A Spanglish blog dedicated to the works, ruminations, and mongrel pyrotechnics of Yago S. Cura, an Argentine-American poet, translator, publisher & futbol cretin. Yago publishes Hinchas de Poesia, an online literary journal, & is the sole proprietor of Hinchas Press.

Monday, April 27, 2009


The tattered man shrank back abashed
afraid that the gospel of hosts, the spiel
of spite directed towards the exploding gentry
were not a wall of ammunition but a colossus of speakers

Come alive, at the beck, of a villager with meager dowry
who comes to realize the extreme good fortune, the Fortuna
of a grove near the river, a surge protector fortified
with the doctrine of a mortar landed from outer space

The villagers threw out their chocolate because decadence
feeds on the brine of the stratosphere; they knelt and thought
a species of kelp that grows from all the colors except
India ink, Two-Tone Chloroform, Brackish Turpentine
and flat Jolt Cola (minus carbonation, of course!)

And now when I close my ears off to the city, when
I wade in ipod embolism audio conflation booster seat
I swear I can hear them villagers kneeling in silent asking
and it sounds like Chaka Demus and Pliers or Spragga Benz!

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

my def tone chakras are pulsating, me know not what you speak, but that it is spoken