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.

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.

Everything is against tobacco and I smoke

This is the age of running

but not as the run

of a locomotive

but the run of the air

and the run of the water

the same run of the nature,

not the run of burned wood.

And the race is always

to be healthy

and to deny

the dark side of nature: the death.

Is that the dark side of nature?

Who knows what bright or dark is?

There are many kinds of deaths,

as atomic bomb proves.

And I smoke,

more than 35 cigarettes,

and maybe

I will get cancer,

or maybe I wont,

but I will die,

some day, certainly,

and I don’t run anymore.

Many people runs everyday

more and more

and they will die too

but they run and they believes

that smoke

is the worst thing

of the XX century.

And I smoke,

more and more,

and they run.

They are living

a nice and athletic life,

a good shaped life,

a technocratic

and neoliberal life:

they start their day

at 5 am

and they drink

orange juice,

and the are vegans,

and they read

Murakimi’s books,

and they run

the Boston Maraton

and maybe they are insured

by some bank

and maybe they believe

that Disneyland is a nice place

and they maybe travel

many distances to give a conference

and maybe

they don’t want

to have babies

or maybe

they don’t like to have sex

with strangers

and they drink tequila

and beer

and sake

and they get drunks

one sunday at the month.

And I smoke,


I was seventeen,


I don’t drink


just coffee,


I can understand

the athletic

way of living


I don’t have sex

with strangers

and I think that

I am a kind of

living junk

of XX century


I don’t believe

in future

or marxism

or postmodernity


I won’t get

a Ferrari

and every day

the forgetfulness

whisper in my ear:

you will run once again.

Many people runs

every day


my life

is a big ashtray


I smelt like smoke


I’m smoke


my father

is  an oncologist

and my mother

died of cancer


I still smoking

35 cigarettes

as my grand father did,

and we will

never forget

the atomic bombs


I have never read

Murakami’s books.

And sport

are antidepressing people



was a sacred plant

as hikuri was

as cacao was .¿was it?-

and the

british men commerces

with tobacco

since XVI century


the american goverment

sent the order

to dropped

the atomic bomb in 1945

and nowadays

the black legacy

is bigger than

the aztech legacy

or maybe I’m just

a decrepit sinner


I build my self

with hate



but I used to

like the Beatles

until psychodelic trance

destroyed my sense of music.

And people runs


they could be

affraid of terrorism

and they could have been working

fourteen years

to buy a pent house

in Manhattan

and they like

to avoid porn,

the second worst thing

of XX century,


I seems to be a moralist


I can’t rhyme a verse

and this is not poetry,

it is a

poor verbiage speech.

Everything is against tobacco

and I smoke

a cigarette right now.








Lost trumpet breathing

Shining on

this sound



when we leave

the lake

and we hope

to born


on wind shape

shaping us

as diamond rock

shaped time

lost trumpet solo.

Venality seduction

So deep

inner silence

between noise shaped

by the memory line.


the love shining

broken and tightened

the tears of past,

time awakening to the

solipsism thinking,

mindfully silence, again.

Trashed anatomy

pornographic bodies

and this venality seduction

again, always forgetting language

building the anarchy sky of chaotic names.



the silence

and nothing is better

than the lonelyness of full

sense of light.

Pastiche de idiomas

メキシコ文学 ポリグラフの利用







Es eso que me dicen las canciones tristes

los pormenores de la tragedia dicha


es más que una fugaz conquista.

El corazón roto



como escándalo en Tokio en el año 2002.

Todas las formas del amor son puntiagudas

para penetrar los caminos del corazón.

Ich bin nicht lieben

Ich bin Enttäuschungen

Eine Säure Reise verdreht

In einem elektronischen Musikparty

Sie war mein Engel Mörder

This is just a language pastiche

Я потерял надежду ее найти

Нелюбимая человек, который строит новую жизнь

Powered by Google translate 

Inner canyon

Wide trapped hope,

closed under an empty language

where symbols are attaching sorrow

from fluid meanings,

as the shape of an abortive kiss

the lonely years sentence

running into the deep wide

inner canyon.

Millions of voices surrounding






trying to love us too.

And the bone of the soul,

where is trapped the hope,

is an ugly speak,

an ugly talk,

self talk,

automatic speech of fear and pain.

There was a shinning sun inside this body

inside us.

But now is a darkness mirror

a darker sight than the water of hate:

who will forgive the tender destroyed?

when do we met the calm silence of peace?

Why do we forget the happiness light?

No one will hear our time

frustrated as a bullying child

or even worse

crumbling as a wet piece of cookie.


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.

