child

There is hardly a better time than adulthood
to realize what it was like being a child.
To fully appreciate the native country of infancy,
full of promise, when you could not doubt
your own imagination, how could you?

i dreamed myself

I dreamed myself a humble demon channeler,
learning the trade, yearning for its perks
and privileges.
Passed many nights looking at the window,
sweating and watching for the signs
that were probably in my head only.

I dreamed myself warden of a fragile garden
burning in an terrifying alcohol-fuelled fire.
I wanted to go to war with naked flesh shields,
the narcotic frenzy of battle the only companion,
the wild hunt.

Bleeding manure, that's our legacy.
We chew the night, gnawing at our hates,
full moon reveals our true condition.
Our prayers went unheeded - the little gods
we made up, failed us miserably, and this is
the end result.

Welcome to the age of the dragon's breath.
It's time to offer heads. No more patience.

Fire, fire! lick the ceiling of the night.
Let the hunt for souls over snowed roofs begin.
This is the first day of winter.
The ultimate will of an animal on drugs.
Uncertain, lost and intent.

The keeper that I was let his gaze catch fire
in a rotten transition.

The ulcer of utopias always hurts the most
being their conception fake and rotten in itself.

When I woke up I could see mark of axe handles
in my hands.
What lost splendour!
Gold and blue and ashen.
Blood looks beautiful on gold leaf.

It was then we decided to step down
from the shoulders of giants.
We realized that had gotten us nowhere
and our arms were already numb
from the weight of arms.

héroe

Eres un héroe homérico
que no conoce homenaje alguno.
Heraldo de dolores cotidianos,
sordos, como de goma dura.
Los perros del infierno en realidad
no aúllan, sino que te siguen 
con esa sonrisa sardónica.
Quieren ver la sangre de otros
derrocharse plana
sin más propósito que que entre la letra.

Clava los frenos bien fuerte.
Han arrojado ya las redes.
Escapar la prisión para poder volar alto.

Que neblina la del espíritu
en esta nueva época donde la jubilación
es la tierra prometida
y todos queremos que nos lleven gratis
al mejor centro comercial.

graffiti eyes

graffiti eyes shake and tremble
the dawn of a new ethics
under the hurting and bright sodium.

Zodiac magic conjured
on any given overpass.
I bestow myself the role of visionary,
catalyzer-enabled,
more aware than yourselves,
perched tight on the rails,
my neck, violent
and my blood like birch tree bark.
This forest is much tighter than concrete.

The places I travel to every night,
every day I toil,
accrue the tonnage of my burden,
the darkness in a million life cycles.

Vain attempts to map black roads
with the tail-lights of the soul.

Drunk on the smoke.

eat his broccoli

if this idiot thinks I'm gonna eat his broccoli
barrgh! he can go fuck himself.
And the stems are hard.
And the cashews he tossed in are stale.
They say the damned thing is a superfood.
Well, I'll 'ave three pints of ale
and you can have your fucking broccoli and avocado.
Then we'll go outside and see
who smashes whose fucking head in.
Superfood, my ass. I'll give you a superfood
right here between my legs, motherfucker.

soledad canicular

te gustaba volver, cada cierto tiempo, al opresivo recuerdo de una soledad canicular, vivida en repetición varios años - por mor de un mejor recuerdo - que conociste en aquella habitación. Volvías a hojear los libros de una época, unos años, que parecen ya la vida de otro que viste desde lejos, quizás un amigo con el que perdiste ya hace tiempo el contacto. Hojeabas los libros, algunos discos, incluso fotos a veces, recordando como amaneció en ti la sospecha, posteriormente confirmada a fuego, de otros halos, otras realidades, otros calores pendientes de conocer. Mirabas luego esos tomos ya comprados en algún viaje, cuando ya empezaste a acariciar un mundo diferente con la punta de los dedos, pero solamente algunos tomos parecían tener el poder de revivir en ti ese sabor amargo tan específico como inapresable. Recuerdos de amigos que ya no cuidaste, de calles que no volverás a recorrer porque ya no te interesan tampoco, excursiones, risas y anhelos expresados con tremenda ingenuidad en los márgenes de algunos volúmenes. Una letra que casi no reconoces como tuya y una ingenuidad que te sorprende. Ahora ves que tantas cosas que creías entender en su momento, no las entendías en absoluto - como un astrónomo primitivo, un sacerdote ciego. Sólo ahora revisitando ese continuo gris es cuando parece haber un camino en ese jardín de cenizas que tan obstinadamente persiste allí para ti, a perfectas sabiendas de que tarde o temprano volverás a pasar por él, tocarás de nuevo esos arriates calcificados cumpliendo fielmente una promesa que no hiciste, pero que llevas embebida en los genes.

when the time comes to fly

Impossible to seize or apprehend,
existence, sometimes awe,
others horror, or joy in pure present tense.
Life, sometimes a pearly sun,
a laughter, a shining blue sky,
sometimes a crying alone,
a sad melody,
a rummaging into the heart,
just to check that it still beats,
lest it be...

So heavy sometimes, yet light,
so light you fear it will float away
like a balloon flees from the soft fist
of a child.

Impossible to pinpoint too the pain.
And the hate. Yes.
This desire for violence that raises its ugly head,
rencorous and vindictive agains a world
that demands and exacts the most henious
and senseless sacrifices.

I definitely need to get out more
in search of a state of blessing,
a healing loneliness, or I'll have none
when the time comes to fly.

the child that I was

the child that I was
looks at me from the other side
of the abyss.
there are no bridges back to his
tantalizing smile,
his gaze is pure and humanized
like I cannot be anymore,
by his absolyute trust and surrender.
And I look at him, from my hardened shore,
grey and ashen here,
green and hazy there.
He soon becomes distracted
and runs back, playful, into the mist.
I think his mom is calling him
and he disappears, leaving only
a reminiscent glee,
the one you're most likely to hold dearest
to the heart.

I strolled among the treehouses in the devil's garden

I strolled among the treehouses
in the devil's garden.
You talked death so much, so often,
you lost your ways.

Under cover of furtive eyelids,
spying on those who were stronger that you
(it's so hard to suffer poor fools like you).
The ruby blood of youth,
and the pale envy that came rushing in.

Grey skies.
Red earth.
Moon blue in the solar afterglow.

It was then I realized I had forgotten
all prayers, but, well,
not that they made much sense back then.

Saw them crusaders,
puking on the road side.
Pools of sweat in the latitudes of dust.

Remains of my self,
unfit channel for a fertile dream.
Here I lie, devoid of love and the stains of life,
like a starched clean sheet.
Sweating in my indolence,
I wondered how to craft the right life.

Ungrateful little shit,
with your siege mentality,
let go off my marble torso
(your butter hands).

Trivial, irrelevant,
who the hell waits for another day
in this station that was granted?

Healing stones?
Get the fuck outta here.
Ashen dreams and frogs in our throats.
Golden beckonings,
fuckin' hot in here, baby
(yeah, that's why they folks call it summer)

My head felt toast (not toasted),
pure thoughts left behind
in the earthen trails that brought me here.

Get behind the Wheel.
Escape.