Lord, I never had a kind word
once my heart hardened. I know.
But I am weary,
and now I start to understand your flock.

The shade of your hands,
place it over me,
for I am to travel to carry a treasure
and the way feels heavier than ever.

We spent the evenings
sewing back wings to flies.

Jungles that came in cans
and other wonders of modernity.

Mechanical tongues,
unnatural lascivity.
Darkened analysis of world order.

Everyone of us fights
psychosomatic civil wars.
What do you care what the mold
of reality is?

Bestial utterance.
Animals incapable of full-sentence reasoning.
Astrology, not astronomy,
it's always better to outsource fate.

Never was madness more necessary.
Try to thread a needle in the midst
of a epileptic fit.
That would have millions of visits in youtube,
or maybe not.

We think we have a intimate knowledge
of the smallest seeds that make up things,
with our instruments made of rare earths.

Taking more that allowed.
Bigger portions.
We depend on our flawed thinking,
bald logics.
Empty oceans care not for coastlines
and neither do the vessels of our violence.

I am sitting on a rock
waiting for nothing.

Here we both will meet.
I know.

We'll go down the village
for breakfast and throw crumbs
at the sparrows.

What shadows do you say you keep,
that wait for you in corners?

Don't fret. Blow them.
They're just ashes,
things that do not matter and that 
you burnt long ago.

But, be careful not to blow too hard
lest you disappear.

voice-over

At the sword edge of dawn
I could cleary distinguish 
the voice over that drowns
the invisible screams
of those who wait for any death, any,
that releases them from this grind.

In a first instant, 
the hairs at the back of my neck stood on end,
but then I fell asleep, honestly.

Now I don't know if I just dreamed it.

that person that sleeps by your side,
who do you say she is?

Nothing is really known of her.

Is that not the proverbial old
unfathomable mistery?

untitled

Shreds of a colonial life,
mothballed and provincial,
that dissolves like a fountain
locked up in the tool shed.

Windows that may not even exist
dilute in the morning
like a languid dream's sweat.

What sadness that you had to go
when you had not yet showed up,
fleeing among the rose beds and wishes.

Special

Look, this is my house.
This, my stunned voice, filtered.

On eye on sex, 
the other on the Reuters channel.

Feed me, quieten me,
(this dirty tube we call the spirit).
Shelter me, close me, tuck me in.

Look, this is my house,
come and shed your filths.
Please, make me believe
I am special.

Dry, stale, foul,
parallised and lifeless.
Practitioner of an unknown faith
in emptiness.

No aspirations to anything.
Avoid the sun because it burns.
And hate the fog because it's cold.

farewell

Farewell, thus,
the western departure is here.
An exodus that brands us
condemned and stigmatized.

Think the ballast of existence
like a runner's dorsal.
stapled to the ribcage.

All life is veneral in the dregs
that remain behind.
There is just no fucking other way.

The persecution arrives.
Blood voyeur
gather on the road side,
cheering cardboard athletes.

To each their own sargasso.
Sure label.

untitled

Let's say it's all about
a phallus divine, I mean,
a cock like a god's.

Everyone wants one.
Status symbol. Flash it.
A very satisfactory crutch
for an imperfect being.

The safety that beauty
and superiority bestows.

the tits of the horniest goddess.
Everyone wants them...

from the balconies

From the balconies
they threw at us
flowers made of flesh and blood,
but our blood,
faded away like a throusand falls
and the skin,
with even colder razors,
withered,
embracing the lowest of lows
we did not know were in us.

In the threshold of our souls
has always lived a king,
in the shadow,
whose name is never spoken.

His breath can be noticed,
only one in a thousand dawns
in a slightly troubled awakening.

Usually on the head.
Softly.
Like a loving father.

With the blood of flowers
on our faces,
we paraded away,
among the projects of buildings
to our further glory.

I never saw them again.
Now, it's told,
they blow cold in the tundra.

untitled

when all that's left are barren sacrifices,
a slow decay in unmitigated loneliness,
like a midday sun,
the sounds of life made new, uncovered,
by summer and open windows
are a redeeming balm for my chest.

