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Yo, Beremundo el Lelo, surqué todas las rutas
y probé todos los mesteres.
Singlando a la deriva, no en orden cronológico ni lógico -en sin orden-
narraré mis periplos, diré de los empleos con que
nutrí mis ocios,
distraje mi hacer nada y enriquecí mi hastío...;
-hay de ellos otros que me callo-:
Catedrático fui de teosofía y eutrapelia, gimnopedia y teogonía y pansofística en Plafagonia;
barequero en el Porce y el Tigüí, huaquero en el Quindío,
amansador mansueto -no en desuetud aún- de muletos cerriles y de onagros, no sé dónde;
palaciego proto-Maestre de Ceremonias de Wilfredo el Velloso,
de Cunegunda ídem de ídem e ibídem -en femenino- e ídem de ídem de Epila Calunga
y de Efestión -alejandrino- el Glabro;
desfacedor de entuertos, tuertos y malfetrías, y de ellos y ellas facedor;
domeñador de endriagos, unicornios, minotauros, quimeras y licornas y dragones... y de la Gran Bestia.

Fui, de Sind-bad, marinero; pastor de cabras en Sicilia
si de cabriolas en Silesia, de cerdas en Cerdeña y -claro- de corzas en Córcega;
halconero mayor, primer alcotanero de Enguerrando Segundo -el de la Tour-Miracle-;
castrador de colmenas, y no de Casanovas, en el Véneto, ni de Abelardos por el Sequana;
pajecillo de altivas Damas y ariscas Damas y fogosas, en sus castillos
y de pecheras -¡y cuánto!- en sus posadas y mesones
-yo me era Gerineldos de todellas y trovador trovadorante y adorante; como fui tañedor
de chirimía por fiestas candelarias, carbonero con Gustavo Wasa en Dalecarlia, bucinator del Barca Aníbal
y de Scipión el Africano y Masinisa, piloto de Erik el Rojo hasta Vinlandia, y corneta
de un escuadrón de coraceros de Westmannlandia que cargó al lado del Rey de Hielo
-con él pasé a difunto- y en la primera de Lutzen.

Fui preceptor de Diógenes, llamado malamente el Cínico:
huésped de su tonel, además, y portador de su linterna;
condiscípulo y émulo de Baco Dionisos Enófilo, llamado buenamente el Báquico
-y el Dionisíaco, de juro-.

Fui discípulo de Gautama, no tan aprovechado: resulté mal budista, si asaz contemplativo.
Hice de peluquero esquilador siempre al servicio de la gentil Dalilah,
(veces para Sansón, que iba ya para calvo, y -otras- depilador de sus de ella óptimas partes)
y de maestro de danzar y de besar de Salomé: no era el plato de argento,
mas sí de litargirio sus caderas y muslos y de azogue también su vientre auri-rizado;
de Judith de Betulia fui confidente y ni infidente, y -con derecho a sucesión- teniente y no lugarteniente
de Holofernes no Enófobo (ni enófobos Judith ni yo, si con mesura, cautos).
Fui entrenador (no estrenador) de Aspasia y Mesalina y de Popea y de María de Mágdalo
e Inés Sorel, y marmitón y pinche de cocina de Gargantúa
-Pantagruel era huésped no nada nominal: ya suficientemente pantagruélico-.
Fui fabricante de batutas, quebrador de hemistiquios, requebrador de Eustaquias, y tratante en viragos
y en sáficas -algunas de ellas adónicas- y en pínnicas -una de ellas super-fémina-:
la dejé para mí, si luego ancló en casorio.
A la rayuela jugué con Fulvia; antes, con Palamedes, axedrez, y, en época vecina, con Philidor, a los escaques;
y, a las damas, con Damas de alto y bajo coturno
-manera de decir: que para el juego en litis las Damas suelen ir descalzas
y se eliden las calzas y sustentadores -no funcionales- en las Damas y las calzas en los varones.

Tañí el rabel o la viola de amor -casa de Bach, búrguesa- en la primicia
de La Cantata del Café (pre-estreno, en familia protestante, privado).
Le piqué caña jorobeta al caballo de Atila
-que era un morcillo de prócer alzada: me refiero al corcel-;
cambié ideas, a la par, con Incitato, Cónsul de Calígula, y con Babieca,
-que andaba en Babia-, dándole prima
fui zapatero de viejo de Berta la del gran pie (buen pie, mejor coyuntura),
de la Reina Patoja ortopedista; y hortelano y miniaturista de Pepino el Breve,
y copero mayor faraónico de Pepe Botellas, interino,
y porta-capas del Pepe Bellotas de la esposa de Putifar.

Viajé con Julio Verne y Odiseo, Magallanes y Pigafetta, Salgan, Leo e Ibn-Batuta,
con Melville y Stevenson, Fernando González y Conrad y Sir John de Mandeville y Marco Polo,
y sólo, sin De Maistre, alredor de mi biblioteca, de mi oploteca, mi mecanoteca y mi pinacoteca.
Viajé también en tomo de mí mismo: asno a la vez que noria.

