Flying attacking motivation

Do we deserve a kingdom

of nudity? We aren’t lambs

on this creepy country.

Our field is empty of emptiness

fulfilling us, terrifying God.

Our will is a tongue

filling the shape above us:

nothingness arising in our feelings.

Do we clean up our heads for being

especially hurt by nudity?

All around we can’t say what

we want, we can’t reach amazing

young tits, we are not saved

for being important. Who knows?

We climb once the blue tender lips of skies

and we, among the silence,  sharpening

the mouth of sorrow are beating the fire

of pornographic age. And we cry once,

we love once, we carry on once, we forget once.

But we can’t have a nice couple of books

and we can’t sell them

and we can’t practice or English

and we can’t even think about

other people rights. And we deserve

a fatty body, we deserve our meals,

we deserve cancer and death. We deserve

to heal the shadow of infancy and tell the single

puzzle true about smashing souls.

And we fly

while we try

while we cry

while we sight

inside the inner

combo of sex and light and lettered

columns of paper and pencils and childhood too.

Because this tiny tongue speaks

we deserve some nice sexual desert

some dirty sexual desert

some nasty sexual desert

as a black nice espresso,

as an infinity tale called

a question: what else

can we have here

where everything is getting destroyed

as no one will be alive

for the end of times?

And we are trying again to find a mix

of verses and sounds

but we can fill in

because we left on

pieces around a finding

error of fire collapsed

tiny mouth. This

atonic template

temple found

me chilling

out

some

age

against

what

it’s called

human brutality.

Many women will die

and we couldn’t find

the way to get in love with them.

 

Anuncios

Too much density

Do I felt again

the smiling tongue

of sorrow?

Here my voice depicted

one minute of smoked souls

and then I fly again

to the rain shadow.

Inside this solitude

there’s a summer memory

trying to climb the horizon.

Here I had this shadow of my self

there I will pay the price of attention

and write false English poetry.

Is there a language greater than

episodic atoms of unloved heart?

Suddenly I must forget

everything against my clouds:

this verb and phrase is one of them

and I will never get enough scholarship

I will never understand what is

a single verse, a tiny piece of something

else than lovely inspiration.

What’s love? Where do we seek

the nude body of young women?

Everything could be different

but I wrote it like that and it’s wrong

again, it’s wrong and impolite.

This rudeness shines all around the table.

Then I smoke another cigarette.

It’s too late to unfold my message.

And I don’t know how to get out

of this density called identity.

The powerful destroying strength of human nature

She was a raver Queen

dancing all around

playing with fire

and I was a boy with a mutilated

taste, a mutilated way of feeling.

So we danced and she was the most beautiful

girl of the night. I wasn’t a poet yet.

Do I was one? And she plays with fire

and course my soul

and charmed my eyes, my sight,

and she danced as the most beautiful

girl that night.

I was afraid too

bored too

relaxed too

and she was the most beautiful

as my memory told me.

She hugged one guy

she was with him,

and I was destroyed

and no one cares about that.

The light wasn’t real

she wasn’t real

nothing is real since that night.

 

June the first and that 2002 vandalized Tokio street

That night I’ve danced

with all my soul. Were you watching

to me? The men voice told me:

you are crazy and you are going to keep on the trip.

Anyway, that morning I began to scream harder:

where are the psychoanalysts?

Well, that night in Tokio I began to scream against

the rest of my family, that June day.

And this is not a poem.

And an explosion occurs in Coatepec.

So no one will ever hear…

And that’s the nightmare… of my memory.

Good by unloved of my life.

