poems by T.S. Hidalgo

Kanovitz’s Vernissage, by Haneke

(The McDonaldization of terrorism)

 

George Ritzer and a corner are not the same thing:

enclosed, the vernissage fifteen, in an unending McDonald’s,

in the attic of a skyscraper,

gasoline smell and no Process,

without having been able to call your loved ones

(or already having lost them? maybe).

In this billionth case of terrorism,

they detected you had arrhythmias,

all sorts of disturbances

(one of the fifteen lost the twins he was waiting for);

no medication none,

yes, really, all of this is, potentially, a red Postdamer Platz:

no coffees no theaters no tobacco shops no square:

a terrace, an attic:

just a desert a yard a Gothic cemetery.

Those fifteen arrogant bearings

would have to return humiliated:

you, for whom spring was consecrated;

no medication none,

yes, really, all of this is, potentially, a red Postdamer Platz:

no coffees no theaters no tobacco shops no square:

a terrace, an attic:

just a desert a yard a Gothic cemetery.

Those fifteen arrogant bearings

would have to return humiliated:

you, for whom spring was consecrated;

 

 

 

 Separatists

It’s not like waiting for the trial and that’s it. The answer might be in some other black box. Solid cold: burn the flags. All of them. A flag implies four states of matter: what leaves, what cannot leave now or in the future, what enters, what will not enter. In this regression, through the stained glass of the Cathedral of Brussels, I can see the hand of Adam Smith, upside down, in front of his radiant face. International observers betting in the surrounding area while they admire the silver blooms against the darkness.

This winter is like last year’s: in Great Britain they expected heavy rains, with the charge of snow: the gaze on feet (unusual landscape in Barcelona too, which many have wanted to immortalize). The City Council of Ancient Greece will testify in the lawsuit as private prosecutor.

 

 

 

Song-objection-obsession, facing a grave not William Carlos Williams’

 

In a tank, the cited obsession.

A prosperous eccentric, war veteran,

decides, every once in a while,

to steamroll the door of a nearby cemetery,

pulls his body up through the hatch,

and hums, walking through hallways,

names of his fellow soldiers,

there, under his eight wheels,

while, in the background now, he thinks,

facing the cross of his beloved, to himself

“We weren’t married yet, of course,”

but, also,

“These are just the rules, right?”

 

 

 

Lolitas Store

 

It’s usually argued:

the Old World descends, say, from Jerusalem, from Athens;

misogynist really, since the dawn of time,

i.e. droit du seigneur, or burning of adulteresses.

In Ancient Greece,

the nobles had a predilection for their ephebos

(from behind…is that love too?),

with the females relegated to a secondary circle;

in the sacred scriptures they’re referred to as vipers,

synonym of perdition

(word of God).

Taking it to an extreme and familiar case,

we find misogynists like Voltaire, like Frederick the Great,

proponents of enlightened absolutism.

Ehh…I’m not sure,

in the same boat as well, perhaps, Mallarmé

(“Perdition was my Beatrice”).

In that way even Marx, even Engels:

women stopped then from being marked territory.

Are you not going directly home today, sir?

Well… You can always hire someone.

 

 

 

Dead bullfighter in front of a mirror

 

The roses don’t work,

I’m dead I’m ashamed,

in my left side, too red, the blood doesn’t work,

no tears, the infinite awaits:

you, surrounded by bulls,

you had just recently been unaware of it:

the patient gods yearn to submerge themselves in our fears.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.