If I were to try to fly, I would need a rather high place to jump from. I know I'll never fly, not really, but I can play pretend while I drop to my certain death.

It's very easy to **** an ant. However, I'll never be able to get to the brink of an abyss and just continue. Walking down the vertical wall like it's nothing.

I would like to be home by midnight.

She paused, no longer so sure about the fit
of that crystal slipper on my hairy foot.

Not to worry, my dear. Just make sure to close
the closet door when you leave.

So, I've discovered she does like poetry.
Only, she likes other poetry, not mine.

It's not that I need her to like
what I write (I mostly don't either).
What bites is that she don't like
what I write about her.

Love is also an artistic impresion, you see?
We only like the art that affects us.

You are very human after all;
when it comes down to it, you
also like the music of bottles,
and of friends, lost, lost, the faces
facing the night, leaving souls,
living grose, grose. Very human,
getting your **** together before sunrise,
and losing your soul through the day,
eternal soldier, ready for a second helping.
Ok, time’s up!

There is no one around.
No one betting the life over a dream,
no one over there at the races, chasing tails,
and no one at the dock watching the ships sail
while the sun drowns in the horizon.
No one around is looking at you leaving
today, and waiting for a comeback.

Standing beside the tombs, insane,
still, and finally grabbing one last piece of sanity
from the silence of my bones.

Now, there is no one here, only the trees over,
the earth all around, and my words,
waiting for the next presence of life.

And this life is someone else's, is
insanity's nearness when everyone answers,
all the voices at the same time,
everybody's truth crushing yours,
all the love, and the hatred, a lightning and a thunder,
voices speaking, voices asking,
all the words that you must hear.

Walk toward my grave, and around, and over,
and if you dare lay down with me, let me
embrace the tender of your skin.

Now, nobody but you and me, for a moment,
before I return to dust and memories,
and before you go back to your future.

Go back to it, before you lose your legs, or all
your will or, even worse, before you decide to stay.
There are no more apples for you, I don’t own
your past, only my memories, like you own yours.
Our words might be alike but their meaning lies
inside, deep, within each throat, unspoken,
unspeakable and unreachable.

Choke on my words, I will drown in yours,
the tip of my fingers scraping from below,
reaching for your flowery hands.

Now, I possess myself, you have your breath of life,
make my silence your home, for a brief moment,
dig until you graze my fleshless name.

Call it, if nobody answers it’s me, answering
from everybody's mouths, with all the voices.
To hear my words you only need to sit quiet over me.
It’s lonely, it’s tomorrow as you haven’t yet imagined it,
prepare for me, repent if you want, it’s indifferent,
I’ll be answering you anyway, I’m already
loving the world empty of us.

I still want so much more of you, to rob you,
**** your every last strength, until you see
with my eyes, amazed by the beauty.

Can this be the truth? This is the land I promise,
the only promised land a defeated god can dream of,
and can give as a wedding gift.

It’s my world, ordinary. Yours is much luminous,
and brighter, once you open your eyes,
and break through the nightmare, and go out
to find that everybody is waiting, living like you,
good times rolling, high above the trash,
getting together at the races, and at the dock
to see the ships, and the sun emerging triumphant.

One night you dreamt, it was a bad one,
only that, about a grave, silent words calling,
and the sound of hands digging up, reaching for you.

Believe in it, in the dream, but also in you,
as I’ve believed in me, and for a moment,
almost scraped the surface of heaven.

Destiny is a miserable creature
with a mouthful of sharp teeth
hiding behind a smile, yours.
Yes, you. Unsuspecting.
With a bit of happiness hiding
behind that adorable smile.
If only it would bite.

As I said, miserable
and cruel creature.
All this blood wasted,
turning into vinegar.
It burns.

