What I'm made of

Ruby bloody guts
caught in a white noise
solid cage
seashell's rumor within the veins
a piece of chalk on the forefinger
Who knows best?
Only the river can know for sure
what it takes on its trip to the sea.
Remnants of anger
and fear and lust
blossom in small birds
around the water
to sing bridges to life, to joy
to deeper roots of silence
where abyssal anemones
glow drawing inner maps
of mausoleums
and memorials of catastrophes
turn into dust gleams.

I am

The very smell of the body
just to know that
I'm on my feet.
Touch has never been
such a revelation
for the untiring gaze.
In the heart
of the peace of mind's gazebo
a wirlwind has just been born.

Love without conditions

To tie ambitions to a tree
so they can watch
immobile
the sunset of the unborn.

I wrote this with a firefly's blood...

I wrote this
with a firefly's blood.
The world judged me
not for the killing
but for the writting.
And in the very flesh of the sea
a wave began to beat.

I'm preparing for an impersonal battle...

I'm preparing for an impersonal battle.
I ain't fighting for myself
or anyone else.
There is no country nor nation involved.
And, there is no meaning in winning or losing.
Thus, there will be death.
And hunger.
And lost.
And the sun will rise again
over the devastated lands
to shine on one single weed
awakening for its "meant to be".

Birth

Upside, on the roof,
a crack is opening its only eye:
Deaf cyclope of an inside world
that barks its guts to
an empty cycle.
Raw silences lay down
beneath this birth
like patient monsters
waiting for a better angle to bite.

Blue bells are ringing on my open hand...

Blue bells are ringing
on my open hand
like if it would've never been
a beggining of the times.
Seashells are crashing on thy mirrors
like if salt would've never been
a key to find one's faith in despair.
And nothing of this would happen
if only you
if only me
if only the world

Beyond the sacrifice is the sheep's life...

Beyond the sacrifice
is the sheep's life
a hole life of grazing
between rhinos and unicorns
and moaning for a quick death
and a peace in one piece
of chamomile and spare time
sippin' thoughts like hurricanes
walking on the street like
nothing even matters
quick job quick swallow
quick sand clock of existence
revenue of gods
visit of the saints
nobody can see you
(or hear you)
but chu chu you can
either do it or try it
good intentions always count
you can count on it
as your throat gets slashed.

End of a time

"It all took the path of suspiciousness" the water lily said.
But none could hear its awarning.
Soon, all kind of murky feelings
climbed to their hearts
and sewed a veil of misreads
on their tongues and fingers
and a troupe of rabbits was released
so they could hunt them
as a symbol of love of the mankind.

From now on...

From now on arrows are a so on
weight to the head
straight to a rock forehead
which only feel is pain
which only hardness
are sweet young flowers
from sweet old ground
nobody thought such
a loneliness could come
all splited in dragonflies
arranged with such
incredible madness
none could ever predict
the plague of
suicidal instants
all covered in smoke
quitting the jaws
of existence
none

Since a row is taking an endless nap...

Since a row is taking an endless nap and

a kiss lasts what a dust particule blown in the wind,

loving is a dead end occurrence, an absurd biology of the body

a blind grammar of being.

And I’m not yet tired, my love, of spreading this you and me

like if I’d be spreading sycomore seeds on a so loved child’s hand

for them to grow inside his veins. 

Persephone

I left him behind and went back to the well of my own thirst, just like a wandering daffodil seeking what is beyond its own reflection. Oh, if the past could just not render its thorn once and again! With a mourning of dead roads I kiss the sun and make some flowers grow on the ground beneath my feet, then let my fingers dig down in dirt to the very heart of murk.