My heart could be out getting yours.
Should be.

But superstition is what kills love.
And I'm not.

I mustn't be the music that you hear.
The lights.

I ask myself if flying also means falling.
Eyes closed.

Silence is a never ending statement.
All in vain.

While I watch you passing by the sun.
Outshined.

And you are also the moon, invisible.
Can't reach.

I undress better with words, completely.
All the leafs.

Protected by an untouched bubble.
Like a kiss.

Memories can also be driven by fear.
And the future.

I'm always found by dawn, when I'm an angel.
Maskless.

My heart could be out getting yours.
You know?

Every birth is pain, violence, and love.
Even light.

Every new love is and empty handed heart.
Until you go out.

You are inside the dream, behind the glass.
And you smile.

A No is better than a lie, you know?
You know?

When is the right time to shoot one's bolt?
Never was.

Is the mirage in the eye or in the mind?
Oh, but it is.

My heart could have been out getting yours.
It is lost.

The trill of the violin's note
extends like a grim kiss asking
me to remember. The devil's
music in a photograph. How happy
the trees look amongst the ruins
of the past.

How much space it has traveled,
The light that escaped from us?
Or did it never left the earth
and it is repeating itself.
Us, like ghosts behind the walls.

You know, it's been
a dim colored world, the future
unfolding as I dare to take
another breath. You must be
loving, I hope. Otherwise,
it is madness, what a waste of pain.

Perhaps your many faces
will never leave, but I feel
like I can grin and bare it.
Maybe that's all there is now,
the living memory of yet
another impossible flower.

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.

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.

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.

Today I feel like a snail
who took forty years
to cross a road to find
that the other side was
the same.  And you don't
want to deal with the rage
of a tired snail.
It is sad to find yours is
such an unglamorous totem.

Tomorrow I will feel
like an old philosopher.
I might even go as far
as to offer advise
(tiresome and languid),
and will talk about my
great and epic drift
through the great gray dessert.
And you will say,
here's a wise man,
without knowing that
everything was a mistake.
That it still is.

I warn you, I can change
expressions, seamlessly.
Remember this, cats can't
smile, they can laugh or
destroy it's world,
with the furious sorrow
and as slowly
as a tired mollusk.
And they will try.

What is a soft touch for a rock?
You would be surprised, my friend.
Except us, rocks. What is
a soft touch for a human?

It depends on the human
and it depends on the rock.

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.

I don't believe in tomorrow,
with it's sameness and it's sadness,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in yesterday,
with it's longness and it's mockery,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the sunrise,
with it's promises and it's storm clouds,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the sunset,
with it's loveliness and it's loneliness,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the sea,
with it's indecision and it's vastness,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in the universe,
with it's mystery and it's immensity,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in memories,
with their vagueness and their insistence,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in hope,
with it's randomness and it's deception,
and I don't
believe in you,
and I don't believe
in me.

I don't believe in poetry,
in the lines of my face and of my hand,
in the stars and the gods,
in the guitar and my voice,
in my smile and my frown,
in love, in feelings,
in doors and pictures.

I don't believe in me. I don't,
but they all do. All of them.
And all of them expect answers
and reasons that I cannot give,
that I don't know. I don't know.

Suddenly, I turned 40.
I'm not saying that it neccesarly
took me all that time to get there.
It was quicker than that, a matter of days.
You know time, that miserable *******
likes a good LOL as much as the next guy.
And I'm not even 40 yet.
**** me, right!

Black mirror, black mirror
everybody believes you are me
ever since the war, they know
a mechanical butterfly
can't move it's wings
by sheer will.
The baby tiger in captivity
turns into a cat,
back and forth and again,
with the mystery and sadness
of a crumpled paper than none
will ever read. Take it all,
the time, the sky,
the habit of downward spiraling,
there is a certain discipline
required to scale yourself
down so you can fit your arms
around a giant.
With my back towards it,
I have discovered that ignorance
is not always bliss,
only less awkward.
Black mirror also lies,
his optical illusions are only
phantom words and fire,
whichever comes first.
And he can also be a prism.

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.

Destiny is a miserable creature
with a mouthful of sharp teeth
hiding behind your smile.
Yes, you. Unsuspecting.
With a bit of happiness hiding
behind your adorable smile.

If only it would bite.
As I said, miserable,
cruel creature.
All this blood wasted,
turning into vinegar.
It burns.

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

Millions of specs of dust fly
on the single ray of light that
comes in through the window.
Everything is changing, even them.

Them, who used to be other things,
skin,
and words,
and strangers,
and blindness,
and eyes,
sleep,
tragedy,
love,
and thougths that crack the skull,
all the things together,
hints,
flowers,
and fiction,
and for one brief moment
happiness.

That you are the one I reenact
the love scenes from movies
in my head, is that so terrible?
And that is to become dust too,
without you even knowing,
and will be blown away.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.
Handshakes and kisses, folks.
Telescopes and microscopes,
is all about points of view.

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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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.

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.

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'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.

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

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.

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.

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.

What have we done today?
Have you loved,
have you grow tall,
have you follow that trail of stars,
take everything,
give something.

I'm afraid that we've done the same,
it all looks the same,
at times I only stare at other people
while they stare back.
We are patchworks,
we are the lovers that could not be
and it's alright.

It's alright to be that, the sea.

It's alright to be
the rubble, the dust.
The dark moon under the eyes
because we walked alone back home,
because again we weren't able to read
between the lines of our silence
and love still remains unknown.
It's alright. It's also beautiful,
to be the turned-off firefly.

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 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.

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.

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

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.

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 waste,
you created it. You are the one who
leave the sunken ships, burning.

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.

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 cigarrette brand.
I've noticed that I know just enough
so I can 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?

These are the kind of questions
someone who doesn't know have.

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 in my face. Don't mind me,
let me quietly keep on barking to the moon.

Let's get this to a conclusion.
Of the few things I know, one is this:
you told me you are dark chocolate.
I will be sincere and confese that
I don't see where you're coming from.
One thing I know and I tell you now,
your are sweeter than that.

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.

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.

Oh love, you come in a better disguise
this time. Let me tell you now that
you've improved both in loveliness
and in material impossibility.
For all I'm concerned, this has been
your finest hour, which coincides
with my weakest and darkest,
not related to your coming (you insist),
but I know better. And even when I know
what you'll do, I was hoping to see you
again. And this is already going wrong.
For those of us who, foolishly, are still
looking for the happily ever after,
it is always a walk in the park under
gray skies and falling leaves to have you
back, love. There will always be a space
for you to fill in this heart. If only
you could stay still for a second.

But wait a second; no, not you.
Wait a second longer; yes, me.
Weren't you just about to fall sleep?
Wait a second. You're not loosing her.
Hold the tear in, close your eyes and
drift away. There she'll be too,
in the dream, waiting in a better disguise.
And this time it'll maybe be real.

How do I know the devil is not
in my words?
Talking with my mouth,
listening with my ears,
using my shaky fingers
to touch your body.
How do I know he is not
laughing at me.
I don't know.

How do I know God is not
fighting a war
over my soul.
How do I know he is not
the silence between words,
the meaning between lines,
the space between skin and skin.
I don't know.

I hope they both have better things to do
than daydreaming.