Two times

Two times I’ve jumped

then I’ve forgot

always

your name,

my hate,

the sin of time:

two times I’ve flown.

A sunshine broken

I was then.

Two times

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.

sunstired

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.

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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.

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,

since

I was seventeen,

and

I don’t drink

anymore,

just coffee,

and

I can understand

the athletic

way of living

and

I don’t have sex

with strangers

and I think that

I am a kind of

living junk

of XX century

and

I don’t believe

in future

or marxism

or postmodernity

and

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

and

my life

is a big ashtray

and

I smelt like smoke

and

I’m smoke

and

my father

is  an oncologist

and my mother

died of cancer

and

I still smoking

35 cigarettes

as my grand father did,

and we will

never forget

the atomic bombs

and

I have never read

Murakami’s books.

And sport

are antidepressing people

and

tobacco

was a sacred plant

as hikuri was

as cacao was .¿was it?-

and the

british men commerces

with tobacco

since XVI century

and

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

and

I build my self

with hate

and

misery

but I used to

like the Beatles

until psychodelic trance

destroyed my sense of music.

And people runs

and

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,

and

I seems to be a moralist

but

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

around

us

when we leave

the lake

and we hope

to born

again

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.

Deep

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.

Deep

again

the silence

and nothing is better

than the lonelyness of full

sense of light.