Part V

out of the blue, he just asked me,
"what are the best albums for
the long hideously introspective
nights that come with middle age?"
"With middle age?" I retorted
"I've been getting those for a few years
back already, man"

I lined my dreams with chrome.
It's getting dark in those burning fields.
The first men who came up with a god
did so out of sheer exhaustion.
My weak frame...
they were sweating, moaning in their fevers,
beyond the circle of bonfires
lit up for protection against a night
so unmerficul,
so silent.
the crushing darkness outside
only shed light on the inside,
making it painfully evident.

Mauled by the hounds of their consciences,
the traffic's din seems like life
kniving out of reach.
They look thin and frayed,
like proven anarchy, buzzing electric but
inconsistent to the touch.
Out with the compass, done with the map,
he wanted to sail to the river birth.
In search of the ultimate hideout.
Who knows what answers he wanted to find out there.
The stifling conventions of home,
long ago lost cargo.
Now, the genuine burdens surfaced.
He discovered that the original decoys and surrogates
were not so bad, after all.
Orderly tilled fields replaced by riverbank mud.
The man is nowadays not prepared for the
replacement of certain orders and regulations.

"Your quest for the sun
is misled, motherfuckers"
belted the prophet out.
Some passersby even bother
to turn their heads around and smile.

Part IV

the terrain had a stubble of dry weeds,
and infinite brushes and streaks of brown
in a gamut you never thought could happen.

In that season the dust of fallen empires
were finally reaching our whoring shores,
yet we despised those echoes of our mediocrity.
We took to sacrificing our young
(the egoism of our self-made gods).
And all our legacies, we felt compelled
to consign them to oblivion.

We recreate death every morning,
blackening the fresh snow with curses and blasphemies
- that only in the Southern countries -
The clockwork exacts its tribute, its drowning.

After that, it's certainly hard to look raw,
menacing or warrior-like
(I still wonder there are no shaman recruiting agencies,
or there are?)

Our parties are silly; numb pursuits of
a debauchery we never knew first-hand, never devised,
and yet we fancy ourselves
masters of decadence, ha!
(as if we could muster spirits other than lowly)

I wish our shitey gods demanded nakedness,
oral sex and alcohols.
Feral, for fuck's sake!
Not that imbecile meekness or that love of death.

The appetite for carnage is one
you cannot quench, increasing the burden,
swelling until you burst,
like a meth lab in the sticks.

The ever present tantalizing illusion
that rebirth is possible somehow.
Through ritual or by virtue of technology.
Fire, metal or virgin blood, who cares?
Countless people jumped into sea or fire
- the desire to become a carcass -
backed up by that obscene promise.
Lap dogs, worms and other lowlives
gather at the iron gates of void and loss
(accruals, accountants, compounded debt).

Men were not made to take control,
- you should study for helmsman kid,
because that job is always in demand -
most just want to be pushed and pulled by destiny,
inflatable dolls in the ebb and flow,
all of us wishing the tide
would wash us on more fertile shores,
ones where the sky still has milky traces at night,
and the men know how to fight a proper fight.
(yet we want no demands,
no strings attached, fortitude of being
being too much of an effort).

And this is where we stand today...
and the lute tinges on and on.

heat of day

The caravan men ended their day,
under cover of canvas.
"I found the heat
particularly exacting today," said one.

"Yeah, taxing the fuck out of us all."

"Yeah, demanding beyond all measure."

You never knew...

The silence outside
hardly breached,
as nothing dared to move really,
even at night,

The earth now just a canvas
to mold a new volcanic world out of,
furious flat geographies
and legends of shades on the other side.
An obsolete and dry wife,
a grand piano somebody sold the black keys off of.
extermination by decimation.