Fui degollado en la de San Bartolomé (post facto): secundaba a La Môle:
Margarita de Valois no era total, íntegramente pelirroja
-y no porque de noche todos los gatos son pardos...: la leoparda,
las tres veces internas, íntimas, peli-endrina,
Margarita, Margotón, Margot, la casqui-fulva...-

No estuve en la nea nao -arcaica- de Noé, por manera
-por ventura, otrosí- que no fui la paloma ni la medusa de esa almadía: mas sí tuve a mi encargo
la selección de los racimos de sus viñedos, al pie del Ararat, al post-Diluvio,
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Fui topógrafo ad-hoc entre El Cangrejo y Purcoy Niverengo,
(y ad-ínterim, administré la zona bolombólica:
mucho de anís, mucho de Rosas del Cauca, versos de vez en cuando),
y fui remero -el segundo a babor- de la canoa, de la piragua
La Margarita (criolla), que navegó fluvial entre Comiá, La Herradura, El Morito,
con cargamentos de contrabando: blancas y endrinas de Guaca, Titiribí y Amagá, y destilados
de Concordia y Betulia y de Urrao...
¡Urrao! ¡Urrao! (hasta hace poco lo diríamos con harta mayor razón y con aquese y este júbilos).
Tras de remero de bajel -y piloto- pasé a condueño, co-editor, co-autor
(no Coadjutor... ¡ni de Retz!) en asocio de Matías Aldecoa, vascuence, (y de un tal Gaspar von der Nacht)
de un Libraco o Librículo de pseudo-poemas de otro quídam;
exploré la región de Zuyaxiwevo con Sergio Stepánovich Stepansky,
lobo de donde se infiere, y, en más, ario.

Fui consejero áulico de Bogislao, en la corte margravina de Xa-Netupiromba
y en la de Aglaya crisostómica, óptima circezuela, traidorcilla;
tañedor de laúd, otra vez, y de viola de gamba y de recorder,
de sacabuche, otrosí (de dulzaina - otronó) y en casaciones y serenatas y albadas muy especializado.
No es cierto que yo fuera -es impostura-
revendedor de bulas (y de mulas) y tragador defuego y engullidor de sables y bufón en las ferias
pero sí platiqué (también) con el asno de Buridán y Buridán,
y con la mula de Balaám y Balaám, con Rocinante y Clavileño y con el Rucio
-y el Manco y Sancho y don Quijote-
y trafiqué en ultramarinos: ¡qué calamares -en su tinta-!,
¡qué Anisados de Guarne!, ¡qué Rones de Jamaica!, ¡qué Vodkas de Kazán!, ¡qué Tequilas de México!,
¡qué Néctares de Heliconia! ¡Morcillas de Itagüí! ¡Torreznos de Envigado! ¡Chorizos de los Ballkanes! ¡Qué Butifarras cataláunicas!
Estuve en Narva y en Pultawa y en las Queseras del Medio, en Chorros Blancos
y en El Santuario de Córdova, y casi en la de San Quintín
(como pugnaban en el mismo bando no combatí junto a Egmont por no estar cerca al de Alba;
a Cayetana sí le anduve cerca tiempo después: preguntádselo a Goya);
no llegué a tiempo a Waterloo: me distraje en la ruta
con Ida de Saint-Elme, Elselina Vanayl de Yongh, viuda del Grande Ejército (desde antaño... más tarde)
y por entonces y desde años antes bravo Edecán de Ney-:
Ayudante de Campo... de plumas, gongorino.
No estuve en Capua, pero ya me supongo sus mentadas delicias.

Fabriqué clavicémbalos y espinetas, restauré virginales, reparé Stradivarius
falsos y Guarnerius apócrifos y Amatis quasi Amatis.
Cincelé empuñaduras de dagas y verduguillos, en el obrador de Benvenuto,
y escriños y joyeles y guardapelos ad-usum de Cardenales y de las Cardenalesas.
Vendí Biblias en el Sinú, con De la Rosa, Borelly y el ex-pastor Antolín.
Fui catador de tequila (debuté en Tapachula y ad-látere de Ciro el Ofiuco)
y en México y Amecameca, y de mezcal en Teotihuacán y Cuernavaca,
de Pisco-sauer en Lima de los Reyes,
y de otros piscolabis y filtros muy antes y después y por Aná del Aburrá, y doquiérase
con El Tarasco y una legión de Bacos Dionisos, pares entre Pares.
Vagué y vagué si divagué por las mesillas del café nocharniego, Mil Noches y otra Noche
con el Mago de lápiz buido y de la voz asordinada.
Antes, muy antes, bebí con él, con Emmanuel y don Efe y Carrasca, con Tisaza y Xovica y Mexía y los otros Panidas.
Después..., ahora..., mejor no meneallo y sí escanciallo y persistir en ello...