Trashed culture poetic: aunque no sepa decir Ich bin ein Dichter digitaler Papierkorb

Naufragar constante, extravío de lenguas, conocimientos, pérdida del sentido, wikipedia, articulismo, culturalismo, sensacionalismo. Crear como espasmos que brotan de la atmósfera repelente. No, nadie puede hablar alemán sin saber alemán, nadie puede escribir un verso de Quevedo o peor aún ser el Ulises que Joyce imaginó antes de escribir. Snobismo saturante, poeticidad ridícula. Eso, una amalgama de saturaciones precoces como eyaculador temprano pero sin el álgebra infinitesimal de Newton. El residuo es todo, el residuo es la proporción magnificada de los tendones escritos, de los escalones tapados con el abismo de libros que se levantan torpes en este preciso conjunto métrico.


Transformation above us, every satelite of love, every tongue, every deep long distance call, nothing but this ignorance, mine, always the same girl that I don’t knew. Todo resa falsificaciones, latinismos torpes, falacias, siempre argumentando ninguna solución para la situación. Histeria, periplo rondante de equilibrios paulatinos: 

Asomar los años la tristeza del cuerpo perdido en los atardeceres: pamplinas Ich bin ein Dichter digitaler Papierkorb soy un poeta digital basura I’m a digital trash poet Todo menos el francoparlante anglo rival de los intentos clasicistas con los libertinos y LaFontaine o LaBruyer o Descartes o qué se yo de la monarquía francesa del siglo XVII. Basura: residuos de todos los instantes acumulados en la torpeza de vivir, axioma, virilidad, poética de la cultura, fanfarronería estéril, asunción de la leviprofemaina, osea, nada, verbos languidecentes y obstétrica metronómica. Ramplonismo again, I’m no t a raver, I was only dancing and she was there but I’m not the same boy now. Fucked and raped my ear nothing sounds great. Ich bin ein Dichter digitaler Papierkorb es todo, una anomalía que rebasa los topes existencialistas de la acuífera montaña de senos: pornopoiesis esclerótica y maniaca conducta esperpéntica. Así, como eso, I’m no one but she was the most beautifull dancer, and I liked her and I’m lost, every spring, the same day, the same time, the same full moon. Pero eso, es un residuo, una maraña de esferas torcidas, laberinto de ideas que trasladan en ambulancia el verso de Garcilaso de la Vega que no leí, la traducción de Petrarca que sí leí, el paraíso perdido de Milton, that I’ve started to read but then I’ve stoped. Electronic music as the summer ending whisper time and she and me, the screamer: Alien project, Shiva Shandra, Infected Mushrom, Psy Sex, Talamaska, only trash, trashing de clasical poetic, that from Boileau and Muratori and Luzan and the fucking rave were I had  danced all night and then Ich bin ein Dichter digitaler Papierkorb. Esperaría pensar que es mucho más que una vivencia orgánica, que una experimentación inorgánica, que una actitud de reciclaje: “All forms of entertainment and culture have a sizeable chunk of trash, and it is this chunk that, contrary to common perceptions, is an invaluable addition to the wider aspects of society. Without trash, both authentic and cultural types, there would not be a higher culture with which to compare to lower forms of culture”:


And all we must read : But we are just a poor mexican pussycat, lees than a mexican young men, less than a singer or a guitar player, less than a mythical called guy: Gay we must exist, but I’m penthasexual: animals, females, males, transgender and spirits, always, nothing, arrising, every spring, ella, ahí, conjuntamente, la luna, el mar olvidado. Todo, esta porcina ración de tocino: my happy pork tales and we are nothing but a kind of trascendental experiment. Reciclar es como acaparar la atención de alguien y saber que todo es una falacia arquitectónica: eco nomos antro nomos metro nomos crono nomos logo nomos nomos nomos nomos nomos, como en el señor de los anillos, no, de Tolkien, no mejor aún, como los pitufos, no mejor aún, Winnie Poo, everything is going to be loved again, loved and shined and sold every single end of the year. All around Ich bin ein Dichter digitaler Papierkorb. Soporte poética teórica lengua, versificación arbustea como los arbusto de Harvard o de Oxford o peor aún, como los arbustos que no existen más en Campos Eliseos, no sé, los jardines de Luis XIV, todo, todo todo todo, ese caos que es la residualidad pretérita.

Totalidad espermática desde el eco que trasmuta la desolación personal y el imantado Ich bin ein Dichter digitaler Papierkorb Soy un poeta digital basura I’m a digital trash poet…


Eso es una forma de rebobinar el ácido de hace 13 años…

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.