Coming up at my face in
charcoal, embossed,
in canvas, then hung
That’s cast anew,
that made it through-
After and at so many endings,
Blizzard, joy, death and sun
mending,
A Shepherd’s life through trials
as me, given in-
Is that finally it? Tell me, Heart, did I
Come to know the key? Yes!
Redemption arrived therein!
After that long time;
Look, I no longer
Have what you think it takes,
Saw more light in night than day,
But, indeed, honey in that
canvas’ eyes swirls back
Again,
Every shade a muster of reflection,
Fingers are grazing in sensitivity
No surgeon can try to beat,
Black lips glimmer in heat-
Shush, the point of
Such sight?
Just: that I can look in that
canvas mirror
Back,
That all realisation greets my mind.
That a narcissist is the
highest claim of support and love.
That after all
The path
All mirage left,
And broken
I know

who
i
am.

(... Yes, the battle has seen its end...
Sword’s placed in peace in proud,
Murky earth.)

Like breeze caressing in its
trap a feather grey in air’s
flight so have I
been caught
in un fulmine dei pensieri di
appena circa una dozzina
di minuti
fa.

And I have to most urgently
capture Me in this
flight and non-tormenting
air bubbles coming
out of my watery
&
treelike sight
by
breathing this moment
of realisation
gently
yet hard/strongly
while I’m at it,
at Shepherd’s meaning
of Treasure in
Coelho’s work cast
especially on me
& my antics of Now.

And that letter
here to be
shall be
lost
for a moment under
that pencil:
scribbling on sun-scorched
plane passing,
logophilia
and greater future to come
and
be
done.

For when you
finally
drink from a little bit
of Life itself in
you without any stimuli
foreign to you,
you’ll see that
It
is it that’s the most feverish
in what’s the best,
the sufficing binge.

I’m giving into
your hands this
redemption of mine till
I
AM,
for currently it
is the biggest truth
given to me
by
Allah.

I sense these Signs
as they find each other on Me,
like they make me insert
all the answers,
intentions,
with a hard semblance
and the durability
of the terrace wood
against my worked up skin,
in my lungs.

To where will my Own Legend
lead me?
There are certain
premonition
and in-depth
in this moment,
in the castle of the epilogue,
of the book,
in crystal blue,

in how all the world now
persists in my head
desiring to leave
a trace somewhere here
so as not to let go
of my hand
from its.

And the Sun
that parts almost at
dusk through
a hollow in the clouds
stormy-like
behind my back
seems to be winking, glance throwing,
of a foreboding,
of its presence,
waning,
on what will be able
to come.
And it’s gone.

And how Pueyo would say it:
“May no one deprive
me of living.”
I say it to all the pop culture,
and these false suns
“I’m not yours to take”
as much as I can.

And should we not listen
to understand
instead of
to reply?
Aren’t constant thoughts
that replying,
and pure being that
taking in (all the striving),
like when facing forest
in a
cold
prickling
air
to encounter?

Hold me like that,
that as I am,
in your hands
for a while.

At a governmental or another fancy door
Asked again who I am to call,
For my name, affiliation through and fro,
Who am I worth enough to stand at all.

As I bask in my glance and walking tall,
Asked for ID I tear it all,
With the shoes thrown off
And Mind elegantly deformed
I ravish how they eyes are stupefied, so lost

Well, seeming Madam/Sir,
No letter or phone shall make me up,
No telling shall ever be enough
to push all the liquids of senses, acts
from before my eyes
to your lips’ or ears’ sight,
Yet to have it done already
I’ll try to muster an answer
of that measly form,
So on a silent yet like jazz smooth
rampage I go:

I, am,
Immortal Poetry,
Of greater feverishness than a human kiss,
That even I can’t deprive myself of.
I have no restricted name,
Age or body & its ***.

I am eternal pilgrim on that soil,
With my place in My Lover high above,
With no human maternal language.
A Dreamweaver,
Novel,
Sensation in a melody,
Howling Nighty-Starry Wind.

All the gazes & chases I made in my books,
All longings & katharsi of mine.
Un Alma Perdida de ojos y pelo dorados
Que extraña su justo hogar entre versos,
Hierba y estrellas.

A prologue and an epilogue,
C-major on a private, broken guitar string,
Haze, blur in your mind.
The stars I barely see,
My ****** of skin,
And stern eyes of love-arousing passing-by
among the beasts of your kin.

