Excerpt:
*BLESSED DAMNED HOUSE
I. The Mud
I am hungry.
A hunger for love and disappointment.
They offered me their honey
And I chose the shit.
I tasted both.
Sweetness and rot.
And my heart kept beating
With the same hollow rhythm.
They told me my place was the altar
Or the sewer.
They lied.
I belong only to this space in between,
To this solitude
That is my only natural state.
II. The Threshold
The mind cracks open like a jar,
And a thousand prophets sell you the cosmos in a new bottle.
They teach you to breathe to avoid feeling.
They hand you a map of the heavens
And charge you for each step.
You walk their paths of incense and spellcraft,
Believing the wound can be healed with an ointment.
But every answer is a new cage,
A faith that teaches you
Not to look.
** III. The Forge**
And one day the dogma explodes.
There is no cosmos, only splinters pecking at your hand.
The taste in your mouth is ash and tedium.
Anger is not a roar, but the core’s clarity,
A fevered silence
That consumes the ancient form within
And curses the faith that made you believe.
There is nothing outside anymore.
Only this body.
Only this pulse.
And you hear for the first time.
Not the voice of the heavens,
But the hymn of blood.
The gospel of flesh.
IV. The Manifesto
Black drops of agony rain down,
Wrapping flesh in its fiery pain.
Wailing voices on the banks of the Styx,
A last spasm of blind fervor.
The gods offer no comfort, only point a finger:
“Go inward, find your own creed.
Or taste the asphalt of your grave,
And let the rest drown in grief.”
In the gloom lights a beacon:
It is love for others.
Take my flesh and wear it as a mantle;
It would hurt more to see you bleed.
It is no choice, it is primal law,
The only truth fire cannot burn.
Compassion, on its mortal throne,
Shows us the faith Gehenna cannot kill.
Do not look away, watch the dancing pain.
Do not cover your ears, hear the constant scream.
Do not hide your flesh; take a knife, trace it with flowing red.
It is the pulse of life.
Let the gleam of the quiet soul shatter,
Let the shard of another pierce your peace.
No illumination shines on the bright summit,
Only on the wound that makes you capable.
Lives shorter than a breath,
Held in the silence of oblivion,
Reveal the fragility of the path,
Here we can all bleed.
So do not plead, do not offer a beyond.
Do not sell the drug of a “better place.”
Honor this earth, this only soil,
Where love is a verb not learned by burning incense.
It is felt in the heartbeat when watching companions
Dragged in the indifference of moral superiority.
We are the chorus of this finite flesh;
The only sacrament is the screaming wound.
V. The Coda
And in the end, there is no sustaining answer.
Neither this poem, nor the pain, nor the comfort…
…"*
–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–