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paper 26. Swirl



The folio on the table and the words that are no longer subject. Some charge
shape, fireplace, for example, or a
map with cities where we have been afraid, or lived
a love that God will punish us. Verses are underlined
lianas
now jumping to other poems. There are metaphors
digging his own grave and buried alive.
red marks shake the blood. Tip the table
When everything you've written
slides down a slide and you never see him again.

______________________________________

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25. Life footnotes


Das
a blow on the table but the poem does not scream.
spit on paper but the verses do not flow.
An image comes over as a neap tide, and to talk
imagining you naked. It is not a pupil
following the ringing of the words. Neither
someone who shuffles cards and memorabilia
as you pray for a lucky hand. No.
The breath comes to you after having dodged
thousands of poets. In less than a second
've been in houses, holidays, early mornings,
with the same joy, with the same verve.
You write like you dance, unsafe and unregulated,
chew each sentence until you toothache.
is difficult to know if your tears were of sorrow or joy.
're used to seeing things this way,
to return the meat, promises the perfect summer
through language. For every story
have cavities and crevices, masks turned inwards,
their own story within the story. Because
quietly, closing a window,
you see yourself growing old suddenly. Your fingerprints

revived in the bare backs you've loved.
Your tears of pain, your laughter radiating EVP
are living in basements and rooms where once
did you not see your image in the mirror though
swore to be there, loving, suffering, silent, moving
. Trade it all for a verse
to boil to a different temperature, which melts
with the past and future simultaneously.
think in a new poem and imagine yourself lifting weights
in an Olympic final, or in a hospital bed with tubes
throat, or pulling the heart
in the wrong container. There's something I've understood
after so many years. There are words that explode in your ears
and breathe on their own, and when they run down your arm
through an artery mysterious, they arrive in your hand
and slide like beads through your fingers, you feel
after searching for something you did not want to find
've found something that was not looking. ___________________________________________

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24. Testament written on a napkin



I open the hand and the hands of an imaginary clock
are dozens of perfect circles. In one
hear my name in the supermarket PA system:
I've lost, and my parents expected at the meeting point.
But love is also separated and the distance
serve food on a long journey, so
stand a few minutes in the toy section
looking resplendent moon rockets and capsules,
aircraft carrier colors and a translucent cube
seems an alien spacecraft off the hook from the sky.
Then I run through hallways
metal scented with chalk and clay, wiping tears
have not sprouted yet, knowing as blood
lives in the throat, but also on the hands and lips
of a child who has a map of all parks
and all pools. He was aware that the suffering
a person would make me freer and more fruitful.

Now that we do not fear blindness or silence
and to aspire to the love you have to look like the prince
Lang Ling,
face that was so sweet
horrendous wear a mask to drag his troops into battle and death,
now we see the future when opening a cabinet
as we cherish the veins and swallowed saliva,
now that we all stop
shelves and heart rate at will, now that my parents are old men
sometimes remind me of the irremediable
will
blood through a language whose symbols
change continuously and without realizing it,
now close my eyes and wish with all
my strength until someone approaches me and tells me
" not be afraid, it's over, go home
" grabbing arm, blurring
what has made me a man forced to dispense
the idea that one day Mom and Dad will be dead
and their bodies will not have another memory than ours,
and then close my hands , apretaré fists
and everything will turn into my world and also in his
in hell we'll call first and then
limbo purgatory. ___________________

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23. From a poem by Eileen Myles



the past have shadows, shadows creeping slow and confident
a
parade in honor of all you've lost paradise, leaving behind
streamers, bottles and sawdust.

saves time over time, you
plays hide and seek, count to the end and you find
under the bed or stuffed in a closet as
huddled inside a whale.

bodies do not forgive, your guardian angel
has run away with your girlfriend, and you are one of those men
they know that heaven and hell are the others,
ghosts that follow you from all mirrors.

Your verses have the rhythm of music and you turn off
each poem with the butt of a memory. Lees
words dazzle you like flashes
and then you seem veiled negative future.

Everything is written with the same script. ___________________________________________

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22.



This is not a poem. Or at least it's not a poem
on another poem in which
write about the impossibility of writing. This is the only way
after so many shortcuts and missteps.
Each sentence
crackles like those socks with those who masturbate old in nursing homes.
Every sentence seems to be the first but also the last,
a necklace and do not have words, words that once
you
suspended in the air as the climax of a hanged
but now I cling to soil and land. How
say "you no longer want /
but always love you"
two verses that contain the whole truth
and then throw the key into the abyss? How to write
"all over as it started" and then delete
and make the small print that burns itself out when we
page? You've kept the love
like notes in a handkerchief, in a mattress, full of scales
cocaine
all fingers and noses all have gone through them. And now,
love is the arbiter of a chair fencing championship wheel.
Love is a magnet with a picture of us in the fridge.
A toy forgotten that months after Reyes
regains life with a pair of new batteries
and moves throughout the house
waving his arms and tripping over every wall. ______________________________________________________

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Final Solution 21. Prequel released on video.



