Ruminations

Sitting in a white room,
Undisturbed by windows and doors,
I close my eyes,
& I can sense your silhouette;
Your warmth, lingering all over the
walls,
And my teeth are falling out one by one,
and there, next to the floor,
I see your arm, peeking in through
the silence, and the infinite
density of all is sinking in,
deep -- right to the wick of
my bones, right into the atmosphere
of my longing.
this white room is not my prison;
it is my delirium. All nothing
and yet, everything is there.
Present.
Total.

Abruptly, everything crumbles into a disenchanted fog of clarity.
Tear me limb from limb with the
web of hair you left
under my nails.
Tear me into a whole piece,
united by the strings and the very fabric of what I was.
Disentangle the cobweb that lingers
on my eyelashes.
Tell me you want more
with the breath of your lips,
with the scent of your morals.

What is there to live for
except love?

Gold and Poinsettias

i fell asleep somewhere between here and there,
and the resonance of tears
flutterin around my ears
like celestial thrumps.

i dont want to know
what the giant hides behind his back;
just tell me where you
keep my secrets.
i will put all the flowers in your hair
if you'll only give them back --
each one dressed with
a kiss.

i woke up somewhere far and near
and all that was left was guilt.
hold my head and tell
me
"December the 6th, exactly"
i promise to know what you mean.
gold. more gold.
all the gold.
and poinsettias;
champagne, too.
hair: red and yellow.
lips: red and lonely.
eyes: blue violet and green, depending on the
         silence.
skin: cold and warm
mind: radiant.
heart: perfect.

A Portrait of a Rainy Night

Fearing the sound of rain,
as the city lingers
in the form of
hallways, highways, parkways,
side-streets, parking lots, empty lots,
stores, bars, cafes, theaters,
and shadows (oh, the shadows)
of where we got to know each other,
of where we came,
of where we came to like each other,
of where we grew to love one another,

I sit and wait.

An Anecdotal Dinner Party

"where did i leave the mona lisa?
how about dali's moustache? is it in the car?"
"why did the violins start on time?"
"don't they know you can't be bother'd?"
"where did you park the minutes i gave you,
i was sure you'd hold on to them
until they matured and became hours -- no matter."
"i'll dress you up, and serve you up on a platter
to welldressed and wellmannered versions of myself
with cavier and mustard." "bring out the
champagne."
"make me delirious"
"give me your maladies."
"i wish to be sick with you."
"hide in my veins; tickle me under my skin.
come here with your throat,
and let me hold it between my hands."
"more violins!"
"more champagne!"
"come here with your whispers
and let me hold them between my lips."
"give me your womb
and i'll hold on to it for safekeeping."
"let me give you the time;
i have no use for it."

"where did i leave the mona lisa?
and the venus de milo" -- "no matter,"
"give me your arms, and stand still."

re: a conversation

1.
svelte subdued tenacity, vibrant eloquent womb
precarious subliminal intimacy, depravity indulged innocence
you give me your hand, i give you cement

the new orchids of starving alligators;
mere repression attacking your nerves -- don't resist

whereever you go, i'll be drowning myself in bestial
sentimentality in hopes of

killing whatever (part of me that) keeps you alive.

spectral divinities of infirm'd saints,
    give me the pantheon of celestial imbeciles
    and pay me alimony give me your tithe
    dream me up some more fucking wine.

2.
wake up in the arms of the one you now hate
because you once loved;
think of the respiratory dandelions,
holding no grudges, showing no vanity.
    where were you when the hunger set in
    and dismemberment was the nationalistic scent
    of fortified troops called "The Whallops"
    as they fought the flower'd wars?

unhold;unwish;unrepent;

design a didactic gospel, veil'd in lubricity
in turpentine
in elastic motives
that leaves unfurnished skin to

[welcome those who come back.]

rest on your grandfather's laurel'd armchair,
thick with illusions.
can you hear the symphonic tenacity?

do you see the vibrancy with which i promise tomorrow?

A Study in the Absence of Reasons

somewhere along
the
      way

i lost sight
of what

but then further
along

the way

i lost sight of
who

and only
just now

did i lose
sight

of why.

now i can start over.

Lost at the end of the day

She came. She saw. She conquered.
& at the end of the day, nobody was there.

The burden of arrogance sprinkled with an ice cold lemonade of disintegrated desires and passion for
Semi-forgotten hard-ons and everyone was gone.