I will look at the clock again,
and again, tomorrow. And again
I will notice how late I come,
how old is my love, how old.
And I will look at the clock again
and will leave and you'll stay.
And the sea will also stay and I
will look at the clock again
and you'll stay with the day,
and tomorrow will be today,
and you'll stay, and I'll be gone.
But if I'd come earlier I wouldn't
have find you either,
have loved you either,
have need you either.
I wouldn't have what?
I wouldn't need a sword
to cut time in half.

I'll look at the clock again,
and again, tomorrow. And again
he will smile, mockingly.
All the same, I will look.

Tales of what will happen next,
in the streets, in the heads,
in the cigarette buts, and in the red
flowers. Is better not to know
what we really are. Life's easier
when you don't know where
the sadder songs come from.

It's Sunday, that I know. Also that
the new year will start on the same day
as the new week will, it seems appropriate.
Not that that would make any difference,
we will get confused anyway.
With all the promises in the air,
like the tiny ghosts of unborn
children that will bring laughter
into our lives, supposedly.
That is, unless you are old enough
as to not to promise anything anymore,
we are very much aware that the first person
that will get disappointed will be ourselves.

All of those who will be coming back home
tomorrow, to fight for what we think
is best for us, all of us who will be starting
the year with ash running out from our hands,
still sentimentally moved by the same songs,
old dogs trying to learn new tricks
but failing miserably, as we let time
run out. We all will be there.

Maybe the me from five years ago will no longer
recognize himself. He will be here to,
confused, afraid, and looking into the future.

Us, being strangers as we are,
it is expected that we remain separated
by the unkindness of our eyes
when we cannot comprehend
nor grasp, how could we, that we both
like black coffee. In that sense,
we are only separated by the sound
of our voices taking the first step
and that, my dear, is the greatest
and the shortest distance
between two hearts that could be one
but will probably not.

I saw you. I fell in love.
A bit of a cliche,
but such is life.

Only I didn't really fall in love
when I saw you, it was gradual.
In terms of absence, that is, one day
I suddenly noticed you were not there
(I was able to distinguish  how empty
the world was without you in it).

This arrow flew a long time,
which only means that it hit
with grater strength.

You see, this is not love on a whim.
When I see you I don't think "I fell",
rather I flap my arms, taste the fear,
and think "Why the hell I don't stop falling?".

Is this the face of beauty?
The hand went behind the back
and crossed fingers. The shadow
mimicked the gesture and the
face of beauty was reconstructed
based on mere will. But the myistery
remains, is this it?

Maybe this is only the face of love.

What do I know about you, really?
For certain, only a few things.
Nothing about pictures or loves,
about the ghosts in your heart,
or something as simple as your cigarette brand.
I've noticed that I know just enough
so I can't never reach.

We can die laughing, that's true
and that is important for someone
who doesn't laugh enough, as I.

If I told you that I wouldn't mind to know
what make your eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket,
would you shred my ears to pieces?

If I confessed that I hang on your words
like a thrilled coward, that I have died many times,
would you fell silent?

I accept that I also keep people in the dark,
flying blind. They must think "here goes nothing",
while they yearn for the ground. Have I done that to you?

If I was to fling myself onto you, for that matter,
absurd as the notion sounds, would you flinch away
and ask me to give my head a shake?

I know we are getting into the realm of imposible things,
of things that can blow up in my face. Don't mind me,
let me quietly keep on barking to the moon.

Let's get this to a conclusion.
I will be sincere and confese that
I don't see where you're coming from.
I tell you now, your are sweeter than
that dark chocolate you like so much.

I know my mirror is broken, I know.
As long as the ocean keeps coming back
and it's blue, it's like you were here.
And I can feel you and be blown
by the wind, and be brought back,
and be tossed around. What a tiny
vision, I know, trying to save yourself
from yourself. And the future bleeds.
I know I'm wrong, I know I am.

When I try to go out, -but you try.
When I try to turn white.
I like to imagine you
looking at the back of my head,
collecting flying leaves,
sitting inside the empty end of time,
transformation, like a butterfly
bursting the bubble, just reaching out
and grabbing trees, and sins, and this is
your way of saying I wont be around,
probably, I wont.

