There where we love

we build black holes.

We will always live

in someone else memory

but we couldn’t be happier

than an eagle flying.

We deserve this suction

called living as we put

into others life sense

the tiny pieces of enlighten

hearts. We can always choose

inner destruction or love suction.


We don’t have

any change

to be loved,

but we love

always on this

memory’s labyrinth.



Image with Gramma Errors as a poor mexican trying to express itself on Englis

When someone attacks our heart

Blind is the meaning

full of light

the silence

of birth.

Finding time

is near our face

named tongue

speak of shadowy

memories. Thin

the worse lie

is remember wide

the ancient solipsism’s path.

The trash camp of porn-narcotic capitalism


We deserve what we have

now, then, every day: here

some people watched an eagle

raised over a nopal, eating

a snake. It doesn’t matter,

not anymore. We, all of our

sons and childhood, are lonely

here, with God, forgotten

us by the way.

Our women are slaves

our people are slave too.

We lived among trash

made by flesh, by blood,

by injustice, by drugs

and comercial sex,

but we deserve

all that, we deserve it, since

the beginning of times.

Our country

has been always destroyed,

their people has always been

slave of others: catholics,

europeans, creoles, americans,

they come and they take everything

leaving nothing —nothingness—.

They come

and bring diseases, they bring

machines, they build their empires

with our strength called people, with

our fertile camps, with all that

we can give to a capitalism

way of History —way of life—.

We loose

every year, every sun, our honor,

here, selling our lady, their sex,

selling our country, our beaches

and corn grains

and our genetic legacy.

It used to be different.

A country between rivers is my country

and is the trash camp, blacker than darkest

nigger slavery times: the machinery

is called porno-narcotic capitalism.

An this lyric verse, a rehearsal of

solitude, is an ethnography of

shaped moments, of shaped

garbage all around us. We really

deserve what we have, this punishment

of times, this unfair tale, this

explosion, this explosive way of kill

our equals, of abuse our women,

of destroyed infancy with cola and burgers.

We deserve it, it’s unstoppable the destruction’s

breath that climb over us every day,

torturing what we won’t never reach.

So we are workers of death,

always this death jumping and smiling us.

Our tears are made of ancient violence,

and today violence, that get into our lives,

is a self image concerning the eternal punishment.

Our people lives with a new life’s hope,

always, like a donkey running behind a carrot

attached on his head, unreachable, always,

the happiness. Some others go away of this hell

and they promote interpretations about it,

even if they don’t live it. It’s a hell, always

the hungry beating our appetites of being.

Nothing will be sacred here,

for no one, not for me. We walked

and lived among the historic garbage

of others. The big loan for us

is to live and smile and hug our loved woman.

But is the false time of mirror

what we see, because we are condemned.

Here, where others will be remembered,

we don’t have any change of being someone,

we just pass away, leaving an ashes path:

our memories birth from the shadow

of our hope. We can’t even cry

and we deserve what we have:

this amusement park of injustice,

this exploded society, this portioned

believe that identify us with

all kinds of fanaticism. So we are

always the losers, the salt sculpture

diluted by the water of assassins:

a destiny bloodhood flood

named Mexico, the trash camp

of porn-narcotic faith in this late

capitalism way of living.


Tha fake light enagenation age

We carry

millions of tears

inside us.

The surface of our sins

is full of emptiness.

We seems to be someone

but we are one single life,

fragile, intuitive, lonely.

Our hearts are beaten

by the collapsing whisper

of meanings and helps,

but we won’t reach the

absolute silence.

This light of our days

is fake, is trashing our souls,

this light is completely madness.

One lie is build and communicate

every day today, every second, here

on this Eden lost,

where the childhood

means slavery

and work

and sexual barbarism.

The History is plenty of shapes

and tragedies but this fake light,

one miracle, one technology product,

breaks us, pulls us to nowhere,

fills us with the strange feeling

of have something but get nothing.

And all we can do, here

where the war is the narrative coin,

here, we can try to touch the ground

and love somebody who deserves it.

The forgetfulness is always

this shiny tiny floppy sweetie road

that we can always use as path to fly

around the name of divinity.



Confessing the psycotic reverb

Endless meaning

our time

shadow arising

ocean of deep rose lights.

Inner composition

inside us

flaming us

running us

heading us

to nowhere

where we build

love and hate.

Unloved and gifts

sent by God for a while

sinner tongue

sinner flesh

sinner vowel

our name and body




is not a kind of being

is all what we can keep now:

a piece of heart called solitude.