I. Am. I.
For now so much to add,
Now, seeming Sir/Madam,
I’ll let myself pass by

Arm trembling no longer holding up.
Spasms.
Pain.
Feverish commotion moved unsatedly. Longing already before their departure from the knowledge of it to come.
Anguish in sorrow of sobbing
and self-quenching.
Two hearts’ Life has been made, disgustingly ripped away
and then at all costs retrieved
through the cold,
shame
and flame of ashes.
A chain memory
gaining its voice,
shaping into separate mind
and place.
I’m in torenness.
‘ve been through a lifetime and act,
never allowed to come back again
to the same (whirl of trepidations
and convulsions).
I tamed yet another fox
and have to deal with the tears
of the ends.
Tear away someone else’s presence
from me
and so shall be no difference.
I’m in hurt as in loss.
Losing a precious to me
foreign presence
will feel even greater
or have I just lost one,
with a piece of myself
alongside?
The binding isn’t locking away
one’s memory for a story,
it is giving them a person
called “Story”
and stealing their porcelain pieces
with its charm and frazzleness.
That’s why I account Literature
into sacralities
of my astrality
and perfect chosen arts of being.
Their non-verbal is
my most cherished music there is
as in Phronemophilia
or feelings,
a form of incalescence and confession made between a pair of words,
plucking the perfect chord
of comprehension
and Heart’s painfully sweet thrillance
and, between the verses,
speaking the ideal maternal language
not yet known to Mind.
As a Book contains all millions
of little aspects of moments,
words,
flesh,
tiny traits,
demeanour,
beginnings
and endings
and middles,
as it throws a wave after wave
of conundrums
of alchemy of emotions,
of all the unnameable things
of acting/being/breathing/affecting…
it is a Person.
One of many supposedly
not ones in Me.
​Sorry, plushie dearies,
it will be the faux-Victorian tale
of volumes and affection
tucked close to my chest
tonight,
you rest next,
aside me.
Спокоиней ночи,
всё кто живет во мне и не.

Lueurs ou sombres
Un verre casser,
J’en vaux et pas en drôle,
Partir du lit noir celui qui
S’adresse à s’envahir et être un délire
Fil de violon travaille à l’aise:
Donnez-moi un coup de la lune pour m’en écraser et m’en crever,
J’en ai marre marcher parfait comme la porcelaine

Can you deduce
basing on one’s
trepidations
and heartbeat
what notes and melody
complete
or
fulfil them,
precariously and intimately
decomposing and
striking?

And what sophistication,
what greatly mindless
analysis is it
when you acquaint a process/
surrounding/
issue/
object/
a person
throughoutly,
approaching in full
immersion like
the day
you go through
and not like going out
into your garden
from your house
for a few mere moments
that just make this escapade
a trespassing event,
without even looking at it!

What patient devotion
must that be to pay
for the prize of entering
its mechanism
and presence emanating,
even more
when that
“it”
is what your mirror
shows both to You
and your body,
or the sonorous car engine
driving you insane,
or...

or finally reading
the architecture of letters
of a Book
for the first time
in your life
with
comprehending actually
the story of the text
or the painting
that architecture gifts you!

And
still
what a horrifying
acknowledgement
would it be
if that
“it”
would be Life,
Time
or the World,
anything like
that in itself,
and thus there
would be no wonder left,
no excitation,
like living an immortal
existence,
a God that has gone
to every corner of perception
and galaxies,
has witnessed every
mechanism
that then starts only
to repeat itself
nevertheless
and constantly!

And
diverging from that,
maybe the reason
many minds believe
that Magic and Literature
as an apparent coming true
in our passing
are nonexistent
is that we restrict it
solely to blank pages
we fill with imagination,
to Child’s
“fads”
that
are actually
“freedoms”,
whereas
they are more
than possible
if we bear it in
ourselves,
as it was put in
the Kybalion:
As it is on the inside,
it is thus on the outside.

Like when I was standing
just a while ago
saying goodbye to the sea
in shouting silent beauty
of transparent words:
the beach to my far left
deserted
by tourists
and chosen by shadows
with Sun
and looming trees
all of a sudden
was more than verily
a shore
from “Robinson Crusoe”
or “The Treasure Island”,

just called to run and
peruse no matter
if something was waiting
or not

Or how now
whenever I write
instead of speaking
to a person
I do not differ them
by their ID
or biological data
and make revelation
of myself in the same
Godly, well perturbating
way like Pythia
and don’t care
if its a wise child,
a seemingly important
member of some affiliation,
or stiff standard model
in human skin.

It is simply all
multiple
constant Metamorphoses.

Must “speaking”
be only referred to
in the terms
of the humane apparatus of speech?
Isn’t it not only verbal?
Is it also feelings,
murmur of understatements fleeting,
trees and leaves
in a sage’s patience swaying,
child’s wailing,
Heart’s blazing?
Isn’t silence speaking too?

If you ever see me
run over.
kicked.
bleeding.
blurring.
on the ground.
incoherently.
something wrong with me.
or that I’m not conscious,

don’t look for my breath
or heartbeat,
don’t reach for a phone to call
an ambulance that will drive me
to the hospice
to which the world throws you in
when your window sill climbing,
barefoot walking
in the dirt rolling
like child with freeing thoughts drooling
or law-culture breaking
gets too much
of a crime for them.
don’t ask me if I see still fine
your two or four fingers
yet look for the tears in my eyes.

For if I don’t have them anymore
and won’t get myself then or ever again
to truly cry,
it is only then
that you’ll know
I stopped fighting,
I died,
I ultimately ***** myself
and I forgot
there is more Beyond.

and without that
my existence isn’t worth
looking for the pulse
anymore.

I will not be worth
of seeing stars
as a boy
without sanity
or glasses
anymore.

...