Will power? ha, in this heat? ya joking? fuck

her

she was morning
she was night
she was acute, crisp,
              numb, mollified
she tore, she wove
sat and stood up
played music
remained silent for hours
burst in summer, like figs
slept off winter
she was white rock
black mirror
panic and serenity
she was the gasp for air
in the middle of laughter
she was stampede
and thoughtfulness
all doubt and yet
unassailable
she was orbit and drift,
both carefully planned,
she was dance steps
and blurry maps
binge and fast
tourniquet and hemorrhage

Part III

we spent the winter
mourning the loss
of things that were not ours to begin with.
Waiting for the summer to bring comic relief.
Winter nights seemd to
be made of solid coal.
Days were almost as austere.
I try to keep the horizon in my pocket,
fidgeting with it, as if eliciting death.

Folly enterprise, yes,
geological sureys with knife and teaspoon.
Gloved hands inventory the pantheon of poisons
dead tongues and forgotten anthems.

"its ok with fish
'cause they don't have any feelings"they sang
with a languid grievance.

Nothing has more privacy
than imagined silences, intimate,
the ones you keep to yourself,
sworn foe to the world bequeathed to you
with so much love and indifference.

As a young man, he often dwelled
among tombstones, dreaming
of the collapse of generations
yet unshaken by wars fought over
the most threadbare of claims.

We're all assistants to our own panics.
Sentinels at the watchtower that presides
over our abysses.
If we were only to leave a trail of slime behind,
boy wouldn't that be something?
at least it shines in the sun
for a brief moment.

Part II

Today it rains on a ceiling glass that sits
four or five meters above me,
wherever I may find myself.

I see people's rubber soles walk by,
what is this intense desire to connect back
if I despise most people anyway?

The past very much behaves like
the heaviest anchor.
At night, it feels like menacing seas,
heaving with a life full of promises of death.

My gospel is full with scribblings
in furious ink, the days getting dark
with the soot of bruised yearnings.

Heart in a shrinking cage.
You know that pain.

"hello, I am your sorrow,
you'll remember when..."
I was jolted, for I thought I was alone
below this ceiling.
Only wind and leaves sculpting my coat.
My longing for more rain the only
other moving thing in there.

And the future, it
feels tired and deflated.
Impervious to arousals.
The future needs new flesh to coat its old bones.
Wings to take flight.
Razor wire to practice eating,
(get rid of those tonsils)

Spit, spit! spit these words,
and move on.
That ceiling is only a dream.

Part I

It is actually impossible to carve out words
that could make it to this letter
I send to the other lives I left scattered around,
lost and discarded,
defaulted loans, defaulted years.

A sense of sadness that permeates all
is what this grows into.
I recognize in the stones of places
that I had never before been to.

It's everywhere. This acute sorrow...
maybe that is the dark matter they search.

I first sensed it as a child.

But I did not know what it actually was.
I just stared at the afternoon's last waft of sun.

Coming back home. School bus.
Not taking part of the raucous games.
It was just this broken seed inside of me,
flourishing its little thorns,
faithful companions of the night.

Outpour from a small heart,
growing meaner with age.
And more scared.

A heart that sometimes wishes for things
that are big and dark.

A heart that wants to slap destiny in the face,
and yet it is scared to death of beating a tad too loud,
like an orphan in the wrong foster family.

Las gentes eran secas

Las gentes eran secas como los campos, y
de las ventanas de las casas abandonadas
nos sorprendía un frescor extraño
- ¿espíritus cansados, quizás? -
los suelos, campos interiores,
los únicos no agostados.

las gentes eran secas e insistían
en hacer procesiones con sus ídolos en verano,
justo cuando el calor hace aún más insoportable
el peso de cualquier credo sobre el hombre.

Las gentes eran secas y así
preferían sus pueblos y calles de cemento y cal.
No dejar resquicio a la imaginación
ni descanso a la mirada.

Lejos el mar,
lejos el sosiego y la ensoñación.
Yugo y trillo del alma.
Lejos el bullicio alegre.
Madera reseca y piedra.
Horas muertas. Nihilismo rural.
Traje de domingo.
Lejos los colores.
Siestas en la nada.

hysterics

The stench of your coward minutes
- eternities to us -
persists like the cheap cologne of a brothelgoer.