And it’s all right

The hell is running all around and I miss you. I will never know how it feels to kiss you or huge you or make breakfast for you and its all right. I deserve this 16 years of repentance. I knew I won’t get nothing screaming and all what I’ve got was miserable and hateful. No it’s too late. I dream with you from times to times, I’m an idiot now as I was on 2002. I hope you’ll be happy and full and calm and loved, wherever you are, whoever you’re among of.
I was’nt brave enough to do anything else but scandalized. This hell is running all around, every day, and I dreamt with it, before my mothers dies. This present place called earth never has been a peaceful place to live. I wish you could live and die in peace, even if my psychotic love for you just starts this realm of flesh and excess brutality.
I remember well 2002, and the paths and the game, and they commanding my mind, the TV, calling me, tearing me up inside, destroying my memories, fucking me psychologically.
I had a vision one day of that summer. Suddenly I saw you and you cross me, your soul cross me, and I had an orgasm, and my weakness, all that weakness, grew up faster. The Dexter Show was just the beginning of my punishment. You broke something inside me with your soul that night, and subsequently everything broke around me. I knew I won’t get anything screaming to the world that day when Jean Paul II canonized Juan Diego. Nowadays I even dream with Vicente Fox, and this fucking nightmare is unstoppable, this nightmare all around. The fucking hell is running. I don’t believe in churches or religions. I will never commune. So I just can say that children must go to the church to be different as I am. I will never commune, I will never confessed with a Bishop or Father. I begun to scream just to prove that no one will ear me. The years pass away, every year I remember that dance with you. Many times I wonder what would it be if I had chosen go to seek you and confess my love to you. But I just get mad, and mad, and mad. Now your friend Mariana lives en France, as Frida lives there, as Claudia lives there. Those days I wanted to study global social phenomena, I was the anthropologist of the UAM. And my friend Tania is death, and Scarlet,the girl who I’ve danced with, the fake kiss girl that day, I don’t know where she is. And I dreamt with you my first night in Tokio, and you was more beautiful and wise every dream I had.
Now is too late, I can’t find the forgive, I will never forgive me, I will never be calm, maybe with death I will find the peace that I won’t have in life. It doesn’t matter, it never matters.
You must be happy practicing feldenkraise and rising your child. It’s all right.
The system is unchangeable, they will find you, the will torture you, they will kill you, they will disappear your. We are just numbers, registered numbers, and we don’t have any fait or hope or consciences. We are all cut by the same scissors, and they are watching us, they are seeking us, they are registering our lives, they know everything about us. We never can change the world. They command, they invent, they grow up every day a new strategy to control us. I will never be able to live once again the change of be near you. And it’s all right. You told me that I was idealizing you, and thats for sure. This punishment, self punishment, will destroy me. And its all right.

A single homeless in this uncertain universe

Being an academic homeless
as being a homeless poet
a homeless thinker
is being the nothingness itself
surrounded by this lettered universe.
Here where I am
the music doesn’t sounds
the love isn’t for real
the smiles are just againts
one tinny reason, mines, and
here where I am breathing
there is nobody as there will not be
anybody when I died.
So this slowly death, inner death,
social and comunicative death
shapes my tongue
and trash my soul.
Being a homeless cultural maker
is being a kind of tear dried
by the force of the eternal silence.
And it’s ok for the rest, it always be
ok for the rest, and who cares?
I deserve the spectacular nothingness
of my own being, I deserve to be called
a homeless of the digitality times.
Homeless as my shine collapse
What for I talk? Who will I find
on my road? Where do I get the forget?
Sorry for friends, this homeless will never
be on your arms again.

 

Soon or then

Windy life

I asume

that won’t be true

the rest of this tale.

Speaking tongue

teach me the way

up or down

I need to say,

good bye my love.

Windy life

trust me

true is the head of light

and quickly is

the shape of ocean.

Shamed ahead

that flows around

price my vocal,

my single dust

called surface

of my body

and climb me

as every lover

I ever have

for the rest of my days

until now.

The violence of being nobody

One touched soul is burning

meanings above our acts.

We climb the skyscraper of nothingness

surfing against a megabytes wave of shadows.

Suddenly the sun arrives and kill us.

We have been killed every eternity at the same time.

They command and distribute every single

piece of being, we cry, we deserve tears

and ashes, every single tongue is not

a spoken language, nothingness filled

redly with insanity, ashamed force

stronger than the history’s flow.

Meaningless support every breath aside us

and when shout to the moon

because we are lovers of strangers pasts.

We could not forget what we can’t even live.