"... And whatever the rivers in which we seek our
reflection we see ourselves only when we turn around." Henrik
Nordbrandt


The latter are never any good, we already knew
before returning to meet our beach then.
There are so many things we have to tell
just sitting on some old tires
observing the same dunes that summer together.
is a clear, calm morning. The wind plays with your hair.
wearing sunglasses, camouflage who has become elusive.
I have had many girlfriends since then I've slept with girls
I have changed the perception of the world
filtering my wishes as gold diggers in a bank. You have believed
find true love
to replace the true love and
experience you shining is a benign tumor in the palm of his hand, surrounded
moments endless legs and wrists,
and "learn the keys to pain in two weeks."
Some bodies have eroded our bodies, our souls
creating silent forms of ocher,
plain sad, vacant land and ravines
from those same bodies were thrown.
's hot, you hear sirens in the distance ambulance
roar of heavy machinery, the center of gravity
many other lives. We still talk but we both know
that ours has become a hopeless eternity,
and much as I strive to write poems that speak
dignity and survival, of glaciers and deserts,
storage rooms and mezzanines, and however much
you write about the life that you insist on going through hell
live every moment, we both know that whatever
faces in which we seek
we see each other every time we turn around. _________________________________________________________

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20.



was about nine. The sun was shining through the window
bristling traces of dust in the air.
return was worth the fragile doze
chest to feel the calm of things, objects that reminded
trips not undertaken
and poems in which life was mentioned in passing:
the alphabet soup in which he tried writing a few lines recognized
colorless and painless.
silence was drained on a blank paper,
and love to hate had a halo of mist.
later gave his gaze around the room. In his head
believed to be dissecting a new alphabet, words that sometimes
arising from any emotion with names or a memory
tangible and transparent
and not the cold frost of the creation of all feeling.
Writing is no longer to wander through lush forests
or sink in very deep flaws, and knows that the lives begun
no longer matter,
drafts and mirages of ambushes and darkness
when living at the expense of a pain that filtered
to make your eyes weep or to mourn squeezed more.
Now note the mechanism that encourages the heart and can leave
warm postponed
as a black box that is activated at will.
has to give pleasure to know kill your monsters inside, but also
resurrect in the middle of a poem. The animal
asleep and corrupt fruit
have so little blood as a humble tavern.
has always known: that day in which he set fire to their old roles
to begin filling other incandescent clouds
tight
landscapes were the happiest. They numbed her death. _____________________________________________________

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Leviathan 20. The deepest layer on the surface



You have put your wife's blouse and pearl necklace
for this seems irreversible.
who I am nobody's death may break up,
but life has not been done much
at this time when you've shaved your chest and you've covered
creams and lotions
you found on your nightstand.
Now you stretch in bed, smiling, and I have fear
turn on the light and look into your eyes.
Your body is warm, like a sofa
where I curl up scared to death
after you've raised.
would like to be drunk to miss this, but my mouth
perfectly pronounce your name.
What took you so long to realize?
Desire has cavities in which light does not enter. Tonight
is rapidly shifting to the two
and time left in his wake in the pale skin,
in pools of shade where you and I do not exist. Even when naked attempt
imagine naked
although it suffers doubly.
When you approach your mouth to my neck
think that waving branches on trees and dead logs
cut adrift.
I do not believe in you and you do not believe in me, but these bones
are indistinguishable from
meat and the meat is
undercurrents that do not follow the dictates of any God,
of no hope. "I love you"
say about lipstick. "I love you", say others,
after electric shock. And then we both know
has time to breathe together
the top of each other above the other
with the strength of screaming and spreads his wings
when eco denied saying goodbye,
or good riddance. "
minutes spent talking with a new alphabet trying to decipher.
The rise like two planets
fleeing the sky.
two children waiting for someone to drive you home and runs the game.
Finally, return to own yourself, your skin
trembling and your sex shrunk
and you look in the mirror and see a camouflaged face in another face, eyes
have stayed nine years,
shoulders marked by teeth and fangs. And I think
this is not what it seems. I can explain everything. ________________________________________________

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19. Variation of a poem dated December 1926



a summer afternoon and a boy
calling the subway car
some money because he is hungry, he says,
for hours and not a morsel.
"Until accept some food " says
from the center of the stomach.
Your eyes fixed on his ankle ulcers,
in their teeth like sewing machine parts,
and then into his mouth cracked by the sun
and black nails have dug it.
"For the Love of God" , he says, while
runs his hand like a tray
and looked away into a world
that is not yours but not ours, and we changed
conversation, and God,
and threaded the needle thought
by saving us back to ourselves
while the carriage doors open and close
as
a mall where everything is devoured and passions are reflections of other passions
fossils. What if I were
this guy? What we found each
shortcut you and me? What you then for me?
Would you have ever seen in a subway corridor,
in one stop, hunched in the middle of the street, drinking rainwater
my shoes
broken and dirty and wrinkled clothes,
living our lives, or whatever of them?

