Sunday, May 24, 2009

Spa Games When You Wax

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. ______________________________________

Football Ballers And Protein

15.



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.

_________________________________________________

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Mysore Malli Watch Online

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. ________________________________________________

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Car Stuffed Toy Pattern

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. ____________________