Dear me, I became aware so suddenly
that a self fulfilling prophecy is like
a cloudless sky and it gets you down.
That there is no empty space left
in the darkness, and it gets you down.
Who can say how much prettier you will look
tomorrow, distracted, playing your part,
learning how the flapping of your wings
affect the world around you; who is to know
if you are going to rule this out
as a superstition of a heart.

I wasn't myself at all, this year.
Or maybe I should say that I was me
as much as I could. Look into my
mental health trough my words.

We foresee ourselves as the resolved version
of an unsolvable mathematical problem.
I see a picture of me, alongside other people,
and feel like I´m a photoshopped image,
which is pretty much how I feel most of the time.

I like to think of it
as a philosophical matter,
nothing else. Psychologists,
refrain from commenting.
Otherwise, I imagine myself
giving you the finger.

I also need to mention
that the new ghost is growing
healthy and laughing, behind
the door where it can jump
on my shoulders the minute
I walk in.

On the bright side, someone said
I´m weird but interesting.
The inflection was on the term "weird".
***** it, I´ll take that any day!
Even if it´s only a small battle
that will not win any war.

The problem with this autobiographical poems
is that I never know how to finish'em
and I sense there´s also meaning in this.
With the above being said, I guess I´m still
the same, and that is ******* frightening.

What time is it? Are you coming
late? Are you coming at all?
I've been waiting for you.

I was mistaken, you were coming
not towards me but only
moving in my general direction.

Look at you, how you pass with your
young confidence, overflowing
and ready to drift away.

You will never know about the wreckage
you create. You are the one who
leave the sunken ships, burning.

Recurrent dreams are to man
what pikes are to the bull.
It angers you that they remain dreams
and there is no good promise
at the end of the night.

I've found myself looking at your empty chair.
Your cats and mine are also staring, they also
search beyond the glass line of the horizon
that extends forbiddingly close, a limit
that is at the same time boundary and edge.

Did you know glass is neither a solid nor a liquid?
An amorphous solid, they call it.
It has to do with painstakingly slow moving atoms.
I like this quote: "it would take longer than the universe
has existed for room-temperature glass to rearrange itself
to appear melted."

But going back to your empty chair,
I sometimes feel like if I look to close
I'm going tho pass through my own image
and when I'm finally done crossing
you will be staring back towards my empty chair.

Did you know there is no such thing as a dark side of the moon?
Tidal locking, they call it.
It is kind of an interminable dance, gaze locking.
We see the same face, until you cross that is,
you will find there's sun on the other side alright.
But that's still a great album, if you ask me.

What will happen once we are on the same side, if ever?
I don't know, but I will tell you what we'll have.

We'll have three cats,
some broken glass to pick up,
unknown seas and valleys to explore,
and two empty chairs.

The truth is that I will hardly ever be
as funny as the one who makes you laugh,
nor as sweet as the one who makes you awww,
and not even as strong as the one whose shoulder
you choose to lean your head on.
I mean, I am all those things in my mind,
and when you are not looking my way,
but I guess those fictions aren't seductive enough,
hardly for anyone or for anything.

But my most serious fault is, I know,
that I have you waiting for a punchline
that will not come. I can feel
the weight of the bad joke, believe me.

I'm still waiting for the punchline too.
I got old waiting for it.

Separation is not only a matter of distance but also of purpose and will.

I don't know you, said I
while attached to my back the old me,
like a siamese twin, withered,
drained of meaning by the image
of this new self I'm supposed to be.

I swear by this mirror that I don't know you.
I repeated the lie smiling awkwardly,
every terrified silabe like the footsteps
of things moving in an empty room.

Have you ever tried it?
If you bang on about it you might end
playing rock, paper and scissors with yourself.

It was all clear. At least for now.
When you ceased to be a stranger
in this strange world of pipe dreams,
the act of repeating your name
changed from absurdity to mantra.
Heartwarming and sad,
the naivety of it all.

