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    Under This Killing Moon: Poems
    Under This Killing Moon: Poems
    Under This Killing Moon: Poems
    Ebook378 pages2 hours

    Under This Killing Moon: Poems

    By Juan M. Osorio

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    About this ebook

    Under this Killing Moon is a brief collection of poems among the epiphany, the wrath and the love thrilling in a lonely summer of work and desolation. Poems made while the vane glory and the past afflictions revive with the old grief, the heart-racing touch, the immortal significance of the thoughts and the stories collected in one's life, told as in a short sequence of words, like the series of our life developing term on whatever we enjoy and judge the world by, granting the powerful little window of its description.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateJan 27, 2011
    ISBN9781452088785
    Under This Killing Moon: Poems
    Author

    Juan M. Osorio

    Juan Manuel Osorio was born in San Andres, Colombia in 1993. Reaching the age of thirteen, he came to the United States and has lived in Miami for the past four years. He has written unpublished work of short stories, unfinished novels and letters. He studies in the magnet school in applied arts: Design Architecture Senior High, studying graphic design. In his first attempt to the literary world he has published Under this killing moon a book of poems on which he unravels his thoughts and experiences in the marking way of his perception.

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      Book preview

      Under This Killing Moon - Juan M. Osorio

      Contents

      Salute to the absurd of my contemplations

      Come aboard to the pirate ship!

      Give me

      Water

      Last night a drunk guy came to me…

      The air is spinning,

      If you don’t want soup,

      (My) Room

      If you want to call someone, just call!

      Poetic Dracula

      One channel guy

      That aloof white chick

      This guy called Mr. Weinstein,

      A dollar bill,

      Walking three girls at midnight

      Dexter the Labrador

      Memorable flashes by inspiring foundations of my childhood

      The victim

      4 Dominicans and 4 bitches

      I have this nasty habit,

      Ana María

      One of a kind Friday

      All I do

      Who the hell knows?

      Peace of mind

      Inglorious little bastard

      Got left in the air as if I was nobody

      Sometimes I feel like getting shot,

      This damnable traffic within

      Dexter the Weirdo

      What if I die and this gets famous?

      He loves the idea of Her,

      Quick question

      Baby god,

      Livin’ in glorious misery

      Shifting thru the ashes,

      One day playing basketball,

      Morning piss

      In days like these,

      S dnem rozhdeniya

      A poem to the unnoticeable

      Country soul

      Birthday wish

      Philadelphia girl

      I can’t speak of fame,

      Two hours before flying to Albany,

      Artist in the wrong era

      To unravel the behemoth in my spine;

      Maria the cashier,

      Fired up like a dragon guitarist

      Passing by Life Avenue

      I once rode a road

      Sea food

      Spain, Netherlands, a supermarket, and a dead duck

      She says she’s normal

      Where is the freedom?

      Under this killing moon

      Pain

      There’s…

      Controversial invest

      Untitled

      Young and Old workers

      Intonation of a wild scream:

      Underworld Queen

      Casual defeat and this mocking routine

      A damn fine actor

      Next

      Highly evolved enigma

      A flashy drawing

      The wicked soda-machine and other darn things

      Survivor in the prison of the ignorant

      Overanalyzing thoughts

      They call you crazy,

      Formidable bullshit

      She’s curious like a cat,

      Rather die like a bloody worm

      Meditating on my soul

      Grisly crudeness

      Socialist or animal

      Figure me,

      I don’t have,

      Don’t take them as fools

      A bearded bear drinking beer

      Where the fuck does the lost things go?

      The audacity of a sperm,

      Public sexiness,

      Clinkin’ my beer

      Indecent hangover

      Colombian arepa

      Do you smoke?

      Stop smiling

      Christian call,

      It booms me like a rock

      Incessant wave

      Hit me!

      Overrated females

      Some people can’t stay quiet

      Hey loneliness, how’s it going?

      Atta girls!

      Consumes me well,

      Let me sleep,

      HP Photosmart C4580

      New Millennium

      Acne

      English teacher;

      Cursed chemistry

      M a r v e l o u s d i s o r d e r

      Man up or coward off

      I don’t want to write this poem,

      Bandit

      Ex-neighbor

      The weekend is over

      Future apartment

      Good and bad things

      Abstract delusions

      Cheap women

      While I’m still here,

      Natural ownership

      A black sock nailed to the wall,

      She’s pissed off because I’m writing poems

      Tourists

      Strange thought

      One heretofore hernia

      The rush and the fire

      She’s a senior now,

      Writing is like a wordly dimension

      Where will I end with this,

      Letter

      Salute to the absurd of my contemplations

      Hey, evenings, nights or mornings of the absolute hours that contain me suppressed beneath the peak of the erratic atmosphere of my redemption, which redundancy is the disorder of the capacity, the love, and the adversity. Man suspended in the individual duel of massacres margined by solely one tone, I am like human weapon, against pride’s ray, supremacy of the dry and crude truth that stamps intermittently in the loose crane of my perceptibility, exploding in an abysm in greater depths on which it was desired to handle. Even more while dominated by deliberated solitude, instance leaded, now used to the fact of damnation, or the absurd truths that enigmatize the literary pulses of present letters, taken from the determination and the disconsolation of unbearable forms from a battle that descends in forms of my always adversity. You, unreachable princess of previous prophecies, whose earthly stand grant hallucinating passages to alarming adventures that the heart discard with immanency. And the rind, the peel of my curse errs the parameter of the remaining effect that I, as sustain, have from the memory while that memory bases itself from another that involuntarily multiplies like evening meal that it adopts from your lessons. It divides its thousand exponents from those experiences that highly fell in love with the strength that still circulates in all my being, my soul.

