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.

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.



Two times

Two times I’ve jumped

then I’ve forgot


your name,

my hate,

the sin of time:

two times I’ve flown.

A sunshine broken

I was then.

Two times

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.



Pinky Sunset

We deserve nothingness

full of our names, filled

by strangers. Maybe one day

we forget, maybe we are not

the same as our parents was,

but we cry too, we kiss too,

we hide ourselves in the bathroom,

sniffing cocaine sometimes, some others

making a psychedelic revolution inside us.

But we deserve more than tits and asses.

We deserve more than peace or happiness,

we deserve the sunset, pink always

at the top of the clouds, jamming.

We could be fools but we deserve to be

inside the mirror of times and noises.

puzzle collage pinky

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.




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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.

Holding any meaningless wind?

Who cares about the infinity

or the deep blue sky?

No one climb the mountain

to reach the pure oxygen

and we are not animals,

we are trashed hearts.

Behind our meaning

is lost our sense.

Who try to be immortal again?

And the day, that pick up our destiny,

fly around our family and girlfriend

to make us seen the latest trick of security whisper:

again we leave our hearts to fill in by pressure

the last tense of climbing our souls and we lose

every single memory about life,

and living things are all to holly source

of luxury and success and this writing of nothingness.

So why are we touching some crystals screens now?

When every single piece of earth breaths again

we will not shall climb the surface of love.


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.

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.

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.



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.


Stormy speak’s identity

My voice, strong as a sand storm,

avoid talk, as a storm silence,

reach the sky, like snow storm,

and suddenly, abruptly, comes over the space

like an hurricane to say nothing: all that a man wants

is a tender girl to love or to fuck with.

Then, like a storm again, mi voice overload

the high tender of a chocolate ice cream.

The false episode of an epic collapsing sex machine

language of tits

Time was the bound

of silence tongue

and the bound was time

speak it with the tits language

because a tender force lived

inside of the rain.language of tits

One night

filled, an atom filled too of misery

inner force of sexual shape calling.pene

And the claims goes to nowhere

like a shadow on the mouth

because the step was given and aims

to the end of kisses and touches

and forbidden was all the nudity

and the ritual begun.

chichis2Opening as an oysternalgasfinal

the legs and the private parts,

and all the infinite brown of nipples

infinite too,

and all the mask of the oil of love.

That summer, -this summer too-

that day, that force -this force too-

between single bodies and single times

collapsed every petting and they were younglanguage of tits

and gifted and black, and they were unloved: oxide

dust of metalic lovers metalic punch of sex communion.

Under their hands and under their tongues

lived a temptention of horny size

jumbo sized horny collapse: the machine

of being alonepene

of being all lonelyness comitment

all lonely perverted imagination

destroying love and peace and reminding

the impulse of the flesh and the bloodnalgasfinal

and the inner clock: the hormonal instict

called violent tenderness

violent spittlepene

violent throwback penetration.

This machine never stops

behind and in front of every toy

chichis2every momentary collapsing sexlanguage of tits

moment that were filled with

penethe biggest sorrow and the biggest cry

and the biggest shadow of inner sex and outsider

clothes in the name of the energy and the mystical

force of huge kisses and unshaped tendernesschichis2

and always again and again and again like

an infinite perverted tonepene

an infinite oral sex speaking

nalgasfinalan infinite jumbo sized plastic model

an infinite decibels

louder than a orgasmic woman groan

never stoped never born never sold.

Never mind this machine is always unthoughtchichis2language of tits

tightly burn

tightly soap of loving skinpene

loving air

loving and unloved couples

and sharing the oil, infinite purpose

as an infinite complot of throwback

pentration party (unhappy imagination destroyedpene

again and again and again because luxury sin

is always the worst) where everybody was

shamed of its function,language of tits

machine infinite in the city of sorrowchichis2

and painful mechanic impulse

sexual collapse machine, machinary breastpene

biggest than an orange, and all forgotten

unhealthy way of think about sadness and silence

again and again and again into the inner shadow.




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.