Hear us out, we are the losers.
We didn't want it all but just
a little more,  
from the mirrors without wrinkles,
from the afternoon 'till death,
from the doors without locks,
from the catdog people in the street,
and from ourselves, at least

from these shadows without bodies,
from these houses without ghosts,
from these minds without forgetfulness,
from these mountains without a fall,
from this silence without voices,
and from you who told us that we were wrong.

And that people is still out there,
and that people is distracted,
and that people is also living,
and that people is melting like snow,
and that people is building promises,
and that people is burning in the sun,
and that people...

Hear us out. We are those who got
the short end of the stick but still
go through the motions of living,
dancing away the life to death.

What's the matter, are you afraid?
Help yourself from my words,
take a deep breath and
deduce from the above
if you are one of us.

I don´t care about ying and yang. Needless to say that ying and yang feels the same way about me.

For ever and ever, just for one day.
The shadows will be heroes,
standing by all things. Someone
will finally recognize them for
their infinite and unconditional love,
for never loosing control while facing
the cruelty of those who cast them.

To make my shadow proud of me.
If I could only do that, if only I
could convince myself that she is.

So, I discovered that she do likes poetry.
Only she likes other poetry, not mine.
And it is not that I need her to like
what I write per se (I mostly don't like
what I write myself), is that she don't like
what I write about her. And that is critical.
Because love is also an artistic impresion
and we only like the art that affects us.

I'm a builder.
My poems are houses.
Crooked,
ghost houses.
Mad houses.
Burn victims hospitals.
Pet cemeteries.
Monuments
to unknown soldiers.

But also, sometimes,
they are what they are meant to be.
A beating heart with space enough
for them all to dwell.

Usually, not even that.
Only rubble.
Only silence.

Unfaithful, renegade, unbelonging.
Like a cat staying where the food is.
But the guard dog also keeps quiet when fed.

Maybe cats and dogs are not so different.
After all, hearts are children
who look for what they desire.

A man walks home at night,
alone as a mountaintop.
He created himself that way.
He has been lifting himself,
for a long time now, above
all heads, all hearts, himself.
From his loftiness, he dominates
his world from a kind of open
prison, where he can be seen
but not reached.

The
forces
he used
to create his
absurd altitud
are not clear. Some
might even think that
it's useless to live like
this, connected but removed,
always in motion, away from it all.

But it is a mistake.

If you want to reach him
there is a stair, steep
and grim. And you might think
"I will be brave, he is but a fool
looking into -and afraid- of the abyss
he created himself". And if you dare,
and you finally reach the first step,
you will find him waiting to guide you
around, into and accross. You see,
this man that walks home at night,
as alone as a mountaintop, knows
that nobody escapes from the sunrise,
that some happiness is strange,
and that the only real tragedy
is to have taken all this time,
to have accumulated grain upon grain,
melting the sand in the crucible
of his heart, to create this bluff
looking into world, and have noone
to share the view with.

I doubt you understand my silence,
otherwise, there wouldn't be one.

Trying to beat the heart in the head. I am
trying to find the place I left, that I loose,
when I sat out to come and find myself.
Blame it all on me, it's a natural conclusion.

Felt good, heard fine, while I was going,
it felt so easy and quick, lines where crossed.
To be a broken somebody, somebody else,
more than you care and less than you know.

The girl that I knew under the trees
has also left and in her flight she took
the gift and the time, the love song,
the moon the boy was looking in her eyes.

And I don't know if I can do it anymore,
go back out through the windows, back to
the milky swirl of stars, again start.
I don't wanna talk about it but I'm saying it.

Overall, this is about everything and it's not.
This is not a sad face, a broken poem, a peakhole
into and angry soul, if you can understand,
the words are carefully arranged.

I'm fine thank you, and you? How much time,
tell me, do you think you can stay, I'll sleep
in you. You are, some say, the monster under my bed,
you are, i'd say, the reason I can breath.

