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| Charles Barriere |
MIDNIGHT RIDER
It’s October…
Time
Of the Full Moon in bloom
Creatures creepin’
Voices whisperin’
—Rejoice
In the silver gloom—
In the latest obituaries
And a Reaper dressed in black
For the lovers
And the fighters
And the things that won’t come back.
In the shape
Of your own demons
And the memories behind,
They say:
Sure, love’s gonna get ya,
Lady Death’s
Not hard to find.
At the bottom of a bottle,
Even
Hangin’ in the gallows,
Where some wicked birds of prey
Feast
On mournful scenarios.
Where still prays
An eerie horseman,
Holdin’ hell’s fire in his sight,
With a special taste for sinners
In this dark
Unholy night.
He commands the Devil’s stallion,
It’s the bronc no man can tame
With a rope
Or with a shotgun—
Let me tell ya—
It’s just the same.
Ridin’ free
The roads & valleys
Of this God-forsaken town,
Leavin’ brimstone
In them boots
Of the souls he’s puttin’ down.
Some just call him
Midnight Rider,
Been for centuries around,
You can tell
He’s comin’ near
By his Smith & Wesson’s sound.
Holdin’ hell’s fire in his sight,
Ridin’ free,
The Midnight Rider,
On the horse
That Satan tamed,
Leavin’ words & prayers scattered
On the red dirt
And the mud
Of this God-forsaken town.
Once you hear his evil whistle,
There’ll be no safe place around.
PATMOZ
Lotta questions
for the Mighty Wizard.
Emerald City ain’t too far from here —
keep an eye out on the rearview mirror.
Push the pedal,
‘cause the Witch is near.
Everything’s a revelation, baby —
I guess John might not be thinkin' right.
Scarlet beasts
ridden by Roman harlots,
on a fever
of the Patmos night.
Tales of thousand allegories,
Emerald City
shall be swept by rain.
In the meantime, this accordion
will play music
as we die in vain.
And the Witch will pour some stories
in the cauldron,
like she did before —
’n Dorothy won’t find her slippers,
not in Kansas,
not here anymore.
And she’ll face the great tornado
in the depths of Patmos Island’s womb,
armed with brains
and heart
and valor —
all her enemies shall be consumed.
In the fire
that rains from Heaven
over flooded yellow brick a-roads,
over Patmos
and its million sinners
and their cynical, heretic gods.
Lotta questions
for St. John the Wizard,
and the Harlot
and her Scarlet Beast,
while a Lion’s eagerly devouring
saints & virgins
in a righteous feast.
There’s a Scarecrow
burnin’ in desire,
watchin’ Dorothy cuckoldin’ him
in a motel on the coast of Patmos —
fucks with Carroll,
Christian & the Grimm’s.
And the Tin Man,
heartless as a lover,
will behead Locasta,
who’s the Witch of North,
‘cause the omens wouldn’t be revealin’
every prophet here at Satan’s Court.
They realize
their worlds are now collidin’
at these realms of long-forgotten lore.
Crowned
in an Emerald Palace
reigns a madman —
wiser than before.
THE GHOST OF BORGES
Talkin’
to the ghost of Borges
and the shadows on the wall,
'bout the mysteries of knowledge
in this cold, deserted hall.
Changin’
some eternal lines
from a poetry never written,
laughin’
at the so-called wise men
and their souls that stay unbeaten.
Talkin’
'bout the Judgment Day—
Bibliotheca Universalis—
ruled by rabbits,
naughty Hatters,
and a kinky girl named Alice.
Sinkin’
in the very words
under
Buenos Aires moon,
talkin’ to the ghost of Borges
on a rainy night
in June.
Toastin’
to the lurkin' shadows
and the fiends beneath the bed—
even as the years go by,
there's some things
that stay undead.
Some of them
are merely shadows,
dancin’
underneath the torches.
Some of them
are my own lines,
bowin’
to the sight of Borges.
Rise,
and keep us company—
silvery
Buenos Aires moon—
talkin’
to the ghost of Borges
on a rainy night
in June.
A CONVERSATION WITH VIRGIL
Deco dreams
and midnight storytellers.
Fairy tales are written
in the dark.
Happy endings are just the beginning
in the trembling voice
of a monarch.
Muscadines & ever-bloomin’ roses —
gardens
of the fundamental sin.
Twenty lines of an eternal poem,
twenty tattoos
coverin’ her skin.
Symphonies
from long-forgotten eras.
Lilith in a cynical disguise
used to cast a spell over us —
writers,
and the words we never
shall baptize.
Elements from a profane religion.
— Virgil —
will you guide me to the light?
Got no time
for hellfire revelations,
’cause Beatrice is now
my acolyte.
Comedies
and Lucifer’s victories,
burnin’
in the corners of my mind.
Heaven’s just a cabaret for Tories,
where the stars are far
from bein’ aligned.
— Tell me, Virgil —
who’s my storyteller?
Who’s the man
behind these broken lines?
Is it a chaste creator of illusions,
or a god
of thousand concubines?
I, VOYEUR
Streetlamps flickerin'
over drenched streets,
moonlight drunks & boulevards,
empty strip clubs
where oblivion's dwellin',
healin' memories & infected scars.
Harlot queens
lurk in the darkest alleys,
twisted stories are their fairy tales,
and some lovers try to escape
this madness
with their borrowed love
inside the cheap motels.
Mixin' love songs
and some careless whispers
with the liquor of their sweetest lies—
replicate the power of the thunder—
while a city built in concrete
dies.
I'm a witness
of this desolation,
I'm the spokesman of this decadence,
I'm a loner in the last pub open,
drinkin' bourbon
with their innocence.
After all,
this could not be my dream job:
sharin' sadness in these simple words.
I'm a prophet.
I'm a liar.
I'm the fixer of their broken worlds.
BIO
Charles Barriere (San Antonio, Texas, 1981) studied Hispanic Literature at the University of Granada, where he was a student of the poet Luis García Montero, whose influence decisively shaped his literary sensibility. His work is defined by a fusion of Texan and Spanish roots that converse with a critical, lyrical, and melancholic vision of contemporary experience.
Author of poems and short fiction, he has explored memory, the city, and uprootedness in works such as Ghosts and The Four O’Clock Show, the horror novel The Rise Of The Beast and Freightliner, his most ambitious narrative project to date.
His writing moves between the intimate and the social, between poetry and narrative, with a style that seeks to leave a lasting mark on the reader’s memory and to build a bridge between tradition and modernity.
