Vulpis Polaris


Since I’m a sensation fancier

When I am broke and need to satisfy my appetite for travel,

A light solution with no additional expenses

Is to turn on my inner radio and tune into the most distant radio station:

Radio Antarctica, transmitting from a crystal desert.


This far far away radio

Broadcasting beams of whale songs across continents

Confirms that in my brain the scheme is different than I thought:

First, that my brain occasionally exists,

Poring on details such as a flower-head in yellow butter

And it can even count the number of the petals!

The second part is simply devastating:

There is no line to mark, from left to right, the hemispheres

And in this context, Huston, we have problems,

‘Cause I can’t stay away from instantaneous imagination

I’m merging space and time in one dimension

Creating confused stares in your mind’s ears.


Same illnesses persist inside my heart, beyond religion,

Where I’m a listener in a state of conflict with my replicating fingers,

So to question this sensation of typing empty spaces fast

Or killing predicates in phrases, is nonsense!

If letters sink, drowning along the subject,

It’s not just for the sake of art, but for myself

To such a great extent that I

Can launch in Space my self-made rockets.

So it’s a must! And to disrupt my rhymes’ fragility,

Is basically called: kick in the butt!


?? Alas, Is there something in my wireless as wild as sex?

Is this the reason why my mind finds mammoth seals hot merchandise?

How should I know?! I’m not a rolling stone…

To skip the criticism of citizens I follow chronicles of the Apollo 11,

by counterbalancing effects of human nature with just a line:

Before you speak of moon dust, quote: “I wish you could smell some.”

Thus, stop being so abstract, or otherwise, I’ll write a science fiction Poem of the Cid,

In our times. So let me be and nothing else.


Out there in the distance of my central nervous system,

DJs are not allowed to play music,

Because illusions along the frozen waves of the Antarctic Ocean,

in monitors flow optical.

Only fairies and operators spin the records in my inner ears

Like circus acrobatics with no mercy

straight from the Source at any early hours,

Mostly nocturnal. And when we talk about emotions,

Ice crushers aren’t jokes, but fire:

One electrical stormy-bit per 1/4 second,

With flashlights in the background, bends my bones.


Of course I know I’m just a box – of resonance –

For ultrasounds of submarines that disappear in clouds

And sink in other worlds.

And even if it’s strange for me to say it,

Because I fly in Cosmos when I get the chance,

Sometimes I think that being only human

– although it’s just a joke – it’s not that bad.

But am I not! I never take the lifts or climb the stairs,

because on Mars, which is too far away, they’re ephemeris.

So, I choose stars.



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