slaves

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

… 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
soon-to-be-wife
glass
or
wet-dirt-after-the-rain

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
throat
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
my
chest

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,
gleaming
descending
over my face,
a sedative mist of
dioxins and jasmines
winding me in her
breath

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

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
offerings
silk
silver
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
slowly
evaporating
into the bed of the two rivers
in a cloud of still orange water
bronze
millenary angry gods
and the oil of her skin

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

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
still,
or
watching her driving her bike under the oaks in the
dense hot of the tropical summer

sometimes
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
sometimes…

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
someone
even when you have her,
or running into the same brick wall a thousand times
some…


… 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

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

stupid coffee machines

… it's christmas day
on the summer city
and i am listening to endless neil young songs
that linger in the walls for hours until they disappear,
in my narrow cabin
over the dry sea,
while i count every step i failed to take
every delusion
every chord

… it's christmas day
on the summer city
and i count down the drunken kids on the dirty streets,
and the acid wigs,
and the homemade fireworks,
while i think about the snow
and the day we throw our bad luck into the east river,
so she would not come back anymore…
that second comer son of a bitch

… it's christmas day
on the summer city
and i recollect my wet laundry
while i consider which pill to swallow
to get over this headache,
and the deep holes in the streets,
and the war in mali,

and you

X indicates existing damage

in the starving hours of the fake autumn light,
in the city,
the faces melt under the flat screens,
the chinese-made tongs of the
eastern european whores,
the hidden longings of the inner late night bus

every heart is a departure
in the alleyways of this town
where the electric honey blood of the street lamps
vanishes and offers an abyss of
barbwire reflections and dogs barking

so you drive the old blind toyota
and pray for a huge miracle,
a white horse in the black bolshoi  theatre,
a time machine,
a chandler-like spark moment in the cotton fog
a phone call

a word

waking up is not an easy thing when you have your heart rolling
in some other chest
no matter how much you pretend to walk it down
the trembling echoes of those days
come back from the dead
and haunt you like a burning arrow on the throat

the girl in the post office
smiles and talks
all dark hair and lips
and red nails

and i carry my load down to the train station
whistling if-not-for-you
and picking all the dust I can