Tuesday, June 30, 2009

What Do The Dots Mean Facebook Chat

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. _____________________________________________________

Friday, June 19, 2009

Gameshark Rare Candy Pokemon Ruby

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. ________________________________________________

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Where Is Drain Maytag Jetclean

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. __________________________________________________

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Groping Chikan Online

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 . __________________________________________________________

Friday, June 5, 2009

Midland Alan 42 Cb No Sound

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. ________________________________________________