Dicté un curso de Cabalística y otro de Pan-Hermética
y un tercero de Heráldica,
fuera de los cursillos de verano de las literaturas bereberes -comparadas-.
Fui catalogador protonotario en jefe de la Magna Biblioteca de Ebenezer el Sefardita,
y -en segundo- de la Mínima Discoteca del quídam en referencia de suso:
no tenía aún las Diabelli si era ya dueño de las Goldberg;
no poseía completa la Inconclusa ni inconclusa la Décima (aquestas Sinfonías, Variaciones aquesas:
y casi que todello -en altísimo rango- tan Variaciones Alredor de Nada).

Corregí pruebas (y dislates) de tres docenas de sota-poetas
-o similares- (de los que hinchen gacetilleros a toma y daca).
Fui probador de calzas -¿prietas?: ceñidas, sí, en todo caso- de Diana de Meridor
y de justillos, que así veníanle, de estar atán bien provista
y atán rebién dotada -como sabíalo también y así de bien Bussy d'Amboise-.
Temperé virginales -ya restaurados-, y clavecines, si no como Isabel, y aunque no tan baqueano
como ése de Eisenach, arroyo-Océano.
Soplé el ***** bufón, con tal cual incongruencia, sin ni tal cual donaire.
No aporreé el bombo, empero, ni entrechoqué los címbalos.

Les saqué puntas y les puse ribetes y garambainas a los vocablos,
cuando diérame por la Semasiología, cierta vez, en la Sorbona de Abdera,
sita por Babia, al pie de los de Úbeda, que serán cerros si no valen por Monserrates,
sin cencerros. Perseveré harto poco en la Semántica -por esa vez-,
si, luego retorné a la andadas, pero a la diabla, en broma:
semanto-semasiólogo tarambana pillín pirueteante.
Quien pugnó en Dénnevitz con Ney, el peli-fulvo
no fui yo: lo fue mi bisabuelo el Capitán...;
y fue mi tatarabuelo quien apresó a Gustavo Cuarto:
pero sí estuve yo en la Retirada de los Diez Mil
-era yo el Siete Mil Setecientos y Setenta y Siete,
precisamente-: releed, si dudaislo, el Anábasis.
Fui celador intocable de la Casa de Tócame-Roque, -si ignoré cuyo el Roque sería-,
y de la Casa del Gato-que-pelotea; le busqué tres pies al gato
con botas, que ya tenía siete vidas y logré dar con siete autores en busca de un personaje
-como quien dice Los Siete contra Tebas: ¡pobre Tebas!-, y ya es jugar bastante con el siete.
No pude dar con la cuadratura del círculo, que -por lo demás- para nada hace falta,
mas topé y en el Cuarto de San Alejo, con la palanca de Arquimedes y con la espada de Damocles,
ambas a dos, y a cual más, tomadas del orín y con más moho
que las ideas de yo si sé quién mas no lo digo:
púsome en aprietos tal doble hallazgo; por más que dije: ¡Eureka! ...: la palanca ya no servía ni para levantar un falso testimonio,
y tuve que encargarme de tener siempre en suspenso y sobre mí la espada susodicha.

Se me extravió el anillo de Saturno, mas no el de Giges ni menos el de Hans Carvel;
no sé qué se me ficieron los Infantes de Aragón y las Nieves de Antaño y el León de Androcles y la Balanza
del buen Shylock: deben estar por ahí con la Linterna de Diógenes:
-¿mas cómo hallarlos sin la linterna?

No saqué el pecho fuera, ni he sido nunca el Tajo, ni me di cuenta del lío de Florinda,
ni de por qué el Tajo el pecho fuera le sacaba a la Cava,
pero sí vi al otro don Rodrigo en la Horca.
Pinté muestras de posadas y mesones y ventas y paradores y pulquerías
en Veracruz y Tamalameque y Cancán y Talara, y de riendas de abarrotes en Cartagena de Indias, con Tisaza-,
si no desnarigué al de Heredia ni a López **** tuerto -que era bizco-.
Pastoreé (otra vez) el Rebaño de las Pléyades
y resultaron ser -todellas, una a una- ¡qué capretinas locas!
Fui aceitero de la alcuza favorita del Padre de los Búhos Estáticos:
-era un Búho Sofista, socarrón soslayado, bululador mixtificante-.
Regí el vestier de gala de los Pingüinos Peripatéticos,
(precursores de Brummel y del barón d'Orsay,
por fuera de filósofos, filosofículos, filosofantes dromomaníacos)
y apacenté el Bestiario de Orfeo (delegatario de Apollinaire),
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Nada tuve que ver con el asesinato de la hija del corso adónico Sebastiani
ni con ella (digo como pesquisidor, pesquisante o pesquisa)
si bien asesoré a Edgar Allan Poe como entomólogo, cuando El Escarabajo de Oro,
y en su investigación del Doble Asesinato de la Rue Morgue,
ya como experto en huellas dactilares o quier digitalinas.
Alguna vez me dio por beberme los vientos o por pugnar con ellos -como Carolus
Baldelarius- y por tomar a las o las de Villadiego o a las sus calzas:
aquesas me resultaron harto potables -ya sin calzas-; ellos, de mucho volumen
y de asaz poco cuerpo (si asimilados a líquidos, si como justadores).
Gocé de pingües canonjías en el reinado del bonachón de Dagoberto,
de opíparas prebendas, encomiendas, capellanías y granjerías en el del Rey de los Dipsodas,
y de dulce privanza en el de doña Urraca
(que no es la Gazza Ladra de Rossini, si fuéralo
de corazones o de amantes o favoritos o privados o martelos).