      Scandalized wound, eternal, beautiful, totalized, inspired from seemingly proportion that in indescribable ways outstand every moral or immoral atom that my chemic and ungraspable sake take out of my infamous spirituality. I knit to the ignorant misfortune of the relation and of the powers within myself distributed among the world on which I live and in the existence on which a girl makes this project my very own and worth of itself, since it is guided by my blind care and love, traveling like pirates to the conquest of thee, and with the hope of having themselves capable of grabbing away the solitude that life would be without you, since this menaces to be eternal.

      Orange concepts, voluminous eyelids of almighty presence, of circles incrusted of heavens and infernos of grace, prestigious girl, of a female, unique sensuality of hers, her scent, hair of the blackened lucidity, a softness of her beauty, tender skin, not more than her own beauty from which my profane memory feels her in the extremities of my soul. And the abyss is calm. To present time, capable I do not feel on describing her body in these many letters, since the respect, the sentiments, and an air of idolatry form the sketch by which she revolves on what is left of my sanity, over the blades in the ashes of a world that points me obsessed instead of in love, and in how much I desire on knowing if it’s she the one who also thinks that this, that I feel, is not love, but something else.

      It’s the doubt introducing itself in my mind in the lasting of these days, and if I hadn’t to be as I am, so the understood would be if someone were to know about this, that creaks in the infinity of my interior that for thee, IS love.

      Inspired by Ana María Franco March 26, 2010

      Under this

      killing moon

      Come aboard to the pirate ship!

      Sometimes I wonder

      If I were born a pirate.

      I imagine yellow teethes

      Unshaved chins

      Red and black coats

      Horny men

      And a miserable brown dog

      Found on a boat

      In the middle of the ocean.

      The crew wouldn’t really give a damn

      About the cane

      But it made them laugh

      When they were drunk.

      They would dress him like a lady

      And give him rum

      With fish.

      At nights

      They would throw him

      From the ship

      Just to watch him

      Swim

      And bark.

      Then,

      For no reason at all

      To his neck

      It was tied

      A huge rock.

      Once, by mistake

      the dog got locked in

      a cell

      for three days

      and the next day

      they threw another

      dog (female)

      just to see

      what happens.

      Well,

      After all

      They didn’t have TV.

      Give me

      Give me four stars

      to strike them

      down to earth

      or to hell

      or to the land of rebellions

      of that lordly

      unsubstantial macrocosm

      on which this abnormal,

      erupted ticker of mine

      inhabits.

      Give me that helping hand

      that used to base itself

      in a denied religion,

      and let me slide it with descending gravity

      to reality

      so the fanatics and the sons of God

      are to be shown

      and split

      in their own

      so waited

      apocalypses.

      Give me a fine woman

      and let me squeeze her up and down

      and show her what

      a melancholic

      heartbroken

      and crazy artist

      is able to do.

      Give me hell

      and I’ll have a hell of stuff

      to write about.

      Give me heaven

      and I’ll learn to make of it

      a treasure.

      Give me a pencil

      a white paper

      and something to draw

      and I’ll draw it.

      Give me a good reason to

      believe

      and I’ll most likely

      believe it

      Give me a seed

      and I’ll grow it

      with sun, water

      and care.

      Give me a smack in the cheek

      and I’ll ask you why you did it

      and then

      I’ll decide if turning the other

      cheek

      or to punch you in the

      face.

      Give me money

      fame

      power

      and women

      And I’ll be the same guy,

      just with more stuff

      to deal with.

      And so,

      given this facts

      I give myself a rest,

      and get to be

      outta of here.

      Water

      H2O. Running down the

      windows.

      upon the nightly morrow

      as the street’s lights get

      merged with the

      liquid stream

      sliding

      running down.

      Water, so essential

      so abundant and yet,

      so struggled

      so outpoured

      so composed

      as in the birth sac

      or as the tears coming to

      life.

      A senseless rain, shifting

      rollin’ down the

      crystals of the

      industry.

      Flushy disaster.

      Today’s gonna be

      a watery day

      in down town hell

      down town Miami,

      oh yes.

      Last night a drunk guy came to me…

      looking at my sketchbook.

      And I saw how his little soberness tried

      to find words in that floppy

      mouth of his.

      That’s really good he said.

      Well, I do what I can

      For a moment I thought his left eye was shacking.

      And so he sat, although it looked more like falling.

      We chatted.

      He thought I was Italian

      because of my accent.

      I can’t draw for shit, man

      Of course you can, I said

      Then, he drew a crappy circle

      to prove his point.

      There, it was discussed

      whether art or simple

      common crap

      can be related.

      Art is not only being able to do nice drawings

      I told him.

      He agreed but claimed

      that

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