Suction

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.

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.

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.

 

 

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.

duo

 

 

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.

 

my-shadow-her-body

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

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.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

us

killing

us

frightening

us

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.

 

Nice

We don’t have endless pain

we have endless lies

and we ride the time

hoping to be nice

but we aren’t in love and we know

something is wrong with us.

Nice we say every single day

nice to be with

nice to hear it

nice to taste it

nice to feel it,

but we are not yet invited

to the glamour table, our sight

hide either blod or terror

and we care about each other

not too much

because is nice

to be wondering

who will kill

the other love.

 

Nudity puzzle

There is a pound of beauty

a portion of desire

a sugar bowl inside

your eye.

A candy mouth

a candy tongue

a rising top

a body to be loved.

Nude all over your sight

do you wonder if you might

get a kiss? Just reply

yes I will. Nudity puzzle the beach

the magazine and the time

that imagine you and he

being a kissing couple switch.

 

A verse to no one

Hidden in a dark flow

the image of one kiss

one lips, one sight, one love.

The time has gone

with this darkness fulfilling,

with those collapsing feelings

around the corner of loneliness,

and these unreached tenderness

of everything that it is covered

by the shadow of a dream.