I am lost in our neverness
this world is to tight to live in.
so close, I can reach out to touch you;
so far, I can never get close enough.
a flash of a smile,
a warm look ,
trading a million secrets in our eyes...
I live for such moments that come so rare
yet, every second, every heartbeat
counts down to you.

But the arsonist in a world of carpenters.
I’ve got matches at the salute,
wired blazoned between my every ashened knuckle,
heart beat furious
I’ll be this worlds iron furnace.
Their flames dance and sprawl
through flaunted finger
and slide of hand,
I’m the psychopath
and these flames children to command.
I dwindle fractured beaten to broken
hardly live to bless lips with breath.
I’ve but one choice,
to torch this world to a forever neverness
or stumble shadeless,
a shadow to brush past life to exist to view.
Always wishing to make a difference, to move, to make new.

so that's how you do it?

yes.

this is me lying in the middle
of a road,

waiting for his headlights
to erupt with effervescence.
i bet he's great at casting
shadows in high definition.

weird, i know.

this,
my latest concussion,
rings like drowning.

i was a city boy b4 i was her.
i was a butterfly b4 there was a
warning sign.

this,

this precision, like that
word for wet earth smell
i hate.

don't say it, we're empty.
don't say it, let's talk about
your ****.

this is not
how the body withers on the vine.

talk about exonerating the body.
talk about abusing the body w/
electricity and sterling obituaries.

so this is how the body tells time?
asks the
alien of fortitude.

yes.

it plays euchre with dark haired men;
it turns seconds into months
revolving around
the mind bending neverness
that the body avoids at all costs.

it turns love into a stew of rabbit
and radish and dandelion stems.
the body turns stretch marks into
fishing nets, it
curls its own fingers inward
under the rib to feign being held.

so that's how you do it?*
asks the
alien of fortitude.

yes. you lay

your body in the middle of the
road and you pray like hell
it's the tall suit of armor that runs
you over, and
you pray that he recognizes you;

you pray that his glass of water
isn't empty yet.

You are a rocket straight to destruction in the midst of the opportunists you rise and fall to see the newspapers even if you think them the most horrifying aspect of pieces of meat you start to revolt, the **** will end up flying like a circus without turns and faults, magical like the curtains of my bed turning the atmosphere into a dragon mystery lake for children to play the forest and the knick knacks of their desires, but lo! Here comes the banker and the financier all galloping on tamed mechanical horses advancing with Colgate smiles disappearing your face and stealing your persona and your trousers made from cotton, synthetic cotton absurd cotton love cotton fear cotton waiting for you at the train station taken away to Europe where models eat a turnip and a peanut in your face to ***** lace and pepper dine in the shape of a paper centaur coming to avenge with his wooden sword the mess of intelligence and progress, he has waged war many times over, he lost, he disappeared in the shape of a blender for misunderstood poets and hoes of freedom talking about moving to the right direction assuming you will never rise up like a fountain in Rome and jalapa, but here, you and me never talking anymore in front of garbage smelling to the top of the Latin American craps with an antenna submitting your insides to the cops and the lawyers, credit to the banks for terror and the hand that wipes his forehead, you and only me can replace V with a string of fire and music to tremble a few notes into the ears of this country never to again see mommy or daddy, neverness is your dream but as I said you and I are not talking anymore, give me a line, a cane, a flame, a candle for company, cause if you are there and I here then poetry can move as a lightning rod on an airplane crushing giants with the swift ****** of business class, yes you and I will do a match in the toilette, you read and I spit on the floor to make it more comfortable will invite a few *******, two dry and a few (three) filled with milk and cottage cheese for the magazine model to strangle the last temptation on earth. Mooove on
Darling, death comes our way in the middle of the mass as the greasy mullet under the gutters, yes be content with all that money saved up for a better time, to spend on gas bills and rental hair, hands and hearts. It is coming silently.
The new music-

A good-looking tree informs my visit
a simple minded man rolling my feet
soil dressed by
wet moss
And the horns of the city
In the silent totality  
like the laughter of the street
Boys of infinite wisdom
Eyes turned into nothing
Setting their glaze on the prize
The Mound living soundly as a weeping caress You live in here
You were born into this The lines of hell
The waiting hours
The desperate flies
hanging as to disappear And  yet
How laughable it all is and her pair of legs Coming out of there
Like an insult to
cornered souls
In the neverness of it all
Men delights to see fallen men
Delight on horrors yet
what little do they know
when an empty
Glass picks at their Strings
And run away to see other men fall

From a ripple to the roar,
Of desires and desperations,
Hopes and aspirations.
With songs unsung, memories unseen,
Moves undanced, sights unblinked.
They riddle through a riling heart,
Languishing the clod of infinte memories,
Leaving behind a trail in oxblood,
On lanes of the suffering they imprint,
Never-failing pillars,
A Niagara of ambition,
Struggling and chasing,
The ring road of passion.

In this passage of arms,
The wants and these cries,
Shall put up a fight,
The first of its kind.
Moving every mountain,
Warming stiff snow,
Freezing the unforgiving fire,
Chocking the unmoving souls.
With a focus down unshaking roads,
They shall create a nexus,
With the nimbus, the whole universe,
To provoke the storms,
The thunder and the tides,
To hold their arms, to stay on their side,
In this endless unfailing ride.

With the mantra of victory,
And horse-like sight,
They come marching to lead you,
Down this one one life.
But in this march of time,
Through the years that crawl by,
Every road that you take,
Clinging onto dreams you've always dreamt,
Shall engulf a mist--
Some cocainic smoke,
That sting your eyes as they behold,
Your graceless retreat,
From closing doors.
Those million desires,
From burning heartaches,
Shall freeze and founder,
Fall and break.

Only leaves of paper,
Made by a dry-eyed stranger,
Doping human wants--
Most passionate minds.
Rendering them coarse and dud,
Cloudy and undone.
These leaves, they decide it all.
Your breaths, your wants,
The heartbeats, your wish grants---
The forest,
The ones who have most,
Shall foreshadow,
They can foretell,
The end of the roads they choose to take.
And those who have fragments,
A passive flow,
They know not where this journey,
Will allow them to go.
And yet they fight!
They give up their all!
But alas!
In this clientele of cliche,
Will breathe a cradle--
Will live the neverness of the niche,
That bears, where blooms,
From a dying ripple, to the fading roar,
Of desires and desperations,
Hopes and aspirations.
That will not live,
Oh! They die so slow...
As the pillars fall,
The Niagara runs cold.