prisons
guarding the sea from the thieves who would steal turquoise
carrion birds, noble swine and turquoise stone
are not meant to be eaten 
by the laws 
of the priests who pray law into sunlit air
of dead crossroads
hoodlums’ halakha

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cynicism is not subversion. It is cynical to make the confusion of these two, the error is always intentional. 


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June 19, 2014 · 11:03 pm


Originally posted on LOVEARTNOTPEOPLE:



Brevísimo diccionario de una impostura

Por Avelina Lésper

Nunca estará de más cuestionar el mal arte, o anti-arte, como lo llama la autora de este implacable diccionario que desnuda imposturas, ideas y actitudes que se han incrustado en el ámbito del arte contemporáneo.

© Martin Creed

Arte burgués.— Es un anti-arte burgués y ocioso que desprecia el trabajo. Artistas que no trabajan, no estudian, no hacen. Roban, copian, designan, sobrevalúan sus objetos por un capricho de la moda, exaltan el consumismo. Es el gran elogio a la decadencia del capitalismo.

Arte conceptual o contemporáneo.—Las obras a las que se denomina arte contemporáneo son conceptuales porque en todas son las ideas y el discurso el único peso intelectual que poseen, y es el concepto lo que les da sentido como arte. La acepción cronológica, al ser siempre inestable, es inexacta. Cualquier obra —desde el ready made…

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