martes, 18 de octubre de 2016


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




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