sábado, 25 de octubre de 2008


don’t want to write
can’t write
won’t write

just walk around with a cigarette in my mouth

it is not burning yet

and hear the frogs outside
and switch on the fan
and the posters dance in the wall
by the breeze

don’t wanna see you
fuck off
can’t forget about it
you did and is just your lost

I walk fast through the cage
I undress myself while walking
I hit the walls
To feel the carpet underneath my feet
and all the bugs inside
and creeping
and dancing
and telling me how beautiful you are
and how much I miss you
and that you should leave

But… don’t
Don’t do it

I still think of you

And my fingers ache
So I don’t write
And I don’t know if they are coming after us
Or where are we
I can’t answer these questions for you
I can’t ask them for me
So don’t do it
Just burn slowly
And get the hell out of here
Because I only can see you when it is dark

miércoles, 15 de octubre de 2008


I have just arrived home from the ivory coast
the light blue still shining in my dirty
stout hands

they still glitter
like stars
dying all over me
like a blinking aura
made of broken rings
and saliva
and transparent filings
from your skin

I dance
When I arrive
I dance with the swallow
that smell like coconuts and

their skins so tender
their legs so enchanting
my brain like a burning machine
burning you
burning me
burning like eating matches

and I know I am not there
I am gone

no matter how loud
you call me

I am gone

no matter how tempting
I am gone by now

I am not writing this anymore

is just the machine

not me

not me


sábado, 4 de octubre de 2008

Two other soldiers are lost

Kaurismaki, Kouriutami, casas amarillas con porche de madera
Palmeras, 11S, cocaína
Una piscina azul-Lynch,
Un Camaro rojo
Y una gran toalla blanca

La Iglesia de Cristo, las chicas con chanclas y las uñas pintadas
Masturbarse en el lavabo
Las filas de cajas de cereales
Los cambios de marcha
Ron Paul, papa Nöel jugando al baseball
Thomas Hawkins, Chuck Berry, Ali Baba

Arañas delgadas sobre el agua
Tortillas a 99 céntimos

Batman, Bukowski, Robert Jonson
La deuda histórica
La grasa de la cadena
El ventilador

Me siento frente al ordenador
Y pienso en limpiarlo cada cinco minutos
Nunca lo hago
Tampoco pienso en ti