bilingual “Chapbook” of my Letters to Karl Marx and Other Poems. English-Spanish.

La plaqueta bilingüe “Cartas a Carlos Marx Y Otros Poemas.” Editores Hanan Harawi 2017

The series ”Letters to Karl Marx” first published in CounterPunch poet’s corner, then translated and published as “Cartas a Carlos Marx” in Círculo de Poesía Mexico, reprinted in Alephi Magazine. The poem Mule of Metal, Asno de Metal, translated by Jack Little first appeared in Ofi Press Mexico

link to Hanan Harawi’s Zuckerberg-page https://www.facebook.com/hananharawi/


Poems in Drunken Boat #22, with audio and Marie Möör’s French translation and performance: http://www.drunkenboat.com/db22/romani/arturo-desimone
Participación en la antologia en portugués y castellano ”Del Triángulo de Las Bermudas a Lisboa: 25 Poetas Caribeños” en la revista Colombiana El Otro Páramo, 2017, traductora Sandra Santos.    http://www.otroparamo.com/del-triangulo-de-las-bermudas-a-lisboa-25-poetas-caribenos-parte-ii/
 Talk from the Cylinder, poem in The Missing Slate magazine http://themissingslate.com/2014/12/15/talk-from-the-cylinder/
A poem-interview translated by the French singer and poet Marie Möör  in La Revue des Ondes:  http://larevuedesondes.wordpress.com/2014/04/16/les-reponses-darturo-desimone/
Reading My Internet Search for Freedom in a video on the South Florida Poetry Journal SoFloPoJojo Video page http://www.southfloridapoetryjournal.com/soflopojo-contributors.html 
Text of My Internet Search for Freedom http://alephi.com/2016/10/11/arturo-desimones-poems/
Poems for Marine Le Pen on the Outlaw Poetry website
French Gypsy in the Line-up to be Murdered First Reading the Tarot For Marine Le Pen
for Marine Le Pen and her Lapins
Anguishy Sun and Moon Cards Superimposed in the gyp tarrochi
Poemgranat in the Buenos Aires Reader, an Argentine English literary blog/mag https://bareader.wordpress.com/2013/09/04/poemgranat/
“Poem Marrano: Poem of the Converso” in Off the Coast journal, the issue is called “Outliers with Boundaries” summer 2015
 The poem Falasha Hooker in Tel Aviv in Jewrotica! magazine:
I am honored to have a section for my poems in the Winter 2015 issue of Knot lit magazine
 The Stockholm Review of Literature, based in Scandinavia, has named my poem Poem-Haj among its nominees for the Pushcart prize of 2014. http://thestockholmreview.org/the-stagnelius-section/arturo-desimone/
On This Day, poem in Fried American: http://www.friedmagazine.com/art/on-this-day/
My translation of the Azerbaijani poet Imanova Günel Movlud in The Blue Lyra
 “About A Lover From Tunisia”  in the New Orleans Review’s web-features. http://www.neworleansreview.org/a-lover-from-tunisia/
 In the ADIRONDACK REVIEW  translations of poems by the Argentinean Tucumán poet Denise Leon  http://www.theadirondackreview.com/deniseleon.html
 “I Cannot Live Here in the Nethenmark”  is in Soul-Lit: Journal for Spiritual Poetry
 “Travel By KLM” is in the Acentos Review’s May 2013 Anniversary Edition
A poetic short-short-story from Krakow, I wrote it in 2011 http://bigbridge.org/BB17/editorschoice/fiction/Arturo_Desimone.html
More of my poems about Tunisia are also in issue#12 of African Writing Magazine.
 “Inter-Fractalactic Occurences” which I wrote in Buenos Aires
after volume nine where you can read my poem Good Morning Midnight Mass http://www.hinchasdepoesia.com/wp/poesia/good-morning-midnight-mass/
Hinchas curated an online exhibition of my drawings, the section in issue 11
is Drawn from Necessity  by Arturo Desimone
 “Letters to Karl Marx” in Counterpunch Poet’s Basement: http://www.counterpunch.org/2013/07/26/letters-to-karl-marx-by-arturo-desimone/
(Use this poem cycle to anger a doctrinaire or over-rigid Marxist)
For Rosh Hashanah, the wonderful site/magazine  JEWROTICA published my poem Tashlikh http://jewrotica.org/2013/09/tashlikh/
For a romantic Hebrew lesson, read my poem Hebrew for Beginners in Jewrotica: http://jewrotica.org/2013/04/hebrew-for-beginners/
  A series in Horror Sleaze Trash
at Horror Sleaze Trash, for poetry, art and pinup girls (was it unintended coincidence that HST are the initials of Hunter S Thompson?)
Poem “PrimaPoemaNoctis” in Issue 8 of the Belleville Park Pages which is made and edited from Paris, available in UK and Paris bookstores.
 “Stopover in Rome on the way to Buenos Aires” : http://theoriginalvangoghsearanthology.com/2013/03/16/stopover-in-rome-on-the-way-to-buenos-aires-by-arturo-desimone/   (in The Original Van Gogh’s Ear Poetry Series blog and its ebook which should be on the cipher-marketplaces by now)
“The Noise” poem in Shotglass Journal of Short Poems http://www.musepiepress.com/shotglass/arturo_desimone1.html
En Castellano. Video-poema para el proyecto ”migrar es cultura” del museo de  América en Madrid.
Video where I recite my poem “Age 22″ in Spanish and English, participation in the project “Migrar es Cultura” of the Museo de America in Madrid http://www.migrarescultura.es/historias/video-poema/

