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.