Translating the mute instinct

Suddenly a rising speech

developed inside me

one stepping way of being.

Without any sense

I build the skyscraper

called my shadow along the distance

of our tongues and I think we are lost

any time of the season that remains.

Unsense this called verse

a single word

regretting the pass of solid continents

above the selfish flesh of sorrow.

One truly love is dying around the corner

because I seek tits and bodies

either hope and bless. So on

I drove my mute instinct to shut down

my mind, anywhere I’ve been

I’ve made a kind of friend:

this solitude is just the ending phrase

into the landscape named my self shouted

to the universe.




Deeply over suns of silence

There was a temple

where we can fly and light our destiny.

Now I’m only a messenger

of solitude voice, eternity rain

always seeking us to be aside of limit.

Long distances made us build

engines and machines, but not life.

So the light became shadow

inside of us… I’m only a messenger

of this ruin time called XXI century.

My approach is nearby an unusual tongue

of broken languages of sins and flesh and ashes

and all that we despite being what we are

here where the history is ending as a sinful lie.

I can’t beside speak about anything

and always is in my mind a name

broken my self, finishing my present,

a kind of believe, a kind of road, a kind

of naming this vocal inflection.

So I felt down every day

over the face of suns

killed by our race, and this is all

what I can be, this verse truly false.

Are anybody going to release my soul

of the strength of forgiveness? Should I continue

this path and journey to the mouth of the time?

What I can tell is what I don’t know, now

is today always the falling down to suns of silence.


Thunderbolt voice

One single shadow

eats myself

above any eternity:

your lips and your fruit body

reachable for one second.

I will never forget

your thunderbolt soul

that broke my breathing

into pieces of times.



English portrait of myself

Upon this memory
called myself
my wishes deserve this spoon
of silence and regret
that is one landscape
of centuries transition.
Mine solitude figure
arise beneath this memory
that’s myself condition
non fruition of sense and time
eat from my distortioned tongue,
that is my memory of nothing
and is the backyard of songs
into tradition of noisy lakes
and spoken souls, incoming tale
of those wishes talked.
Inner this motion constrict this heading
to the ground of sunsets.
This memory is abruptly high
and deeper than the flesh and the blood
and the ashes of my cigar and the melody
of myself being one kind of dictator
shaping names and contexts and wishes again
until the last second, the last day, the last word
and meaning recall here, on this memory
where I spoke a kind of selfish poem,
this tiny scroll that picks up my story.




Soundly fire cloud

Suddenly the world

is quite surprising us

maybe before we left

our silence above our

time, when we smoked

all inner sins of being.

The shelter is always

the same word and path.

We cry to be healed

and we shout to be present,

but every single moment

called ashes of our noise

is the meaning of try to speak

about the final line of landscape.

fire cloud

Walking the mirror

walk1Deep inside there will be a piece

of sharpened hearts. We still missing

the noise of the sunrise but we rise

our tongues and muscles to the sky.

I don’t need any court to judge me

I just need a piece of paper to build myself.

Never will be justice around our tiny planet,

because we don’t climb mountains anymore.

walk2Do we find the shelves of names clapping our silences?

And you are always trying to be one single

fruit, or are putting besides me the honor

and the pain, both together in my road.

So we walk again and again. Reaching nothing

we walk. Once we could take a ride to heavenly

trees but we are lost in the streets, tonight

we fight to pull on our tears among the city people.

Understandably a Historic hate cut uswalk3

meanwhile we research the meaning of being

objects to others. Objectively I seek the forgetfulness

but my memory install on my soul scratched

sounds and images. The summer was always

the time to conquer with the sight a butterfly,

but now I know that you are still messing me

with the strength of a thunder that is your absence.

Who will meet me if the universe is collapsing

walk4every second near the nearest corner? And my home

is not turned into a psychodelic cave anymore,

my home is not a psychiatric hospital anymore,

my home is not tender tits and vaginas anymore,

my home is just a kind of sorrow and solitude verse,

a kind of speech that never regrets me, but one day

my home regrets myself and I was alone with madness.



Typing nothing

Here my long equality

deserves pleasant one thunder,

ashamed voices again, never

telling single words. I’m a hater

of time and life and air

because my broken tongue

disappoints you, attacks you,

blames you, once again,

when the sunset throw

kindly a thunder into my soul.

Where are the friends?

Where is the lovely solitude?

Nothing scape from people

never will be them

the last run against my head.

One single thinking

one single head,

my mental disorder

as a verbal fluctuant sorrow.

When do I follow the tense of present

or the shadow of solipsistic voices?