Follow me, October whispers
into the ear of babed loneliness, holding on to the arm of
a quaffed and
Well-groomed innocence.

Dress me in your forgottens, in your remembers,
In your perhapses, and your I guesses.

Nobody is home when the lights are on.
Everyoness out and

youre
too busy growing old to notice.

A Good Old College Try

O tumultuous nature of disillusion,
where is the thirst for life,
for love
for desire
for unabashed passion
for delirious contempt of traditionalism
for desirous mid-afternoon cravings

where is it all hiding?

Open up your wings, your legs,
your lips, your thoughts, your very (fucking) soul!

Wake me up from this fatigue.
Wake me up from this catatonic slumber which has persist'd for the better half of the last decade.
Wake me up! For the hours are long and life is short and that very contradiction can only be solved with your cunt against my mouth and my tongue half way to your lungs.

Destroy me with your truth!
Tell me what makes you tick, what turns you on, what pervades in your subconscious. Open yourself up to me!

Drown me in your dreams. Drown me in your illusions. Drown me in what your perfect tomorrow looks like. Drown me with your juice!

For fuck's sake -- look here, kid: the future is already written, let's imagine something different, and fuck it all up.

I can sit here and pretend that it's all okay, but you said "wait!"

I could've sworn I left the electricity under your mattress.

I could've sworn I left the electricity under your mattress. 

Where is it?

I walked in on you as nostalgia played through the speakers. It hit me with a solidity that reminded me this wasn't permanent.

Allow me (for a moment) to return to the mattress: 

covered in 

fingerprints 

it held your truths. 

Your abysmal sensation.

Where did you leave the fear that once left you crippled and whole? 

I want to wear it as an amulet.

 I want to wear it as 

I wore you once. 

I want to wear it as you wore me 

once.

I have nothing to show for it,

except for longer nails. 

Nature saw that I need a new defense mechanism. 

And this is what it went with. 

What a start! 

What a laugh!

Leave your lipstick where it is, 

but take your pearls. 

They were a present. Not from me. 

Grab me by the throat. 

Choke me until I'm unconscious or horny. 

Choke me until we are fully dressed and

ready to be present'd to the auditorium of nubile paesants and fedora wearers and 

expectant mothers and cross-dressing illiterates.

Let's teach them the lessons they keep forgetting and stop them from repeating the same mistakes.

Hold on to the smoke-screen

Imagin'd only to be the wintry endowment of less than pleasant 

apologies. Leave the winter.

Leave the smudged out and overlooked Truths

on the nightstand. I can sweep the crumbs in the morning. 

Tempt me into a state of near exhaustion. 

Make me have to hold my own head by nightfall. 

Come quickly, then leave. 

An Afternoon Itch

To walk this big prick off
or wait until Nature answers
as a magnanimous whore
would?
"O love! Take me! Fuck me
until the moon is Eternal
and metal turns to gold."

I will fuck until I prove
Alchemy exists
and is real
and is the proper way to invest.

Come to me with your hungry womb
(pause)
Come to me with your engaged hand
(pause)
Come to me and tell me his name tell me what he likes tell me what you like tell me what he tastes like

Come to me and let me make you believe in Godomnipotent
Come to me and make me potent

Quick now, the curtains are rising.

The Esoteric Birds of Praise: A Movement

i.
were there not aggregate
palpable poinsettias ravishing
delicate intricacies of the
befuddled tongues of the
guests at the dinner
party.

where does the time go.

full. stop.

let's concede to the
shadows. let's sacrifice
pretense as though it were
our child
becoming his own
man.

do you hear how
the nightingales
sing in

Greek.


these are not questions.
think of them as melodies.

hum along.

ii.
And in regards to how the light
hits the settled dust,

just don't.

There was an aggressive ferocity
to the manner in which the tea was
prepar'd,
and I can
feel it
on my tongue.
Acidity. Tragedy.
Melancholy.
remember the whistles of
the bluebirds, and
how we laugh'd at
the sound.

iii.
the delegation of underwater
symphonies went
on playing
as the ship swell'd.
what a sunrise!

no hummingbirds were present.

a watercolor

dragging delirous daffodils as
Germanic tongues make their
precious way through
infinite aisles of celery
and artichoke hearts;
how poetic!
what confusion!

the hour stands still
as the old man decays and
brings life to death,
but not before crying
one last time
for the toenails
he hasn't cut since the Hundred Years War:
do we ever really age?
there, on the windowsill,
next
to the
oleander  (lies the truth)
of what happened a day ago --
a lifetime ago--
when the hand stopped ticking
and the ocean stopped waving
and everyone was  at a loss for words,
and the only thing that could be heard
was the song
being sung
by a child
with an outstretched hand
and nobody was there
to hold it,
and so she kept on singing
and she kept on waiting
and singing
And waiting

and just like that the years went by
and our ears got accustomed to the song
that is still being sung
and the hand that is still outstretched
remains outstretched and empty.