Thoughts, feelings and all that impractical zero-matter.

I have a journal for those heart and genital outpourings. This blog is just for self-promotion,

I write my name in the dirt so that an aeroplane can see it from its height

where its propellor-eye meets the hawk from right wing party logos,

I write my name not like the boy without arms who touches by operating

keyboards, pens, remote control beds with his mouth,

I write my name with my bottom, I am affirming, assertive, with identity politics,

attitude so I am not on my knees, my knees are under my chin, legs folded

my belly and navel breathe wrath revenge pressed upon by my hips that evaded

the tattoo needles of Arubian brother scum under the influence of herb and synthetic dopeskin

when I was a lost prison child,

only my wrist has the barb wire hieroglyphs, my hands

are busy holding my weight,

it was not enough for me to be a writer

it was not enough for my body full of sadness, hatred,

love and ancestors

to cast a long shadow in the shape of what writes

in the color of what the stylus writes in,

shadows are not enough in the illuminated worlds scintillating

under the bellies of airplanes who cut a throat of their mother goddesses with her umbilicals

when they were born,

I once admired Italian Futurism,

especially the few anarchists  among them who didn’t convert to the fascism,

who didn’t worship Mussolini the aviator and the swiftness of the bicycles,

I drew myself,

I spent years lost in the country of cold and rational shadows of bycicles,

in the kaleidoscope of the shadows of bicycles, who interpenetrate

unlike the dreaming canals, unlike the streets, unlike men and women

my cut was cut to pieces

I was angry that the Italian futurists were ignored today because of political correctness

some mornings I forget my father and then I forget I am a Jew by my mother

some mornings I forget I am an Italian vendor from fort island to fort island

that in Genoa and in Oriental cities I admitted to my religion of the unfasting

I have ceased to fast

I write my name in letters so the aviators of the modern world can see it

by 2018 everyone will be a pilot of an airplane,

a poet thanks to Kraft, a writer

and a singer

hearing aids will make all voices tuned

and the primitive irrational need for Muses self-abolishes

and I find it difficult under time-pressure

of the Christian God Chronos who I hated

to self-promote and be at the same time a good poet, writer

and making of drawings–I draw outside of time,

I write in images

I am a semite lost
and was unable to be sufficiently disloyal to the shadows, the ancestors,
the muses

thoughts, feelings, romanticism

and all that impractical zero-point smatter








underneath the snob appreciator of
Beethoven Granados and Ellington
still making music from their mountain-holes above
as I lecture snide stoop to know-nothings

I look in the mirror and recognize I look like a beaten-up brigand
and suffering wrote a Persian novel on my face
about how Persians were subjected
to sorrow at the hands of brute know-nothings
I am of a horde nameless

an identity cobbled together
of the names of hordes
an identity of the exotic letter-sign names of brothels

existential traumas are uninteresting
compared to the condition of the Horde
every poem bubble out my mouth
is just some bourgeois confessional,
some old Jew’s vaudeville

in this universe one or two certainties abide
one is the sorrow of life,
two, that the Persians were screwed

less certain is whether my groans
are refined
or un-hewn?