You lit our faces with the vengeful shine
of a lowly vengeful hatred
you wish to pass for heroic flame.

Rummaging into the rotten gums of thy fellow men,
you desperately want to become visionaries,
self-proclaimed wizards with staves that do shit-all,
but you know what? life can be cold
and stabbing caustic.

There's no hommage left but the one
you commission for yourselves, cunts.

summer

Summer should be a season for some debauchery,

forget carnival.

Work should be banished for all three months.

Wine and spirits would flow free

and people would just fornicate.

We would spit at the sun and curse 

the clarity of mind  it brings.

speed limits suspended

-a certain natural selection -

Ephemeral monuments, 

hanging gardens,

state-sponsored whoring, if you will, 

- at least some of the taxes

would actually revert on us.

We would burn some bishops

and toss some journos off a cliff,

because we abhor animal cruelty, so

we went for the purifying trigger, oh yeah

and, could I please

have another bottle?

It's amazing how thirsty

the nights got to be.

Bring forth some decay...

exuberant vegetation,
ruins, ruins
who would not want to
wake up among them?
stroll like a madman in a Piranesian city,
impossible on all accounts.

 Under the heat, our hangovers...

for a moment

he stared at the screen,
in askance,
left hand palm upwards,
mouth bit opened.

he just had reached nirvana
- at the office of all places -.

his mind had stopped working,
for a second he was holy, empty,
as detached as a far away galaxy cluster

as pure as pure gets,
he realized afterwards that,
for a moment,
he'd become something else,

and all of that
thanks to a confused spreadsheet.

I sometimes feel tired and barren

I sometimes feel tired and barren
like a hillside in a mining town, grey bricks
for icons, an elegy of dubious resolution,
where praise is hard to come across,
as there was little in the way of accomplishments
in my day.
what other options remain other than making
your blood quicker day by day? pace set loose
identically in every one,
a congenital violence that becomes the air
we share, the deprecation of what got us here
in the first place.
An ancient and cornered framework,
wrecked by the tireless work
of marxist exegesis, these arches become witnesses
whose deposition few want to hear
(they have other entertainments in their metal shores),
unacknowledged masonry.

Only I, today, stroll by and stop to try and "hear"
the tingle in my stomach.

Everyone else, I suspect, loathe their lives,
but they don't see a lash to gnaw at. Poor fuckers.

As for me I indulge in the illusion that this
passes for creativity. Poor fucker.

(phew, I was lucky to find a way to tie up and close
this piece of shit)

I proceeded upstairs

I proceed upstairs on a red velvet stairs,
preceded by suntuous step,
muffled in heavy draperies,
like the dreams of an eunuch.

The exchange was not metal, was stones,
the landlord style,
 - when one fancies oneself to be in command,
surrender is sweeter -
this is not a night for water,
sweat like olive oil more like.

The days of the slave trade
did not really get consigned to the past, as
our tutelage now is GM seeds and guns,
and the technologies that ate all the lost roads,
but bah, the concubinage is not the same as it
used to be in the opium days
(glory left here).

I proceeded upstairs, heady with spices
and craving the security of guarded indoors.
Pleasures like those meant for those
who already have nothing to prove to themselves
or to a world that is little more
than a self-serving hungry beast.

The walls, dark and smoked (this was before
all the prohibitions,
and when health was not really that popular),
told so many stories that it made them more interesting
that the average dud drink buddy.

I think I will pass some time here,
days for nights and nights for months.
One life at a time.

pure

what would you say a pure death should be?
and why would it matter?

would you have to be consumed by fire?
is it about honor?

Should it be about such a serenity and love
that fire would not hurt?

A communion magnitudes of order higher
that base people can attain.
The purity of the desire to leave this cage
and join something ... something like
locking into wood,
entwine with rock at the atom scale.

We crave this
because of our limitations and inherent pains.

Maybe become a tree in a world
that knows no axes.
To lie dormant under starred skies
and remain silent for ever.