Fui muy alto cantor, como bajo cantante, en la Capilla de los Serapiones
(donde no se sopranizaba...); conservador,
conservador -pero poco- de Incunables, en la Alejandrina de Panida,
(con sucursal en El Globo y filiales en el Cuarto del Búho).

Hice de Gaspar Hauser por diez y seis hebdémeros
y por otras tantas semanas y tres días fui la sombra,
la sombra misma que se le extravió a Peter Schlémil.

Fui el mozo -mozo de estribo- de la Reina Cristina de Suecia
y en ciertas ocasiones también el de Ebba Sparre.
Fui el mozo -mozo de estoques- de la Duquesa de Chaumont
(que era de armas tomar y de cálida sélvula): con ella pus mi pica en Flandes
-sobre holandas-.

Fui escriba de Samuel Pepys -¡qué escabroso su Diario!-
y sustituto suyo como edecán adjunto de su celosa cónyuge.
Y fuí copista de Milton (un poco largo su Paraíso Perdido,
magüer perdido en buena parte: le suprimí no pocos Cantos)
y a la su vera reencontré mi Paraíso (si el poeta era
ciego; -¡qué ojazos los de su Déborah!).

Fui traductor de cablegramas del magnífico Jerjes;
telefonista de Artajerjes el Tartajoso; locutor de la Esfinge
y confidente de su secreto; ventrílocuo de Darío Tercero Codomano el Multilocuo,
que hablaba hasta por los codos;
altoparlante retransmisor de Eubolio el Mudo, yerno de Tácito y su discípulo
y su émulo; caracola del mar océano eólico ecolálico y el intérprete
de Luis Segundo el Tartamudo -padre de Carlos el Simple y Rey de Gaula.
Hice de andante caballero a la diestra del Invencible Policisne de Beocia
y a la siniestra del Campeón olímpico Tirante el Blanco, tirante al blanco:
donde ponía el ojo clavaba su virote;
y a la zaga de la fogosa Bradamante, guardándole la espalda
-manera de decir-
y a la vanguardia, mas dándole la cara, de la tierna Marfisa...

Fui amanuense al servicio de Ambrosio Calepino
y del Tostado y deMatías Aldecoa y del que urdió el Mahabarata;
fui -y soylo aún, no zoilo- graduado experto en Lugares Comunes
discípulo de Leon Bloy y de quien escribió sobre los Diurnales.
Crucigramista interimario, logogrifario ad-valorem y ad-placerem
de Cleopatra: cultivador de sus brunos pitones y pastor de sus áspides,
y criptogramatista kinesiólogo suyo y de la venus Calipigia, ¡viento en popa a toda vela!
Fui tenedor malogrado y aburrido de libros de banca,
tenedor del tridente de Neptuno,
tenedor de librejos -en los bolsillos del gabán (sin gabán) collinesco-,
y de cuadernículos -quier azules- bajo el ala.
Sostenedor de tesis y de antítesis y de síntesis sin sustentáculo.
Mantenedor -a base de abstinencias- de los Juegos Florales
y sostén de los Frutales -leche y miel y cerezas- sin ayuno.
Porta-alfanje de Harún-al-Rashid, porta-mandoble de Mandricardo el Mandria,
porta-martillo de Carlos Martel,
porta-fendiente de Roldán, porta-tajante de Oliveros, porta-gumía
de Fierabrás, porta-laaza de Lanzarote (¡ búen Lancelot tan dado a su Ginevra!)
y a la del Rey Artús, de la Ca... de la Mesa Redonda...;
porta-lámpara de Al-Eddin, el Loca Suerte, y guardián y cerbero de su anillo
y del de los Nibelungos: pero nunca guardián de serrallo ni cancerbero ni evirato de harem...
Y fui el Quinto de los Tres Mosqueteros (no hay quinto peor) -veinte años después-.

Y Faraute de Juan Sin Tierra y fiduciario de
Chloe Nov 2017
Pink Hotel

and behind some bitter, white picket fence
she sat
actually, she stalled.

Tapped her feet on the pavement, cuddled the curb in her ripped dress.
She wore pink in her hair,
little slivers of an innocent, chapped lip.

a dying pink.

The fence creaked with the interrupting wind.
and she stood, danced across the street.

cracked hands gripping frigid door handles,
come on in.

Torn garments, wisps of pink flying from her head,
she felt pretty in pink,
third grade, mother-just-bought-a-new-bow pretty,
innocent, dad-bought-me-glittery-shoes pretty.