Nor my face or my mouth arise again

but I’m sure that we will be forgetfulness

at the end of the day, and no one will cry.

We are all robots

I’m a robot every second

because the time broke my heart.

Every year I’m a robot,

I’m a single piece of steel

and nothingness, shaped

by the force of will: stoned

because my single tongue is oil.

I’m a robot, as you are, single, lonely,

traveled on rocks and fountains of money.

I’m a robot, whispering the sound of machine

the machine gun that spills any kind of

shame, any kind of tears, oiled by sinking

troubled worried pieces of iron. And we are

robots, all we, but our subject is steal

we deserve more sex and more kisses

but we are all robots, making the sound

of postmodernity single ballad arise.

Anachronistic soul

Everything happens once
on the face of the planet,
once everything is time and action.
Behind the universe rules
everything could collapse once
and the inner solipsism
betrayed our body and shaped
the meaning of being a lonely sparkle
of symbols and nothingness. We cry
even when we have reached
the sense of love and life.
And we left our tongue in the sky
because we speak any kind of way
that flows above times and circumstances.
So the golden energy arise inside us,
melting our destiny to the colorful river
of existence and shine under our soul
the unreachable hair of wellness.

One age of full meaningless

The age of references

is dark of light and sadness,

because it is full of non sense.

Unmeaning anything, reaching

nothing and teaching saturated

culture, as a broken machine

locked on movement killing

people, all those meanings,

that means the same that poverty,

climbs the mountain of letters

and books and images and names.

An we are scared of being anybody

because we eat vegetables and salads,

because we avoid smoke and excesses,

because every breath we take is narrow

of pollution and our bodies are shaped

by some cartoons and some sports,

but we build a post petroleum society and

individual too, and we fill our eyes of light

again and again and again until we are blinds.

An this age is blind as a nobel price said

and we don’t seems to get any love ever

because when the sun born we begun to rise

a shading rumor called words and verbs.

We are chased by our equals every second

reaching cool flows of time, but the locked machine

broke our hearts and the flesh, spiritual body,

collapsed into a febrile way of misunderstood.

Why do we felt that God is with us?

Because the blindness of our time

is a road to nowhere and an trip

to the certain stage of being an hologram.




Powered by Google translate

I’m no one here

no one there

no one everywhere.

Nowadays we have techniques

and my skill is empty,

as my soul, but who knows

the meaning of a smile.

And the butterflies collapsed my tongue

because I’m in love again

and I never forget her, but Google,

such an instrument, such a space,

such a time, a globalized recorder

of nothingnees but a metaphysic

spirit, a new one, and myself here,

jamming tenses without sense,

a false rhyme again, and me meaning

who cares about dental care?

There will be another olympic champion

of Tae Kwon Do, and I’m not going to be

a self driver of hate, and the sun,

always there, and the starts, always there.

I’m not going to be more important than

a play boy model, I’m not going to go to the gym,

And these kind of speech is saying nothing.

Any one saw the Superbowl? Any one went

to a barbecue last weekend? Any one can

translate your self into a meaningless words.

When I was a boy I’ve learned to play guitar.

Every year is always the same number changing.


Once we loved

the shinning sky

or maybe the blue ocean

perhaps we forgot

all the inches played

with other tongue

or lips because we left

every lightning shaped love

above the crystal of life.

Once we cried and we left the hope

being loneliness or happiness or

some other feeling like sorrow or tenderness.

Once we lifted up our name

but there wasn’t anything above us

and the thunderbolt of truth

destroyed our symbols and letters

meanwhile we deserved a nice cup of tea,

hot rice and some crunchy bacon.

Once we will run to the ground

listening the screams of somebody else

and we will put on the table

the names of every single moment.

The rocket title

We climb the sorrow

we drive the flow of meaningless

speech and tears, away the time

where we don’t love and stopped

every kind of light.

We eats every day one day

with the strength of a horse

and we ride the sunset

and the forgetfulness arise in our hearts

when we deserve the lunch on the bed.

Why do we climb the sorrow every year?

Because we miss the single sense of life.

Always the mirror

As always the mirror

telling and shaping

distortion. Confident thought

mind unfilled body risky tale

we were unexpected every day,

every second we were flies

and baked hate and sorrow

as we saw what the mirror said.

There was a time that we were innocent

but now the silence is a treasure

for us, like the water for the sick old man

who miss his recently death old woman.

As always the mirror

changing colors and noticed time steps

never the nature flat and true

never us

never the knowledge pure

never us

never what we can feel

always the mirror saying

you are not there.