In your dreams I cut your neck many times. __________________________________________________

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18. Ballad of the distance



The melee at the site of the farewell
study is an enemy that welcomes and
from a future picture of himself. When you open your hands
are two trees that can never hug
except in an instant the middle of a storm.
say you're going to fumble
cobwebs in all of our corners,
to demolish the bridges and rivers dry
where we find a beauty dark.
say that everything we know it in a poem,
words that I absorbed from within
and catch on your fingers as you read. You say everything you say
farther and farther, as a country that changes
capital amid a war, or
night watchman at the bottom of a hallway. And seeing you disappear
I rustled the palms of my hands, wings Beat
that no longer exist,
and swallow all the saliva I'll mourn
when all your statues topple
in the same precise moment that changes history . __________________________________________________________

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17. The hypothesis of memory



Eras exactly as I remember: sleeping
a shallow sleep on a bed of iron, oxygen
starved to death after a fight,
his mouth twisted and eyes floating in air,
tearing your skin to see inside.

Inspiration then sought to verses
necks swaying in a row of barbed wire,
looking for a human voice within language, sex
testimony in the crunch of the other sex:
writing was to exhume the body of a buried alive. In that underworld

not fit indoors or eyelids
illuminated by the sun to pieces;
lips not made to feel
of moving blood in the middle of a poem
or see on the horizon more than a metaphor.

The hypothesis of memory is
Madrid sky or the moon in 1997 in London ten years earlier
sea monsters in the gaps of memory, mysterious
species that appear to come from another universe
and other time that no longer exist except

paper thickness
hundred thousand waves churning in the book that I will never write. ________________________________________________

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16. Junk Poem



is like awakening from a long sleep on the beach, with eyelids
charred and salty fingers.
The sun's rays fall like marble dust, and in your head
ruffling someone rowing against the tide waves,
cataracts clouding your eyes with previous thoughts,
rigid faces, tears in a glass jar.
It is perfectly aligned
seven years that passed as a fluid gear
of the jaw bone and blood to the skin.
And how one evening in a split second
in which you closed your eyes to spend your life as if through a microscope
inside a telescope,
did you know: the winding stem, the
compliant membrane tip carefully kept you on the ground, broke
. The words you write
obey the last letter: "We were so happy," and then
"tiny shock," smooth and perfect words, cutting
emerge as nails, pulseless without ridges,
with static and stationary echo those who intend to dominate the pain
through syllables. Then come verses
stuck a knife
and exposed to the fire.
poems where to draw the road map of your life, your shortcuts and gutter
beyond the insects that would die on the windshield.
and think: I could love if
that time again where I started to hate you. Might have changed something insignificant
site and all fit, use
claws or vertebrae
to turn life into a monument to life. And then you'll be cleaning a gun
for seven years.
You'll be opening a raw fish and feeling disgust.
You'll be making love under a cloth.
you see when you close your eyes, and also to open
reading backwards as in a mirror. ______________________________________

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Anything that is capable of time:
condemn us to repeat a painful history, turning a knife in another mirror, ending
civilizations and cities, dreams corrode and alliances,
can not hurt. Now you're in Lisbon
and there is a poem that burns your throat when you swallow saliva
, or running out of breath after a long
Walking, chewing a liquid and fibrous
metaphor as a sample of bone. It's a pain
've always related to fragments of your life
where you stood sweating in the middle of the night,
and then you could hold on to the same dream at will
with its landscapes and their faces glued to the pillow
urchins poisonous. Were fifteen or twenty
and you tear voracious enough words to cum
down from the peak.
Now close your eyes and you are indestructible,
open your eyes and you're indestructible, you rush for a rusty bar stagnant water
yourself: remains of desires, illegible drafts and packaging
Memories;
is as if we hear the mechanism that triggers it all sounds
underlying swelling bodies,
the sound of the blood flowing through arteries and veins, the breath
anonymous which is cooked in memory and
pulse in the neck of everything you loved
and now the future becomes aware of the past,
and feel like a soldier after the war
does not have news of the defeat
face painting and continues to avoid capture
by an enemy that no longer exists.
is then when your hand approaches the role and your fingers are arachnids
to write each word as if it were the last.

_________________________________________________

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kryptonite 14.



At some point stopped being
the ellipsis to
was doomed to become a semicolon in my life.
The time has past for me, but you've dodged
six years have been heaven and hell,
the rings of a tree eaten by the pest,
nights praying for God to take charge of sins
passing between my ears like a scythe segándome
soul.