Ode to the Passage of Time in Matters of Love & Destiny

i.
We met in the form
of unknown winds,
who when they meet
create such  a movement
in nature that all mortals are
     at the disposition
of our encounter.
believe me, you are
colossal, and in that
we are alike.

ii.
Brilliant fires, desperate cats,
dancers without time, a fucked
shipwreck: in summary,
things I try to imagine
instead of thinking
about you.

iii.
hair made of iron, entrails of
a mannequin, bones of skeletons
forgotten in autumn,
and a drunken reality, that
is what you are
to
me.

iv.
Desolate tides, baseless
premonitions, abysmal thunder,
illnesses created to
pretend that tomorrow
is a new day,
when the truth is that
tomorrow is only
the continuation of today,

and today is when I miss you;
today is when I need you.

v.
child, giant of the occult
poisoned by years of understanding
and deaf ears; puerile touching
that leads us to happiness,
but not perfection,
believe me when i sing and scream
that i love you,
but I need to
forget that you
exist.

child poisoned by
spite, i know your
secrets that only
your fears know, your
terrors,
your ghosts,
your shadows, your
misery.
know me if I say "tomorrow"
and recognize
when I
say "yesterday"

because that is where you live,
and I live in the forgotten.

vi.
Tenderness of God,
imbecile of destiny;
man's dictation.

vii.
Ancient destiny of Villages
converted into cities
of outsiders and
profound extrimists,
guerillas of the forgotten,
yesterday's quotidian children,
customary imbeciles,
and forgetfuls of a pestilential
and difficult truth,

i bless you with a pain
that comes from a tragic century
in a language that is no
longer spoken,
no longer felt, no longer remembered.

O, god! how beautiful the ability to forget.
how beautiful the ability
to make as if nothing happened.
How beautiful tomorrow, full
of possiblities
and absolutions.



Translated from the original Spanish text. 

Observations From a Very Liberal Chauvinist

Profane mother of lustfulness, 

I bless you as if you were 

the ultimate sacred Pagan goddess,

as if you were the last Prostitute

of a long and flaccid

autumn,

as if you were the Sacrificial Virgin

raped at the final moment by those

patriarchal bastards who poison your 

blood in the name 

of 

Systemic Traditionalism,

as if you were the child where 

civilization,

imagination,

the uncertainty of happiness,

and intelligence 

live, 

and tomorrow 

grows in your gorgeous womb,

as if you were the summer of a thousand suns,

and two thousand wisdoms.

Woman, you are the past

and the future

intoxicated with hope. 

Translated from the original Spanish text 

Observacion de un machista muy liberal

Madre profana de la lujuria,

te persigno como si fueses 

la ultima sagrada diosa de los Paganos,

como si fueses la ultima Prostituta

de un otoño 

largo y flacido,

como si fueses la Virgen de Sacrificio

violada al ultimo momento por los 

bastardos patriarcas que envenenan tu 

sangre en el nombre

de la 

Costumbre Sistemica,

como si fueses la criatura en donde vive  

la civilidad

la imaginacion

la incertidumbre de la felicidad

la inteligencia

y el mañana

creciendo en tu vientre hermoso,

como si fueses el verano de mil soles,

y dos mil sabidurias.

Mujer, eres el pasado

y el futuro

embriagada con esperanza. 

Ruminations of a Simpler Time

Entangled in an ever growing bind
of self-loathing, the ocean crashes
and waves wave, all the while
croaks frog, barks dog, meows cat,
shouts woman, ignores man,
burns fire, wets water,
laughs God, and still the earth.

There was never simpler times.
There was only a time without
us suffering for something (or someone)
and that made it simpler.