I'm doing it again, materializing, I am
halfway there to cross another window. This is it,
I wanna talk about it but I'm not saying it,
would you meet me halfway there?

The beast that needs to be tamed lives
within yourself. All the other despair
is smog being blown away by the invisible
mouths of those who, with cries and silence,
are trying to breath and move around
under water, trying to think which was
that one turn that brought them here
and started the person that became.

All these right-and-wrongs that are said
and also those who remain silent,
all these intentions toward a saved life,
and all these doors that are being opened
and closed, are so much like the efforts
of a writer creating a character for
a book that will be finished on a deathbed
and surrounded by teary-eyed beasts in human skin.

You could have been mine, instead
you choose to be yours. Bless you,
in the name of an uncertain god.
In all your wisdom, you choose to be true
to the one person that matters: yourself.

When you appear and everything else falls quiet
there's only one voice left, mine, from bellow,
from the forgotten memory in the chest.
A fallen memory, it laughs and I always fall asleep.
Always. You aren't there either. You are
and you are not.

Magic trick 1 : I can pull elephants out
from a hat (even against your will).

Magic trick 2: amazing flowers grow,
invisible (even against my will).

Maybe I'll like myself one day, someday,
and that will be another magic trick.
The last one.

Life is short
like a dream,
like juvenile fit of laughter
flying away from the lips.

Short and dumb.
Full of invitations,
insinuations, and desire.
It is a short wealth
of blood and pleasure
beating in the veins.
It is growing bliss
and bountiful pain.

Silence,
cyclical time,
will.

It is the pursue of love
and to continue,
persistent,
until you behold
the abyss.

Life is short
like a dream
and death is long
as an awakening.

Give me bricks, give me mortar,
and give me space to build my wall
higher, high enough to reach
the stars, the empty space,
because this is not high enough.
I want the higher wall a man
has ever built, it is needed.

Yesterday, I looked over it
and I saw you, and you saw me,
and we saw each other, and you
talked about the weather, and about
trivial things. You talked,
so beautiful and unaware,
and I listened and understood
how much I've missed you, that
and that my wall needs an upgrade.

I understand it, a wall will
protect and isolate he who builds it.
Fear and love, bricks and mortar.
This is going to be a high wall, indeed.

I don't know what to do with it all,
the flowers, the elephant and the
ruins under my feet.
The long and brooding presence.

It is clear that I haven't come to grips
with this upsidedown world. I shouln't have
saved all these goodbyes (at the end, all die
and their ghosts will never leave you).

I saw you floating today and I found
how hard it is to scream underwater.

Hear us out, we are the losers.
We didn't want it all but just
a little more,  
from the mirrors without wrinkles,
from the afternoon 'till death,
from the doors without locks,
from the catdog people in the street,
and from ourselves, at least

from these shadows without bodies,
from these houses without ghosts,
from these minds without forgetfulness,
from these mountains without a fall,
from this silence without voices,
and from you who told us that we were wrong.

And that people is still out there,
and that people is distracted,
and that people is also living,
and that people is melting like snow,
and that people is building promises,
and that people is burning in the sun,
and that people...

Hear us out. We are those who got
the short end of the stick but still
go through the motions of living,
dancing away the life to death.

What's the matter, are you afraid?
Help yourself from my words,
take a deep breath and
deduce from the above
if you are one of us.

I don't feel like it anymore, I must say.
Maybe I should put up a missing person
alert for my inner kid. He must be hiding
somewhere, I hope wherever that is i'ts not
a dark place, he was always afraid of it.
Maybe that is what I've loose, I think I must
come to terms with it. It's that time
of the year already when it's to late
for everything. To say hello and goodbye,
is this real, is it not,
no turning back, no way to run,
one eye blue and the other red,
one ear open and the other closed,
one hand reaching out and the other
clenched in a fist behind my back,
one sweet word and many a bitter silence.
Hand shakes and kisses, folks.
Telescopes and microscopes,
is all about points of view.

