martes, 18 de octubre de 2016



It’s deep in the night
Back in the wide shadows of the mutilated park

The inner city landslide

The blade of the common ground

There is me
No lights on
And there’s you
Flashing like an 80’s spaceship in downtown LA

All your blades falling in between
the stones
like cement for the temple
The glory of the messiah shining inside
glowing in every inch of your soft feathers
your chest like dopamine
your expensive perfume
around me
creating evangelical sentences
hard as a revenge
unfair like the law
With peaks of fire and somber valleys
As I erase the paths and the still waters so dark
that swallow my face

And my sanity

And the hope for a new skin that might get born in the upcoming springtime

Costumes, masks, fire eaters are
from the south

the road is burning in flames with fingers long and lean

the sword swallower
the dog faced man
looking like a Greek goddess,
connected to my spine
the fleas and the juggler
the midget
the keys to power
a horse
a giant
the unfinished love
papa’s boy
rich kid fed on silver and pearls
the skyscraper builder
and the priest
with the ever-growing beard
and the knife ready to skin off

Light without love
Heat without hope
Us surrounded by a deep black circle
Beside the pond
tears in your eyes
Your hands in my head
offering me freedom
stoned and defeated
fading out
Cutting my throat on the edge of the water

the white smoke can be seen through the branches
as her lips
start muttering
 and pretend nothing like this

(the two headed kid)

ever happened


It was in a dusty summer night
in the summer of self
a girl was getting undress on the other side of the street

the clouds above our heads
the absent wind
the invisible blue haze
the white walls
the light-invisible rain

you are out on the beach
walking on an island with your bare feet
that I once hear tip-toeing over wooden floors
elysian stones
and mattresses

and the aching guts of the whole world
living in you
breathing small yellow flowers on your skin
wishing you could
get up and recover those mystified days
in which you used to get up and thought you were in a dream
and everything was fine
and you had love
and life itself had the power to light you up
through a voice
a heat
a wait

but now
right now
you are the battle
you are submerged in the depths
like an old indian prayer surrounded by smoke
and meadows, and oaks burning, and the frozen dew on your tongue
like an elevator mechanic looking upwards
in the mudd
making all that noise

I’m not the one you think I am
Not a tool to your plots
Not a catholic saint in the altars of fake
Not your stallion
Not a washing machine
Not a father to your children
Not a priest
Not a mouse to trap
Not a clerk man
Not a bureaucrat
Coming home 21:30
Feeling glad with myself
Kissing you in the forehead

Peace of mind


feet are above the ground

walking up and down the corridor
eyes closed
seeing the dark disappear
as I pass by

watching all the walls turning into the finest transparent silk and cotton
as you walk by
and all those images of coal
head disconnected from the body
a trembling sweet sex to lay your breath in
empty forests
coming out of them just like water drops from a mill




lunes, 25 de enero de 2016



Come over
I promise I won’t make it hard

Just drop by
I won´t make a fuzz

Won’t even open my big mouth

You know how I am
Come to see me
I’ll make things easy
Heat some coffee
Afghan tea

Just come over
I’d like to sit in front of you
You in front of me
Not uttering a single
Just staring at each other
Like we used to do
Then you would stand up
Sit on my knees
Put yours arms around my neck
your head on my chest
and kiss the veins that go straight to my
And I’ll hold you tight with

Santo Domingo


There are some unknown noises
down on the street
and going

some food on the counter
viruses on my weakened body

I have some friends I am missing
some old love affairs too
some sadness deep inside

I am searching for the atlantis
in every shore round here,
in my dirty
with chinese prostitutes on every windshield
and yellow bleach bottles
smashed bellow the wheels


that little dominican girl below
is crying

it must be around 6AM
on the hangover month
and the entrances to all the private parkings
are gathering tore apart plastic bags
& fallen leaves
and condom wraps
and cigarettes butts

the mother starts shouting now
“What the hell is wrong with you?
Why are you crying now?
why aren’t you sleeping?”



They are making bets on your seizures
Your blind eyed souls
Your chances to win the lottery
Your numbness
Your stupidity

But the shade on your face keeps getting’ softer
and the kissing
is always without the tongue

only oblivion puts you on

you always get naked underneath the blankets
you go straight to the point
but the travel is the point

I prefer to see you standing
room half lit on fire
with your sweet tits like chocolate Eastern eggs
your rounded hips
and that tender edge between your legs
with spicy little hair all around

but you are way too worried
about the price of oil
the hunting season
and the weight of the bread
and the brakes
to notice

the miserere morning news
the death valley
the long gone loves
the father of your only child
the jealousy


like a flock of religious zealots
dancing away their



Summer is here
& it will never leave

this roar of ventilators
sweat in your armpits
headaches at dawn
sticky hands
flip flops

to stay

summer is here
for you and me
burning our hearts and our will
with such as easy fire
-and almost colorless fire-
-so easily
pushing us down in our cradles and

summer is here and all the others are leaving for good
we will never see them again,
or backstreets
running away from the cops
to smoke

they are flying over to Mexico,
or the north
or any coast
and they won't be back

so this very summer
long and wide
will be our long last home
crushing our skulls with its empty hands
exhaling clouds of dusk over our eyes
we get dry and lost & turn grey

Ecomic recovery


You see them standing on the street
trembling slightly,
back to the wall,
70 or 80 years old
hand just a little bit stretched out
palm facing the sky like a little bowl
for water
lines that go from side to side of their face

you see them on the street
more and more each time
and it’s not easy unless you walk with your eyes open
because they hardly make any noise
and they look like rice paper
they stand still
on their feet
in grey corners
looking at you as you pass by
with their wet-white eyes
soft skin
faded voice
asking for 50 cents

you see them
more an more each time
and you bite your tongue not to cry because you are not a sentimental prick
and don’t want to share no tears with anyone,

you hand them whatever is in your pocket
your fists tighten in anger inside

while you think about hanging and burning

all the fuckers that tell you everything is going alright