Painless pretty.
Sane pretty.

No more
he-just-wants-to-see-me-bare pretty,
he-gives-me-lots-of-drinks pretty,

Worthless pretty.
Lost pretty.

Pink matter that drips onto a glass floor,
everyone can see through it,
through her.

What is it, woman?
she gave her hand to a solo cup,
So alone.
Pink drink, it’s good for you,
good to me.

To the third floor,
and lay down.

do you like the pink?


He always said I looked good with pink.



-C.M Aldecoa
Living in a college town, I notice how many girls use cosmetics, fashion, alcohol and drugs to express themselves. Even the darkest parts. And how easy it is to stick to bad habits that hurt you in the end. Pink Hotel, in all its metaphors, revolves around this "pink hotel," pink being this representative color of innocence, of what beauty should be. A color that attracts girls, which is why the hotel is pink. A welcoming home for girls that allow themselves to be dazzled and used by men that see them as just the color pink, and not for who they are. A sad truth, but the truth.
Chloe Oct 2017
Religion had locked me up in a closet
shrined with Adam and Eve
        Mary and Joseph.

Adam married Eve, my child,
Mary bewedded Joseph, my child.
Blessed be the day you crawl out of this closet
to be coveted by the golden halo God has waiting for you.

I have been clothed in God’s golden halo,
drapery of fine linens, for he loves me so,
and religion had locked me up.

I wish for Adam to marry Adam,
Eve to love Eve.
For a closed door shall never preserve,
progress has made its step forward,
and I choose to march with.

Religion had locked me up in a closet,
for if I had never opened the door,
misery would have reigned upon me.

And with this,
though I may be frowned upon in a chapel,
hostility will never hold my heart.  

-Chloe Aldecoa
My cousin, a bright soul, a loving heart, a treasure for an eternity; she weeps. Her heart loves unconditionally, but who she is, is not loved unconditionally.
Chloe Oct 2017
One day, you will feel me
in ways you have never felt me before
The way you once touched my skin, never again
to the way you called me yours
you will feel me in the pit of my soul

Some day, you will understand all of me
in a brand new way that you never knew before
those sweet nothings you whispered,
they will turn to rocks
that I will make you run on in the burning heat
once you finally understand what it means to raise hell

and I cannot wait until the hour
that I can glare at you, and you at me
with such frigidness in my eyes

That  it will force you to question
why such a fiery wrath,
can burn in a heart so cold.

-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
I wear my hair curly,
tight spirals that lay on my neck.

I wear my makeup dark, intimidating,
keeps the mystery that I’m so terrifying with a sweet glaze,
like honey.

But I don’t dissolve well and I came from poison.

I like my drinks colds, tingly, intoxicating.
It was the way my father handled his problems.
The way I handled mine,
I like my death cold, perspirating with teases that the next shot can be my last if I let it. I never really let it, I just allowed it to crawl in bed with me and sing me to sleep.

I’m attempting to romanticize a habit that dragged me a couple miles away from sanity, left me to dry up in the arid desert, surrounded by merciless voices.

I want to pour glitter on an addiction that gave me paranoia that I would rot in my bed, tied down by the idea that I can only be loved if I am bare.
Open, hands sprawled and not folded in prayer, because when I confessed beneath the altar, I leaked toxins that I swam in.

Wet dreams became a phrase that shook my ribcage, the grim reaper was the boyfriend in my head that mentored the shadows with a sweet malibu fantasy.  
Keep playing the same song, and I soon memorized each lyric.

I like my drinks on demand, I like them rolled in fury, drenched in sorrows, a control less kind of romance that undressed me every night, alone.

Control yourself, it whispered to me, you still need some for tomorrow.
I need to escape, covered in glitter and malibu kisses.

-C.M. Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
When you were cold, trapped in a dark place
     pleading for my love and desires
     I saw that you needed a light,

so I set myself on fire.


-Chloe Aldecoa
Enough said.
Aquesta es la pipa de todo el maíz.
Aquesta es la pipa del loco Legris
            archilunático.

Con ella dialoga cuando la saudade
de su montañoso terruño le invade...
            Cuando está antipático...

Cuando ya no ríe... Cuando ya no teje
su canción extraña, su canción hereje,
            libre, parabólica:

cuando está soñando con la Bien-querida,
la novia lejana, la suave elegida
            dulce y melancólica!

Ella!... que le hurtara su ser arbitrario,
su manía absurda, su ultraplanetario
            devenir errante;

Ella que le doma, le rinde y sujeta,
y que no le deja tirar la careta
            y echar adelante!...

La dueña de todas sus cosas no malas!
La que en su joroba le pone dos alas
            azules, azules!

...Aquesta es la pipa que le rememora
ya un instante alegre, ya una triste hora,
            velados por tules,

por tules humosos, de acerada brurna!
Aquesta es la pipa en que fuma y fuma
            cuando está soñando;

en que fuma y fuma cuando triste y solo
vaga y vaga y vaga de un Polo a otro Polo
            sin cómo ni cuándo...