Hand shakes and kisses, folks.
I am what I am, nothing more than
the continuation of an idea.

I can't believe I believe this crap
of "this is a new day". But to believe
is not the same as to know. What I know is
that tonight I'll be telling myself
that this was, after all, the same
day
without
you.

I will come back into the light,
slowly, changing skin
and voice to match complexion
and glare.

But my days of fire are gone,
long and sufficiently away.
It's clear that one must swallow
before chocking.

I will swiftly go back,
there, darkness is kind enough
and only requires silence.

This is going wrong, the words
are choking the air out, day in
and day out my presence
grows thinner until my name is
something to brush off from your shoulder.

The sun is going down so many times a day,
have you ever have that feeling?
Seeing your eyes is like wading
into my failed dreams. What am I suppose to do
with your presence so absent of me?

Those seemingly unrelated matters of life
are suddenly connected by the same sadness:
my inability to close my eyes to your figure.
Just when you thought you knew yourself
love harkens you back to ignorance.

The heart always forgets what the head remember
and you get back knocking on the door that wont open.

This is going to be a poem without an ending
because I need you to read it and understand
what I feel. A proper ending, that is.

Human passions are, more often than I'd like, passions of inhumanity.

What do you do if you get off the bed
and find that you haven´t finished
dreaming of the sea?

The problem with this dream is that
there´s always more sea to sink
than islands to be a castaway.

You are going to get tired of swimming, eventually.
Mayhaps you will come out alive of this,
or maybe it´s time to learn how to be a fish.

There is no greater distance than the one that separates two bodies that occupies the same space.

Keep it down, heart. Low and weak,
falling short of standards. Pretend
to be here when you are there.
Keep it under the table,
up the wall and casting a shadow
on oneself, a long and broad one
like an overcast sky.

Step on toes, heart. The wild is here
and it is taking time and silence.
Borrowing time and silence to rub off on.
Time and silence because everything
looks better on hindsight.
Lots and lots of time and silence
make everything look good in the end.

But don't talk, heart. Talk is cheap,
talk is *****. Remember that in one's mind's eye
the house of cards will never collapse.
Slip away, heart. Off. Between the bodies
there is silence and glass. A pearl of wisdom
for you: you will cover just as much space
keeping on the road as going astray.

Break the illusion of carrying water in one hand
and fire in the other. Wouldn't that be awesome though!

Love is a heart shaped balloon with a label that reads
"blow up until it burst into something".

He always tries to wake up with the alarm
buy his eyes usually come early or late
to that date too.

He tries to see himself in the mirror
but only the doubts are reflected, like
watching dirt on snow.

He goes out, smiles with broken teeth
and waves limbless greetings. As versatile
as a possessed doll.

Everybody says he is a normal example of human.
Maybe he is, coming and going without getting
to where he wants to be.

Then he faces her. Contrasting his life choices
with her smile, he realizes that they
brought him there.

He stops at the pet shop window to look at the puppies.

He goes back thinking that in only
50 more easy payments he'll be able to claim back
his heart's past from the pawnbroker.

He tries to see himself in the mirror
before getting to bed, but he notices that
he forgot to bring himself back. And also coffee.

It doesn't matter, he thinks while he waits
for sleep to come. The pawnbroker is
an allegory on letting go.

The life of a guy without coffee
is like getting the short half of
the wishbone, every time.

In a sea of rain what you'll get is wetness.
You are no going to get out all dry and cozy
Here comes the rest of the night.

Fix me a dream where we are,
I know you can. Just one dream
where we are, nothing more.

I'm coming empty handed, how
can we fill that space?
That space that is unopened door,
unread book, uncalled name;
and how can we call it?
Bubble,
flight,
fall,
empty glass,
or even sea, or a name
that cannot be pronounced.

Fix it, while I stand outside,
gathering the flowers
that will die
in your hands

so I don't come
empty handed after all.