The part of me that you prefer is the part of me
I hate with all my strength, which he tried to drown the memories
looking the other hand, I wanted
eyes removed prior to mourn
and thought a poem was a way to extend
the reflection of something that vanishes completely. Green
now is like being in front of a distorting mirror, and while I pull
clothing
imagine a future with you other than a future without you. ________________________________________________

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scar tattoo over 13. Remembering through the nose




closing their eyes I can almost smell the aroma
of
dandelions covering my hands,
prick
nose and wrists, and the tip of fingers.
At the time of my life
was my only family history and I
full member
right of a club that love
exceeded the speed of light and sound.
Barefoot in the afternoon, I was always looking for something
important
(clover, rabbits,
treasure hidden by pirates ...)
chasing the trail of a future
that I resisted, and always ended
compared with a
fences
raised the same year in which I was born.
Here and now the wind brings the smell of that barbecue
,
and the sweat of my father
waving his arms over the grill, preparing the burgers

I would swallow after so much effort,
tired of my adventures as a pilot
or astronaut, or Superman.

When my mother screaming "it's bedtime," I obeyed with the same languor

of those days when the nights
imitated
speed syrup in the mouth of a patient-
so intense that I can still taste it
on my tongue when it rains.
And if I open my eyes, I'm sure what would

reflected in the mirror:
me with a dandelion in his hand, his face smeared
sand teen

an alphabet of syllables and the blind stolen

hope to continue to live another thousand years
in a world that always threatens to be extinguished forever

and stop time. ____________________

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hurt hurts as well stare at the sunset
that arched the horizon of your twenties:
star punch, telephone cables, shipyards
dead and all debris as
misshapen teeth scattered around the rooms in your mind.
The early poems were unable to stop time. On paper
hanged empty metaphors, and each verse
lit
each face hidden on the far side of the ink seemed to come
silent vibration of an incubator. You said you would
to search for life elsewhere
and death. ____________________

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11. Army decimated



The past does not flood your eyes as before:
the seed of those days, the desire
that nothing got out of skies and horizons,
that poetry as a measure of all things
and those forced to save
died from excessive light and dry grass.
In writing you felt the first vampire in the world
tempted by suicide. At your fingertips you kept
stones disintegrate on contact with light,
sins, which were the key to deep wounds voracious devouring bodies
themselves in the middle of the night
and your dark room. The past is no longer
scale of your time: you've built walls, walkways, hemispheres,
a moat filled with creatures that loved you
when hunger was part of the same script,
and have forgotten the rituals that lead to inside, wrist compasses
created by your own hands,
all the words away from clockwise
for fear of being repeated at the wrong time. ___________________________________________________

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10. Beatriz in Westgate Road



I reconstruct the poem from the end. Then follow the dotted lines
to the first verse. It is not
of returning to life by a cardiac massage,
or write "we" where before saying "they",
or a deep look to surface as a bathysphere
. Is 1989 and run through the rain back to the hotel
. Elusive puddles and clenched teeth
under a sky dotted with electric lianas.
We are in London to which I have never returned
although I returned many times, and on the tenth floor
draw our faces on the white wall looking for the perfect shade
a
frame that gives meaning to your fingers when you enter without knocking
numb and I collapsed on a bed that mimics the movement
the world to join
shoulders like a suspension bridge. In one of your tapes
show up holding a towel. I close my eyes and laugh,
and extend an arm to a window, as if the night is metiese
one of my sleeves to surround the neck.
I am half naked but I feel covered.
pray for everything to stay the same for a long time,
an open book on another book that never ends.
can only pray and be prayed for twenty years, or eighty
when you tear inside
unimportant things too important,
and all you have are glands and enzymes,
an unshakable faith in future seasons,
in verse and metaphors as
enemy lines on a hand that still do not know to decipher.
reread the old poem, and the version now on
and understand that little has changed: the jugular
love will go on unchecked
after injury to the body hidden by then. _____________________________________________________

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9. Grid



I feel responsible for this poem
on your tongue and my mouth
silent kisses the window from which to observe the horizon
to finish a verse. Each verse carefully hides a lie
indestructible. In the words live
fingers disintegrate
contact with life. I'm invisible
to give you a paper on which you travel
lines full of echoes and portents
following with your eyes
fingerprints with which you can return to the starting point.

Nightfall
again I offer no longer receding lines, syllables
sliding on eyebrows and eyelashes
you believe in finding that intimacy that shines
few seconds and then disappears.
say that this poem will never do justice. You say that the future
beats with the right pace.
say you must pass a sponge for every metaphor
to know how I feel. And finally
tell you about love to all this
dwell in a poem and in the mouth of a
boxer who lost his lips for talking too much. ___________________________________________