La paisana pipa tan original! 1
Pipa que es regalo del trascendental
            señor Aldecoa...

Aquesta es la pipa de todo el maíz.
Aquesta es la pipa del loco Legris
            quien así la loa!
Chloe Oct 2017
Hive behind the fact that I shower you in petals,
remember who gave you wings.
I wrap every limb around those antennas, and I listen.
You relieve the fear of being stung by something so horrible,
I use to hide behind bushels of lies,
blanket myself in dead flowers.

Now, I hive within you, make my home in something that brings me sweets.
I hive in the taste of an unknown kiss,
I thrive in a kingdom of crystal wings and patterned glee,
honey sweet touches that bring life into me.
Allow me to be the field of flowers in the dead night of spring,
harvest what I have left, let the body sing.

Take me back to the warmth of the comforting honeycomb,
and I will follow you wherever you roam.
No distance is too long, no field big enough for me,
to always, and forever, be with my darling honey bee.

-honey comb tastes best when picked from your lips
-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
What is my brain made of?
You.
It’s swollen pink with your handprints and eternal pleasures.
I’ve been quiet for a minute, closing my eyes in the dark room and feeling fingertips dance on my spine.
You could make my hoarse throat sing lyrics I had never heard before.

Pleasure.

Withdrawals.
A container for your memories now,
I hold every second of contact, every touch, every word in my head.
My brain is made of you.
You’re the greatest good that has killed me.

All I need, gone.
I would cut my head off if you weren’t still holding me together,

or, I could,
but something tells me you’d watch it roll down a hill.

-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
I ought to know why you stare at me with intention,
but you treat me with hesitation.
Fear what you know for sure, and swim into unknown waters and learn to love an uncharted sea that knows no boundaries with a full heart.
There lies a shore with white sands and calming winds, the comfort of knowing.

-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
If you were stranded in the desert
getting slapped by the sun, dying from thirst
I would cry you a river to drink from
because that's the type of person I am

If your voice was lost in the sea of silence
swimming amongst hollers, not making a sound
I would lend you my shaken vocals
because that's the type of person I am

If you fell into unknown depths, lost and broken
incapable of walking, moving, I would cut off my shattered limbs
and give them to you
because that's the type of person I am

If you died today, heartless and incomplete
I would give you my heart, the one that you broke,
so that you would be living in pain,
but at least you'd be living
because that's the type of person I am

-Chloe Aldecoa
As a teenage girl, surrounded by teenage girls, I noticed the uncanny way girls separate themselves from their significant other after a heartbreak. Yet, even as their hateful words slur out, in an attempt to oppress their emotions through insults, they still, in the deepest part of their heart, want the best for the significant other. Even if this means revenge in the sweetest way.
Chloe Oct 2017
I will hold every man after you with contempt.
He’ll want a first chance, but  I will gaze down at him with second chance eyes.

he deserves a first impression, an at-a-glance judgement, but before he speaks I will already have decided why he won’t be wrapping himself around me.

and he will owe me an explanation for you, every man after you will answer for your misdeeds.

Do you all act like this? Do you all do this to us? What’s the cure?

and I won’t mean to offend an entire gender, but after being a victim of one member, it’s hard not to **** the whole crowd.
a stereotypical concept, but it’s one that’s being fed.

but, every man after you will have to hold up to the way you kissed me before I left. With presence, passion, a lingering mystery.
and he will have to be up to par with your words and the gentle touch you gave while lying down.

every man after you will need to tame me after a long day, the way you did, subtle aggression, but it was kind, sweet.

he’ll pray that he can be the one, but every many after you will have to pay up for your sins and stand up to your level.

- so, it’s hard to know what will happen, when I push them for what you did, but love them for being better than you.
-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
I apologized for correcting you.
when you told me I was wrong.
I apologized for not listening to you,
when you would ask me to be quiet.

I painted my skin red with anguish that I could stand up to par with what you required.
Drowned my lungs in cheap toxins that left me sick the next morning.

Facing you.
I apologized for running my mouth, for telling you I loved you.
when you got tired of hearing it everyday.

I lathered my skin purple with your aggression that I could ever learn to obey.
Sinking my stomach in doctored ways that left me unconscious for hours and dead the next morning.

Facing you. Dead.

I didn’t have to,
because you finally felt sorry for burying me, way after I already passed.

-C.M. Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
I believed in you,
In us.

I vowed my undying love to you and, with hope,
Began to imagine a day where I wasn’t lying on the floor,

Alone.

We had the world in our palms and yet you managed to create blacks and blues on my flesh into galaxies that made no sense,
I was attracted to the unknown.

And I did not know you.

Dandelions grew over my blood that flooded a meadow,
Roses blossomed from weeds and out came my will to leave you.

Each petal fell with the grace of a dancer and I was uplifted into a world of light.

With a bottle of trouble in one hand, and you heart in the other.

