miércoles, 25 de diciembre de 2013


toy plastic empty subways in the crystal clear cold halfway-cooked-spring-morning

wolves without teeth
religious zealots
rock and roll in the stereo – downers in the oven  - girls at the door of the laundromat

the old guy leaning on the wall whispering:

“ulises never came home
he tried, sure,
but he stayed looking in circe’s eyes
for all eternity
coming home for what?

even now the old sea-lover-white-dove
is falling on her beautiful white linen knees
giving name to new songs and talking directly to your ears:
i wanna see you again babe
you handsome black haired guy

and the light
fresh god-like
of the velveteen sunset
hits the barrio’s red brick buildings
with an overwhelming feel full of oceanic hope

usually so far away
phone calls
snow and rice fields

so the day passes by in a hush
in a long head
concern about the implications of the lost boats and the burning zeppelins
and the crippled emotions of emptiness
in the skinny
mental sanity asylums
and the ruins of the prison

sorry my dear but i have to keep on going
for a little bit time more
till i get to detroit at least
or to the homemade bread
or the white fence or
salvation herself
and the peaceofmind
or quebec
or those idealistic hands that cover my face
and make me fall sleep like a huge
under the heavy heat
of the
hong kong hills

sábado, 30 de noviembre de 2013


the smell of lime
and onions
in the bright dense
sweating saigon day

the taste of sprouds
the dark iced café,
making me tremble,
in the small tin
police yard

the co twong
played sitting on the cement floor
dirty feet

a war

most of the times you can only see the eyes of
the bike riders
passing over the
surviving french buildings
that look like old botannical gardens

something is really spicy

but i don't know what it is

something made me think about you

but i don't know what it is

viernes, 25 de octubre de 2013


... y hay poemas también de las 4 de la mañana
poemas que son
como medusas urbanas de madrugada
pompas de jabón de fregar los platos
frases a medio decir
sumideros atascados

poemas que nadie escucha y que casi nadie escribe
que se quedan flotando en el aire cuando los lees en voz alta
al día siguiente
casi con vergüenza

poemas-carga de profundidad
con pocas aristas
y ninguna intención
sonambulismo a oscuras en la cuerda floja,
palomitas de maíz en el cine

poemas que hablan de echar algo en falta
pero no saber muy bien el qué,
de echar a alguien de menos,
pero no saber muy bien a quién,

de caras por las que diste la vida
y ahora se convierten en caretas,
de planes de evacuación,
de planes de invasión,
camas vacías,

bultos en bolsas de plástico blanco,
de amigos borrachos de cerveza y Johnny Walker
y piel quemada por el sol
de pijas imbéciles fans de los fleet foxes
que hablan sobre el proceso creativo,
susurros a la oreja mientras te hacen el amor,
pelo cayendo sobre tu cara oliendo a hierbas y jabón,
cenizas en el puerto,
lluvia bajo las crines de los caballos

no es la bajada
es la subida de vuelta

poemas de calor
que pueden hacerte llorar
por que están vacíos hasta que tú los llenas,
medio dormida
con la cara aplastada contra la almohada justo antes de caer

jueves, 3 de octubre de 2013


the dim winterlight trasspasses the wide window
like a blurry cascade of giggs particles
bone dust
and golden vaporous cottom seeds
from the delta

morganfiled's voice hardly audible from the deep
oak tree forest
spanish moss
like the white opaque eyes of a blind man
feathers in the base of her spine
which i caress like it was the maltese falcon
her butt is as soft as the inside part of her eyelids
a headlight feeling in the bohemiman frozen green london afternoon

everybody needs a place to go
as it sounds as heavy as the dusty wings of a blue butterfly in your memory

i just hold her hand slowly
while i kiss her

jueves, 9 de mayo de 2013

… oh… but don't worry my love
this blade-like fingers of mine won’t hurt you at all…
they won’t damage your soul
more that the secret wide open spells from the
guts and
the gutters of the
steamy ancestors
and the blasting skin deep ghosts
of your own loneliness