you cannot know yourself,
said an Argentinean smart ass to Delphi,
exaggerating the resemblances
between his culture and the Greeks in 2013

On a more intelligent note,
a friend to David, a self-critical activist

human rights archivist
told me that I have been told
I talk to myself in my sleep
in Arabic,
I was arrested,
detained, then released all while still asnore

on a boat from Akko to Alexandria

and should see the mustache  of blood

they carved onto me with knives



there are the aquariums of love

in which the world’s many unrecognized great minds, after removing shoes and sense
soak in to unwind again braving
after the absence of love letters
they checked by running their feet

along the newspaper floor of the cage pantry
in the dark and there were no sharp corners of new envelopes

pricking or cutting their feet, and no words that lodge themselves

like a thorn that hits blood, which is almost as good as hitting oil

there are text-screen urinals of self-promotion
who in their song turn waterfalls
that attract the green Caribbean birds of fortune,
when the promoter-motor sleeps,
in the day the marks of pecks and three-toed feet are left to prove it
like animal’s poems written in flat rocks from the pleistocene of playful

the Evangelical internet ministries of the future
had their smocked augurs  throw shells on the table,
blowing their mystic cigars of new and ancient

uncircumcised foresight:
in these waterfalls of promotion
will be conceived,
seemingly immaculate, the militant management
of the next generation
(the user’s terms cannot deceive)


say into Mainframe like into a shell, an animal skull for prayers,

o great magnet fame, come fill and crush with a final wine of love my skull-bowl

that sings of loneliness, and an oppressive sobriety which led to this uploading silliness

let me feel another’s set of fingers pressing on my skin

rewarding my use words can sometimes fail but that cannot fall

years I wandered through vast plains of self-promotion
in these provinces I learned
from sitting down on my soul between my pants and the stony ground

to sleep alone, at night with a metal eye in my mouth for security,

I learned listening apart the music-voice chime

of the ice-spheres that made their nests

over lost villages, former deserts, flower fields that turned
cold and formal after the unrequited fall, after the disappearance
of undreaming,

undreamed bare legs and milk-breasts

upon the long rain-swept leaves

that were kept by another city,

by the gardeners of Fame when a world of the sacred still existed.


Poem Wedding on an Afternoon

March 58th
year 19891
there was a wedding with god on the guest-list
a chapel was made of acacia-wood and long golden silks thrown in cold sea-wind
there was song and molasses rum in basins, five hundred relatives of bride
two hundred only of groom, shame, awkward
added them up
700 yellow roses were thrown past awe
into the last sunlit wave
and I missed it,
missed it all,
the occasional price of sitting to write for an afternoon.








before the canned razzia insecticide

the spiderwebs that the previous resident had installed

somehow did the work, the cockroaches emerged from

the wet Pampas autumn, but remained small

I bought the little roach motels

one day the supermarket Chinese were out of the little black roach motels

I bought the Raid cylinder and

after a week of using it, the technology of the spiderweb acoustics

seemed no longer operative, like abandoned machine propellors

of Teotihuacan, to which the instructions were lost or ineligible,

can longer make stone cities float in lake winter

the cockroaches are a bit bigger now,

they have a different pattern on their ugly wings, and I hate them much more.

Creative Commons License
poem of self promotional odes by Arturo Desimone is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at arturoblogito.wordpress.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available atarturoblogito.wordpress.com.

Creative Commons License
poemseclusionnoon by Arturo Desimone is licensed under aCreative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at arturoblogito.wordpress.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available atarturoblogito.wordpress.com.
Creative Commons License
after the razzias by Arturo Desimone is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work athttps://arturoblogito.wordpress.com/2013/09/11/before-the-cylindrical-razzia/.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available athttps://arturoblogito.wordpress.com/2013/09/11/before-the-cylindrical-razzia/.

POEM FOEM an Arturap by Arturo Desimone is licensed under aCreative Commons AttributioCreative Commons Licensen-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Based on a work at arturoblogito.wordpress.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available atarturoblogito.wordpress.com.

One response to “POEMS

  1. Pingback: POEMS | arturoblogito

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