Destroyed castle of images

and words seeing turnable pieces

of meaningless languages.

Who will build you up again

castle of million colors

castle of being and time?

We forgot you now

that the day arise single and happy

but your line, of dark sine,

is write by the flesh of History.

And the song sounds your skin of verse

skin that broke our silence and we cry

we felt down your river of sense

and we are nothing to be beside you.

Castle of images and words your speak

is one fluid stream of ancient knowledge

but we forget your rooms and we leave

your shelter because now we are making

the light side of the pillow of life.


Anger machine

Deep the sky
Blue my sight
Shining a memory of your
Deep breath inside my ear
And nothing right
Nothing else legal but my sadness
Born that night
Burning myself inside
Since there untill here.
The sky makes love with the moon
We don’t even loved us
And I hate this life that
Keep us away from ourselves.
That night I decided to leave
The sky and the light
To  submerge myself
Into the deep and poor sorrow
Of my destroyed ego and name.
Then, when your image became
This huge ghost, my tongue confirmed the holly punishment
Of being a desertic human: forgotten youth my will and voice.
Your single beauty is not the reason to eat the dust of your dance. And I will never stoped this anger machine. You are the poisoned flower who has killed
A piece of my heart.

The mental side of my silence

Climbing my eyes

while filling mornings

the sorrow and the noise

one kind of space

this language ghostly

shaped as burned bones.

Imaginary numbers building

an orange waterfall of feelings

like a sun exploding in sunrise

or the first step of the light

when the light was born.

Under the skin, my skin,

a flagrant tactic’s book

conquering thoughts a

marked alphabet named whisper

of pain and dysfunction.

Do I survive the tremendous episode

of being a turnable figure of western culture?

I’m not a figure, I’m caos, I’m a single eternity

puzzle abandoned to the flow of the holly blood

meaningless fire’s manantial: this inner universe

this inner sun, becoming black and white noise

as an early XX century photography. And there,

where the island of memories arise and modeled

a turning ashes soul, my name is closed because is broke.

Inside this budget of tragedy the gray instant spoke inmaterial.


You are never with me

False colapse under my tongue

your name


my soul


not enough

your lips


time and my self desire

of your body

your breath


since I was young


never can get you

and all

everything broken

between we both.

Sad kind of imagination about the imaginary chronicle of the most beautifull girl of the world as a sexual slave and the try of being a guy

Like a shining trombone

filling a second

tight tits or kisses

meaningless effort

this try to be a guy.

Like a sunset out of the window

collapsed in the sky

like the most beautifull girl face

in the middle of this digital sea

like a hard nipple imaginated

nothing is reaching the effort

of being this try of guy.

Like a juicy steak and its bloody texture

in the bourgeois mouth

the sexual slave

the nippel and the tits

tightened and hard like cold iron

and the desire of being a guy

in this try to be a guy too.

Like a cloud moving to the mountain

the aproach of no one

the sense o no one

the most beatifull girl

that doesn’t exist

and her body

and her mouth

and her hair

and she being a sexual slave

and the bourgeois eating in Manhattan

and me

trying to be a guy.

Nothing is all around

but the silence of these perverted imagination.

And the sexual slave,

the most beautifull girl in the world

doesn’t exist here or anywhere

and the bourgeois is everytime the winner

and I am just trying to be a guy.

Harder, baby, harder please,

broken the remains of my innocence

but please, harder baby, harder, and deeper. Please

I’m no one and nothing is my name

when I’m just trying to be a guy and she

the sexual slave

is the most succulent woman in the world.

Burned guitar

All my music is lost in your eyes

my song is deeply hard to hear now

because I’ve lost you since the first second.

No sound fill me or lead me to you.

I’ve lost you with all those speeches

blinds as the fire that you rise up.

Nothing emerge of my soul and nothing

is what I am without you. My dear guitar.


Elapse this heart

with a strong kiss

but forget the movie

and nude your mind

in this heart too.

Sexualism of the sadness

colordanceThink about sex, wondering about you,

filling my voice,

my body,

with your memory.

What else can I say to the silence?

Nothing is happy next to my past.

No one will get your site in my heart.

And I look

these beautiful girls

all over the world

and I can’t believe

my fortune:

be without love,

that love

that is perfect

to the Hollywood pictures.

Here I am

with a little hope to be grey and black and bluecolorcarrousell

very blue,

almost purple,

almost very dark red, as the blood

that is flowing near a dead body,

a dead man,

a dead image of you.

When do I should forget you?

Maybe I will never take the right pill.