(there's hands and a violent softness)

(there's hands

and a violent softness)

that's drowning

(and there's lucidity

which takes me under)

like a calming touch

but there's nothing to be done; 

all is desperately reaching 

for the hands that were once there

with their violent softness

(which was nothing more)

than a rouge tenderness 

of a still night

and i can still hear 

the heartbeat

(creaking)

through the ribs you 

let me cling

to when i 

(needed to

and especially when 

i 

didnt need) to

or want to

please, tell the usher

to show me to my seat; 

the stars are         ( unalig)ne d

and youve set the table

for a show. 

a study in denial

i'mm 

glad

i 

can't

hear you

speak

about me;;

i couldn't 

bear listening

to you

speak

in the

past 

tense

"theres no biting of the lips"

theres no biting of the lips

when theres a ripping

at the door

and the only proof of such an event

is the pulsating skin

that youve 

decided to leave on your flesh

and all anyone can see

is you

standing there

taking it all in

absentmindedly

and nothing will ever feel the same

because youve just gone 

through the

rebirth

and fuck all that came before. 

there is but one divine sanctity

left in this momentary torrentiality 

that is the very cataclysm 

of institutionalised absence

of regurgitated diligence

of exquisite stillness

this is but the very moment 

that will lead us to an eternity
which does not exist
in any form
except that of an endless hell

Dream
me up a separate existence;
a drowned innocence

for i have done nothing to
earn this jealousy which fills
me in a way

that is far too real.

given this full disclosure:
Fuck me until I forget who you are. 

There's a violence on the tip of my tongue

There’s a violence on the tip of my tongue:
it smells of the acidic silence

that leaves me shaking 
when your 
voice has decided it is done
filling me with music;

it tastes of the vulgar bitterness

which I feel towards
       the air that moves
                         all around you
because it gets to touch
   every             part                 of you
at all times;

and I don’t even know how to
address the way it 
sounds

because
it sounds exactly like every word
that I am way too afraid to say
because

I am afraid of what
you will say back.

There's this silence in my bones,

There’s this silence in my bones,
and a heartbeat;
it’s aggravating the tenderness in my veins,
and don’t even get me started on my blood.
My nails feel milky and way too neutral,
whereas my eyelashes sound like the ocean 
and smell of a typhoon.
My hunger yearns with the wisdom of faulty 
liver lungs and gluttonous disappointment.
My anger is distraught with a mild dose of gout 
and the insides of my thighs,
those burn with a dehydrated passion.
Whereas, my nose can see the difference
between an orange and a smile,
and my eyes can only smell from the grass
to the other greener side of life.
I can’t even register how my skin feels…
my skin isn’t talking to my brain right now.
My brain! My brain…all it knows is sadness and sex
and it is receiving too much of one,
and not enough of the other,
and the one does nothing for me except make my
knees shallow,
and the other leaves me cold
and tired and awake.

I do not want to be awake,
nor do I want to be asleep.

there were eyes in the flowers

there were eyes in the flowers

& they followed them everywhere
As they made their way through
fields o' grey
                        and the crossed arms
of silent palm readers;

           somewhere along the road
the ocean started whispering
the memories of past
mid-noon deliriums and scented

                        opiumden opera singers

and the virgin mary was hanging
her flowerydirty underwear
topless,

while the town children were discovering
their ability to sin
peeking in on her,
with their hands somewhere down
their front,

making the silent palm readers job
impossible,

if it weren't for the giant
enormous monstrous sighs
of momentary clarity and reality,
the ocean would be still,
the grass would never sway,
and the desert would be just
another pile of sand,

lifeless & motionless.

Erotic Study no. 1

pulling up your skirt,
i stopped at the corner of Fifth and Broadway,

right where your thigh was,
and i allowed myself for the world to linger
as i pressed the back of my hand
against your thigh,

and all the birds of the wild
chirped as you moaned,

and i continued pulling up your skirt,
only to find that you forgot your underwear;
i searched everywhere for them,
under the bed,
under the house,
under a few misplaced clouds you had
in the corner of the room,
even under your mother's dress,
but she wasn't wearing any either.

then i turned you around
so that i could really look at you,
and i found an orchid growing
on a mole right next to your
beautiful lips,

shying away from me behind
a beautiful tuft of fur;
the damned sight was too much for
a grown man
to handle

i started to cry.

you told me to please hum your
second favorite song,
because your most favorite song
was saved for the next time,

and so i hummed and hummed
and hummed,

"hmmmm..hmmmmmhmmmmm"

and god damn it,
i'm still humming.