Spicaresque:
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.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
LOS ANGELES CO. JAIL SONNET
swastikas and stacks of money, the names of your children drilled in
the forever-face of your first smitten incident among mere simpletons
forehead advertisement, teardrops, neighborhood coordinates in Villainese
old English letters, cryptic, spindly, sanguine alphabet manacles
annoying red lipstick stamp, delicately abandoned on the jugular and neck
your set, your clique, cufflinks of barrio galas, vixens, tributes
Ulna highway signage, Califas in cursive, suspended over dubious flecks
passages of resonance from the good book, Alfred E. Newman's bucktooth
ass, an enormous middle-finger fist pointed at the Erf, a balloon dome
the Misfits logo, bust of my greaser Dad, names of my babies mamas
peckerwood jesters, spider webs in my hairline, or lip trestles blown
full-tilt stupid with earnotes ascending from the sideburn to the canal
and up into the hemispheres of taste, a place where you feel the need
to tattoo kill on your knuckles and punch your way free to an enlarged screed.
the forever-face of your first smitten incident among mere simpletons
forehead advertisement, teardrops, neighborhood coordinates in Villainese
old English letters, cryptic, spindly, sanguine alphabet manacles
annoying red lipstick stamp, delicately abandoned on the jugular and neck
your set, your clique, cufflinks of barrio galas, vixens, tributes
Ulna highway signage, Califas in cursive, suspended over dubious flecks
passages of resonance from the good book, Alfred E. Newman's bucktooth
ass, an enormous middle-finger fist pointed at the Erf, a balloon dome
the Misfits logo, bust of my greaser Dad, names of my babies mamas
peckerwood jesters, spider webs in my hairline, or lip trestles blown
full-tilt stupid with earnotes ascending from the sideburn to the canal
and up into the hemispheres of taste, a place where you feel the need
to tattoo kill on your knuckles and punch your way free to an enlarged screed.
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