After publishing 5 collections of poetry in Spanish with the literary house, Omicron in Catalunya, Moreno moved to UK in 2010 to initiate his jaunt of poetical creation in the English language. Since then, published "The Hollow Tortoise," with Orion Contemporary and "Nights in Mesogeois" with Annexe Mag and "The Moon and the Sparrow," (Omicron Press). in 2018 he is finishing two collections simultaneously, "Camp Bastion" and "The Passer by" which will be published before January 2019. His poetry is a fusion between his Anglo-Saxon and Mediterranean poetic realities. Music and expression in Spanish metre and English words. Critically acclaimed by the underground Barcelona and London poetry scenes, he is known as a bard and a troubadour with endless creativity and passion. Check out the poems in our READ ME page. 

Angel of Fear

 

 

He turns up at night,

when clocks stop,

parading his wings

like a white peacock.

 

Shh! I say, It’s late

and I cannot sleep.

But he is just there

spinning the News.

 

He does not drink,

puffs menthols sadly

and scuffles around like

an unsettled duck.

 

I want to scream,

fold up his pennons

and dispatch him home

but he’s too shrewd.

 

Poetry is easy to write

but onerous to master.

You’re one step, he says,

from playing the fool.

 

When he finally goes

I line-up my pens,

I string my guitars,

and replay his voice;

 

I remember then

what angels are for.

They trick our fiends

into wrestling the void.

Angel of Fear

Angel of Randomness

 

Quantum silhouettes of fire,

varying whistles of steam,

a school friend materialises

in the hippodrome of thinking.

 

The beauty spots I marched to,

hearts I lost, the tricked mirrors

which taught me how to run,

the tentacles of your psyche.

 

The ecstasy of final mistakes,

a Trojan horse of hereditary fears,

the gilded bat of deep romance

no certainty would reverse.

 

Here, angel of randomness!

Fate is privy to your whims:

you make heroes into fools

and bastards into kings.

Angel on a Scaffolding

Do angels need scaffoldings?

Do they need stilts or bars?

Or are their limbs enough

to keep them in the air?

 

I have seen angels collapse

like cones from a tree,

a talent for flight turned

to composite clowning.

 

Give an angel a bottle

and they might aviate,

but fifty bottles later

they require traction.

 

An angel is like a kite,

it brokers with winds,

intemperate and wild,

bred in higher pastures.

 

People want an angel

to push them off a hill,

to watch them gander

into the violent ether.

 

But every active angel

left an aviary behind.

Give them scaffoldings,

long bars of repose,

 

before their feathers move

and our apathy goes.

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