-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
It is unspeakable
Yet I find words in the darkest places of my memories
That leave my crevices torn.
The taste of deception in your breath is but a million concerns for me.

‘Could I ever?’ is but a question I incessantly pose myself with,
for the fear that one day I will never unearth an answer.

Why are you hiding?

This is not a test, and my lonesome ears are eavesdropping for a piece of your word.
These walls are thin but my heart is thickened flesh encompassed in veins that ship blood to the places that yearn to bleed at the thought of your voice.

I will not bleed.

I lay down face up and talk to Him. You, sinful warrior,
or worrier.
There’s a difference and you managed to scramble up these definitions into this conjured dictionary of menacing deeds and misconceptions.

You are fooling no one.

And I pray,
And I pray every evening until I can hear your words again
“I’m sorry,”

I wish I was.

-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
I use to fear you.
The way your hair reminded me of an oil spill, drowning me in poisons not fit for a queen.

Your eyes sat heavy and dark with despise.
What you were hating, I cannot say.

Maybe you could no longer stand yourself, you could no longer withstand.

I believed in the way you told me we’d survive.
That we would escape and run together.

Our lives with riches and sunlight.
I believed in all of you, all that you were.

I should have known,
To never believe in ghosts.

-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
six.
small fingers counted the days until I could perish with the wind.
become one with the stars.

mother wept into the arms of her reflection
what life had become, she could not say.
father drowned himself in toxins
what had become of him,

no one could say.






in his love
I found my limits.
in his temper
I found my strength.

and in his absence
I found my voice.

Listen.

-if I’m being honest, your inability to raise me was the best way to let me grow
-Chloe Aldecoa
Take the history, the dragged through the mud, suffering in the dark history and paint it a new color. Take the shadows and show them a new light, create from the remains that have been destroyed.
Chloe Oct 2017
Pain and love are at one with the heart,
just as a poet and their words are one at spirit
Each, from a divorce of such bitter pastimes
to become one with one another, in mind and in soul

The heart craves love,
just as a poet craves a pencil and a paper,
at every moment of the day
To crave one another, is to build a kingdom
built on love and the powers of a dark past

To only be virtuous in the world,
to have the eyes yearn for the heart,
just as a poet looks in others for inspiration
For their eyes to meet words, just as the heart meets another
and often, to be rooted in each other, such a beautiful phrase

Pain and love are at one with the heart,
just as a poet and their words are one at spirit
Each from the darkest realms of life,
only to be joined to form a brighter road

-Chloe Aldecoa
My poems emerge from my heart, whether that love has been discarded, is still remaining, or is soon to come. Love and poetry reside in the same home for me. My heart loves unconditionally, and my poetry is the language.
Chloe Oct 2017
If I learned to love with both eyes open

I would crawl into unknown alleys
with the expectation that it’s perfect for me.

and maybe that’s why I approach open hearts with sealed eyes,

so I can feel,
hear,
taste their imperfections,

knowing the heart for every chamber it contains

- sorrow came to me in the middle of the night and asked for a kiss, I showed it romance and eternal bliss
-Chloe Aldecoa
Love is lingering in the most unexpected places, follow your heart, even when it is too hard to see.
Chloe Oct 2017
Where do I begin?
How can I say this in the softest, most harmless way possible?

This will be the hardest part, the honesty. No one likes the truth, but they demand that everyone be truthful for everything.

So, this is my disclaimer,
you may not like what I am about to say, but you should accept what is said,
because when you begged for the reality, I had no problem serving it to you on golden plates.

Just, please, if you’re going to throw up, do it where I cannot see you,
because, honestly, I do not care how this makes you feel.

You knew what could happen when you invited me to dinner.

-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
I can recall the first moment I knew I fell for you, that very moment where the war was over
and my mind died down, letting all common sense and instinct loose
When my heart stood atop a heap of a dead minded girl, who cared for nothing but the lips of a dead minded boy
I had to be cautious with how many times I told you I wanted you
I was careful with how many times I let you into my  secrecy
  

For a while, I pondered on the infinite thought of us becoming so much more,
not just a star in the sky, but the whole galaxy
that I would no longer be just your flower, but the gates to your garden
and perhaps, you would not just be my drop of water, but my whole sea
in hopes that I would sail your waves that flow in and out of your intriguing soul
The way you spoke, those numbingly sweet words,
“I never want to lose you, and I never plan on losing you, ever.”

it wasn't until then, that I had realized, that you never lost me
I lost you, and quite frankly, I don't intend on finding you, ever

-Chloe Aldecoa
It takes a bleeding heart and an open mind to realize what you have isn't always what you need. Sweets are a delicacy, until your teeth start to hurt.
Chloe Oct 2017
To a memory:

I recall, on a weekend evening,
My body tells me Saturday,
That we laid on the small grass patch that laid beneath a tall mesquite tree.
Our fingers interlocked and our bodies fused together, in an effort to truly become one.

Owls hooted in a nearby nest, the wind swept my hair,
I remember, faintly, the way you smelt.

Like guilt, deceit.

