Art #short prose #prose poem

He hunted for reasons upon which he could build his resolutions.

He hunted in the wrong place for art is not the space of reason, nor is a ratio of whole numbers.

Art is the space in which the profane lays so close to the divine that one would rather find room to breathe through the eye of a needle than to separate the two.

And so is love.

@short-prose-fiction(Gabriela M)

image:  Hare Krishna; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Sunday on another latitude #poem #poetry #prose poem

The smell of orange trees blooms in my hair.
Days of magic: a lily and a rose.
A purple sky bites from the imperishable yellow coiled around your finger.
Dark injured blood taints the possibility of the sunset.
The exertion of a prayer.
The reflection of our faces in a desiccated well.
Sunday on another latitude.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)
My blog ranks 20th in “Top 100 Poetry Blogs & Websites to Follow” according to Feedspot.

 

Identity #short prose #flash fiction

“We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behaviour and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it. I can think of no better identification.”

Lawrence Durrell,  Justine

_

Anything can be said about that city, but one can never say that it does not have a distinct identity.

During the humid autumn evenings the city looks like a wounded being, nursing her own lacerations. On the sidewalks the smell of dust overpowers the stench of cigarettes, and alcohol coming from her tiny, obscure pubs.

Clandestine risings to power, luxury cars zipping by, casinos filled with shady characters, rats zig-zagging in the basements of old buildings. Plenty of frustrations running through the city’s blood like thousands of white blood cells through the veins of an infected patient.

A sea of beggars at every street corner: amputated hands, deep lesions, winkled faces painted in the colors of dirt. Pain exposed in plain view like art objects in museums: the only difference being that pain is free; the entry in most museums is not.

In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to eradicate it at the first sign of dawn.

We tried to satisfy our egos.  We ended up satisfying the city’s need to devour us.

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

 

fires #poem #poetry

fires burn rocks in the mountains
fountains in the parks burn our hearts
I dip my hands into the seven parallels of love
I spin the planetary souls on both my arms
a bird pulls at its feathers in the mirror
the wilderness of autumn
puts on its lipstick

insanity throws stones into a garbage can
exiled from the imagination of Seville
Don Juan lures empty frames inside a bar
your heart meanders among marble stars
scents of flowers, heavy chains 
poetry burns our lips
lonely scavengers of night
you and I

draft
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Brina L. Bunt; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Attention #short prose #prose poem #poetry

I resurrected him.

It was a mischievous act meant to attract the attention of mortals.

Instead I attracted some demons determined to follow me. I locked them in the sockets of time.

I feed them through cracks which propagate at the speed of light.

Bleeding rays of dark suns and dust left from what used to be your affection for me. 

Words left to dry like laundry in the wind.

Words chewing my soul like termites in wood.

My poetic rapport with myself is bad. 

My alter ego hisses like a snake at every word I write.

What’s the truth? I have no idea.

Any act meant to attract attention displaces the truth.

@short-prose-fiction

image: mehmetcan’s portfolio; Shutterstock; [link]

 

autumn neuroses #poem #poetry

your eyes are young
my breath is heavy
sunflowers vanish in the frost
the tea is boiling
and the cat is purring
it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere
while summer comes on Rio de la Plata

I knew a poet who once said
I want to die unknown on Rio de la Plata
his eyes were old
his arms were strong
I ran to you into the northern hemisphere
and autumn came
to bury me in its neuroses’ mold

your body’s warm
my body’s cold
the room is quiet like a tomb
a nun is kneeling in the street
it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere
while summer comes on Rio de la Plata

@short-prose-fiction

image:  Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]