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Best Poems Written by Marco Chies

Below are the all-time best Marco Chies poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Novalis

nor our whispered word
or smiles screams tears matter
you me we nothing
but avalanche of blood yes
time crushing everything yeah
and the heavy hot sun he too
because everything is empty of the past
absent from the future
just this quick present
uncertain
unclean
devastating

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Qaress Genisless

when the diver
with his deluded desire on fire
juxtaposed the diving suit
and found false gold ingots at the bottom of the sea,
he had the vision of Eden obliterated by fire,
because if immersed or submerged as a result of errors,
you find nothing inside or outside of yourself
that is not a simulacrum of what is real,
for in the stationary orbit of irregular thoughts,
the phatic chains collapse
and what was wild about you natural
today is a modern polymer so processed,
to the point that the rattle of these failures
subdues an entire strain of humanism
that we happen to have one day
and our current mix of insanity and obsession
it is just what does not free us from more abysses,
not even if unhappiness depended only on it
or if the risk of succumbing as a gender
no longer exist in us unnecessary.

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French Fries, Salt, Paprika and Ketchup

Crazy.
I thought of those recurring words.
the ones that always come back.
will they one day save me?
nonsense as a simple interjection.
or the last word of an old movie.
the way my mom says 'never'.
or a strange last name.
the brand of a product already out of the market.
and that's all that occurs to me now,
while playing 'death in june' on spotfy
and I eat french fries with paprika,
salt and ketchup.
hot afternoon in the south of the planet,
coca cola is out of gas and I don't care
because I think about the ice cream later...
I miss when I was a teenager,
by this time I would be in my room,
in front of the mirror,
squeezing pimples,
imagining how I would conquer the world.

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Crackhead

it's a beautiful day
and i'm passing through this cursed place:
they are celebrating free lunch at crack land today!
on the dirty and horrible street,
zombies walk around wearing rags.
gathered in small groups,
they burn crack rocks nonstop.
small arguments on street corners,
two bums exchange punches
and nobody cares about the guy knocked out,
moaning and bleeding along the gutter.
a charity institution decided to help,
made food for this horde of desperate.
watching the chaotic line for lunch,
I saw a girl who was once beautiful
and beside her a gigolo smiles toothlessly.
when she notices my insistent gaze
she tries to fix her hair 
and she arranges her disheveled clothes.
finally, she throws a can of beer at my car.
I soon realized that this was not an attack:
she just defended the dignity she still had
as if she said: I'm not exactly that!
and your eyes have no right to judge me!
I accelerated and got out of there.

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Milton's Curse

(On this last night insomnia did not allow me to sleep. The recurring image of the stone giants contained in Milton's poetry assaulted my mind. The way I found to 'take revenge' was to honor him with this poem).


again a broken night...
dawn of poisonous delusions
eyes that refuse rest
trying to keep fixed on something terse
body that denies brain command
maybe it's some kind of modern curse
something that prevents sleep from coming
as if there was a threshold
of old rocky sentries
equal to those created by Milton Hankins
in 'Old Sentry Standing Guard'
menacingly posted
between the concrete of wakefulness
and the dream and its shards
not sleeping would be wanting to tie life
and not let it grow old?
this is the meaning of the craft of writing
this is the power a poet can have
enable the creation of the imagery and the unreal
with such a strong force
able to turn the verb into truth
able to build a new reality
or find the fountain of eternal youth

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Psycho

trapped in the category of basic feelings, attesting to the functional regularity of the average human and demonstrating the crystal-clear predictability of their secular behavior, hatred, love, envy and jealousy consolidated practically all the advance and retreat of a race that eternally gravitates around its own navel, growing at the limit of the satisfaction of instincts and collapsing to the exact extent and at the time when it judges itself full and satiated, ignoring or comfortably avoiding understanding that both transcendence and evolution require the uprising of satiety, since this in everything resembles resignation and cowardice.

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Anterarch

her spine that musical instrument
I strummed plucking sounds chords and tones
in axis, the toothed vertebra
she turned her head saying she knew
everything I know she didn't know
about heathen nights and their shifting moons
or all jesus christs in christianity but it's a lie
as I climbed my fingers now in atlas
carefully completing the bone contour
even in her eye there was a grimace
the rain started at that unexpected time
hence the absurd and sudden silence of the dogs
before scared of the moonlight.
I have walked these medullary paths for centuries
watching a vertebrate world under warm skin
the panting breath of one who will love
and on the outside the metamorphosis that makes us replicate
honeyed songs and languid concepts of what's sensual
because the touch that compresses the column
squeezes and grabs the body planet by the spine
allows me to foresee the rheumatic pain of tomorrow
the thorny gorges we'll walk through in trauma
sneaking us away from the blatant truths
that no one really wants to know.

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Bingo

I'm an old woman sweeping the sidewalk
organizing in the street my autumnal mental chaos
I have bitten nails like someone who watched a lot of television
my eyes scared to see the violence of the calendars
saw yesterday that my keychain collection is dusty
and sleep in the back shed with my broken bike
now that my unemployed son has divorced
I left him the master bedroom
that I once shared with his dead grumpy father
I hope he doesn't bring it home
the shameless ones he finds at the bar
an old woman like me only got one thing to celebrate
It's when a sunny Sunday afternoon arrives
and I go running to bingo to bet and date

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The Strangest Me I Have

the strangest me I have
attended this morning in mind
pointing out things I didn't know
about myself
for example the power of resignation
that I demonstrated by not rebelling
when the garbage swallowed my convictions
and also the ability to heal myself
of the painful wounds that were inflicted
by the continual battles of contradictory thoughts
the weirdest me take charge sometimes
if higher emotional intelligence is needed
to resolve these existential questions
for which I traditionally have no answers
for being a complete idiot
when the matter concerns
to something other than
the usual simple and regular self.

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Room 402

these footprints and this thread we leave there... something that we would unroll to guide ourselves. just like when I stopped the car on the side of the road to see the dragonflies flying in a straight line, but I didn't once question why they fly towards the sea, even though it's so logical to ask.

if each chapter ends like this before the end... like these certainties that we have almost complete, like these irrefutable but foolishly uncertain truths... I know there's no way back inside our department store, impossible to go back upstairs in the stock sector only to find and retell those colorful pieces that seemed to be the charming answers that today confuse what we think we are.

(or was it just our young eyes, our curious and inexperienced gaze, and would it be permissible or decent to imagine happiness as something full of colors, having no idea how we would wound to death the naive monster made up of desires we inadvertently created?)

now the dark creature that inhabits us has stripped off its fantasy of simple rebellion and rises and struggles in agony, it rants and roars, it thrashes and resists dying. but no streams of light that we imagine we have created to illuminate or drown that unrestrained wrath, flow brightly into the barren and dry today.