Our chests inflated and deflated in sync.
I could feel your pulse in your wrist,
You were so calm.

A distant cat meowed in sorrow,
You looked over at me, smiled, and got up.

Moonlight danced on your skin and with a swift pivot,
You walked away.

Forever, you whispered.

Meant nothing to you, I hollered.

-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
My words,
can look like poetry,
and still taste
of poison.

Your eyes,
can shine like stars,
and still burn
like flames.

My hands,
can feel feather soft,
and still
carry a knife.

Your words,
can comfort like a hug
and still manage to steal
all my blood.


- we volley between our love and our desire to hate each other, but I could never pick one, you have damaged me to never love you, but been there enough  so I can never hate you

-Chloe Aldecoa
Chloe Oct 2017
New, not better.
Giving, not more forgiving.

Loving, not lovelier.
Softer, not the softest.

Brave, not the bravest.
Kind, not kinder.

Neverending, not ephemeral,
because, I pray she can stay forever with someone as precious as you,

but, she’ll need to know who made you so precious in the first place,
and , please, give me some credit.


- it’s only fair, I always accredit you when I’m told I’m picky, because, someone had to be the first to be everything I did not need.
-Chloe Aldecoa
No Love.
Chloe Oct 2017
Being reminded.
Two o’clock in the morning.
I am dreaming quietly, the blanket has yet to be ripped off of my skin,
unveiling my vulnerable flesh.

Two-thirty, and I am skinned of my dreams and told I am unable to find what I want.

You.

Could I be held again for one more second? May my hands hold yours in the dark of a room lit by your smile, am I allowed to know you again as only mine for another moment?

You are not mine anymore. The world had taken you back and I am reminded when I wake up to words of sending me off into the world without you.

Remind me, again, about how much you needed me. Lying in your lap and wishing for an eternity of finally knowing what it is like to feel alive.

Foolish, I know. To be reminded and expect miracles to unearth from the universes I have created where I can have what I need and what I want.

Impossibilities haunt me at night, reminding me of what I cannot have.
The spoiled little girl inside me throws tantrums unworthy of this world.

I have grown up, and I grew into you and to be ripped away is simply a knife to my chest, a heartbreak I have never known. I kiss the pieces goodnight, and shape them into your name.
and let the wind sweep them away, the same way I have to, but, at night, I am reminded of the last night I thought this would last.

and it is the only memory keeping me sane.

- to be more was a reality I knew, and is now a dream I hold onto
-Chloe Aldecoa
Reminiscent of what has been lost; stolen from me, but never far from my dreams every night.
Chloe Oct 2017
I have storms brewing within me,
Hurricanes, tornadoes, lightning
I am who I was and will be
Stars birthing in the sky,
bursting and creating
Universes
I was your world.

I have jungles growing within me,
Towering trees, blossoming flowers
Poisonous animals
I am what I am and what I want to be
Swaying branches and thunderous sounds
roaring and preying
on the weak
I was your adventure
With the abundance of nature’s fury
beneath my skin

I am the rough words of a struggling poet
The discombobulated jumble of rhythm less music
The unfinished art work made in the hour
of darkness
I am horror
I am chaos, utter obliteration

and you,
are nothing.

-Chloe Aldecoa
Love, it is a blissful, merciless disaster. Heartache bleeds from the souls of those bare their loneliness. You must own yourself, vow to your own heart that you are worthy enough, in or out of love. Don't be the heartbroken, be the heartbreaker, and show them you are surviving.
Chloe Oct 2017
If you had stayed.



I would have never learned to color my own sky blue
it would have stayed blue

If you had called.

I would have become accustomed to a familiar voice
and not create one in my head
jostled sounds to create comfort

If I had known you’d vanish.

I would have visited
called you myself
and told you goodbye.




-  the heartbreak was not that you left, but the way you left
-Chloe Aldecoa
The incessant posing of, "what if?" It haunts a deep sleep, drives your mind around mountains until you have reached a conclusion, but there isn't one. Living life on the "what if" can be joyous, but only if you turn that "what if" into an '"I can."
Chloe Oct 2017
I am the good in every good-bye.

Hands held.
touched
felt
printed

Grabbed my heart and toggled it back into its hiding spot.
where it dribbled between the truth and heartache
it sits in a cave.

Etched with small moments and diamonds.
and when I try to dust off the ash,
to let the shimmer of the gem come through,

it reminds me of you.

But it is the greatest good you’ll ever know,
a diamond.
To wear it, hold it, feel it, stamp your lips into it.

It is dangerous.
To fall for a diamond too bright for you, but pure enough to let you look.

The greatest good in the hardest good-bye,
how does it feel to lose your riches, and dig in coal mines,

searching for the diamond you left at your doorstep.

-I will always be sorry for what could’ve been, but never sorry for what has happened
-Chloe Aldecoa
To retract and look back for what you left alone, it is suffering in the finest way. Knowing what you had, what you cherished, has vanished. And you're left wondering why you ever let go.

— The End —