they won’t harm you
more than your disturbing voice will damage my nerves
up in the rooftops
and deep as your depraved silver teeth
shimmering words like

one dagger for the day our paths met
another one for your little death
the third one for this morning’s sweat
the fourth one coming from your blurry head

my body will float down in the depths of the oceans for you
with thousand of blinded eyes over me
cold fur as ice in the bottom of her
dogs of the surface wild,
howling for me in this shell tombstone
for the cursed sailor
and the loathsome writers and the dark dark darkness of your curly hair

whenever she kissed me
I felt a warm wave of heat covering me from
my eyelids
to my sex,
to the inside part of

her mouth so close to mine,
her eyes so heavenly closed,
her heart pulsing
through her neck
like a flickering of blood under the skin,
over my face,
a sedative mist of
dioxins and jasmines
winding me in her

one dagger for the day we met
another one for your little death
the third one for this morning’s sweat
the fourth one coming from your blurry head

the king was born in the land of honey
but the skeletons of the power will haunt his bones as they were filthy money
his echo resounding in the countless roads
the posts, the codes
of the garden of eden

the murky afternoon in the singer's voice
brings him words
and melodies
and reminiscences of northern lovers
that stopped by
once in a while
and were wiped out of the face of the earth
although his memories are gentle

it is late
there is plenty to worry about
like how the hell am I gonna leave you,
and how many songs will I have ready for tomorrow
and where to spend the summer
and the caves to hide
and stuff like that

one dagger for the day we met
another one for your little death
the third one for this morning’s sweat
the fourth one coming from your blurry head

sábado, 27 de abril de 2013

It’s a misty sunny spring morning

My new warm,
tanned lover
lays sideways
over the walls of Ur,
the curve of her hips showing the sun
the path to my forehead

The desert hides in plain view
among the cows
the white wide birds
rice rooted down in the mud,
the gates of hell

the bull horns over her head while she baths
sinking her rounded body into the sharp waters
the clay hands of the ships surrounding her
filled with flowers and
a bunch of clivias
in the thirsty dew

but she cannot sleep
and she wanders in my back with her claws and
her tongue
asking me to forget her
and marry her  in the deep green fields
all her servants holding her jellyfish crown

the city disappears in the dim
dusk light
she stretches
while I walk away
into the bed of the two rivers
in a cloud of still orange water
millenary angry gods
and the oil of her skin

the deluge coming over our heads
like the thin singing tone of the Zu bird

lunes, 25 de marzo de 2013

sometimes life is standing still
in the middle of an empty suburban square
with the light rain
falling on your face
while you think about the love you lost,
the abandoned fountains
and why the hell there are 4 empty microlax tubes on the dirty cement floor

sometimes life is making love on a cliff over the long lost Atlantic ocean
while waiting for the bus to come to take you back
or looking into her green eyes while she says she’s mad about you
watching her driving her bike under the oaks in the
dense hot of the tropical summer

is driving through the dessert with the somber halo of the soul-thirst-electrical-train numbing your bones like a blow of dust
dancing bugs
hard beds
and illusions of a glowing blue pool in the edge of the Texan exodus massacre

a reverberating scream in a cave
a bean-sized baby
with saturn-ringed hands
a pain in your nose after a fist fight
or the smell of a horse in pure darkness

an ephemeral text message
hanging somewhere in the room
after a fake name
an almost imperceptible graze in the silky neck
of the angelina night

sometimes is missing
even when you have her,
or running into the same brick wall a thousand times

… sometimes life is a skinny dry feeling
of loneliness that
grows somewhere between the skin of your skull
and the empty white space behind your eyes

jueves, 28 de febrero de 2013

Trenes que se han ido,
sueños que se repiten en camas diferentes,
un cigueña camina sobre la orilla del río,
gotas de lluvia helada sobre la cara


Trains that have already gone away,
dreams repeated in different beds,
a stork walks on the river bend,

cold rain drops on the face