I swear on you
upon all
that
heed.

I am on my own
a Lighthouse Keeper
amidst the Night,
each fly,
in some presence:
coalition of a duty protruding
by thoughts,
delusions,
stories and
what’s exquisite
in sensations that
need guarding,
and then enjoined
with that never ending standing,
watching,
time lapping,
and all that taking place
in the ink hues with
scarlet pulsing as if hurt,
in baby blue
and lilac
by a sacrality
to me solely
constantly
held out
on
a string
to never let go
of
to
another.

[Pour Marie C.]
Tu te souviens de cette fois
Quand tu m’as demandé
Si j’ai jamais pleuré de la douleur ?
Car je te réponds
profondément et tendrement
que oui.
« Oui » vrai de nouveau chaque jour.
De supporter un nom
Un sexe
Un âge
Des vêtements qui me donnent
des descriptions
et m’emprisonnent en plus.
De la longueur de ma maison.
Et ça fait mal comme un pur viol.
Voir, sur les genoux parmi des bêtes,
devant soi-même tout ce qui t’admire,
ce qui te laisse respirer,
t’aime,
te donne l’identité
et vit en tes soupirs des yeux
et des larmes,
juste à la distance de la main
pour ne pas être jamais rendu à toi
en publique
et te tuant ainsi dans un pays étrange.
« Oui » de souffrance inédite.

Quand j’t’entends,
te vois en mon esprit,
Je nous demande
Combien de nuits sourdes,
trop silencieuses,
du goût du sang et du métal
as-tu passé séparé, tout en eau,
Sans air, les mélodies
comme la seule compagnie ?
Combien des choses y a-t-il
auxquels tu ne donne jamais la voix ?
Combien de masques as-tu créés
et détruits ?
Combien des portes as-tu claqué
devant les personnes
qui s’appelaient ta famille ?
Combien d’êtres as-tu blessé
pour te protéger ?
La masque de pierre n’endurcira
plus un jour
Et la pierre se cassera en porcelaine sanglante.

Je désire te voir te romper,
Toucher une corde sensible de ton piano,
Pour que tu meurtes et naisses de nouveau.
Pour que tu puisses authentiquement respirer.
Pour que tu te laisse pleurer sans cesse.
Pour que je puisse te tenir dans mes bras.
Comme si tu étais la chose plus valeureuse
et fragile du monde,
Et pour qu’on puisse se regarder
dans nos yeux pour des heures,
Sans mots ni pensées se retrouver,
Devenir fragiles tous les deux.

« T’es trop lumineux », tu dis,
« pour moi »,
Eh ben, t’es pas trop sombre
pour moi.

Tu t’emportes des écouteurs,
Ta barrière et ta rédemption.
Seule distraction et chemin au ciel.

On se rend tous les deux aux étoiles,
On peut s’y rencontrer un jour
et entrelacer les mains.
Peut-être même s’appeler
de derrière de nos miroirs étroits
Avec des nouveaux sons pour nos noms.

Je t’embrasse, observe
Et écris de là,
Marie.

Él,
Que se lo cruza, que se lo llama,
del mar que viene pero él
que se queda,
y forma todas las playas
de verdades, turbulencias,
¡que sólo los barcos de dignidad
alcáncenlo, ellas!

Yes, surely I am deplored by
the beauty of destructions’ marking, holding dear
what’s longingly perverted
through the lost.
Ravens’ repulsing cries
are the needed on the shores,
not just on the autumn,
the rotting of the sea tales
their voices hold,
the selection of exquisite
that my preference twisted wants.
And so much else I daze over,
that overlay of the Emerald Land’s
waves and beats that
my distant to the south shore pleads,
that jade,
that shock,
that valiancy of the Scots
which in our sands
and crashing skies
should be,
lusts
to be.

The awaiting
for that dripping glory
in a mellowed casing of a wrecking ship,
it’s in a waiting room
made from a lone standing rock
that carries myths and ventures
to fulfill,
the Young Verter’s
everlasting,
tinting
moment.

Show up on our silver days
at the bays,
El Acantilado,
del Norte, caro,
The Cliff, The Cliff,
Ese Acantilado!

On est là,
Sur un boulevard de
Lit en air
Et déplié,
L’œil vers le début de
Toit
Comme l’enfant de question.

On s’est dépensé trop vers
Au-delà,
Vers aux opinions de l’étrange,
Non propres miennes
Et on n’était plus.
Pleurer. Glorifié/-er.
Déteste parler et passer soi-même.

I know at last why I and Poetry
Got lost in a forest while
Looking for each other:
I pushed it out of
The tree line
And left it to withering
Formal ways of public.
Maimed in the stage lights it
Got to smoke cigarettes
And now something
Has to be done
To retrieve it.
Mais on a déjà le clé.
J’ai sa trace
Di indietro degli arboli.

Bon sang,
L’extravertisme me tue (comme
L’alcool en excès),
L’introvertisme me guérit,
Seule là on se reveille
Aux blessures en excès
Par le jonque d’exister en vain
(Parmi les poubelles intellectuelles).

On est pas pour le public
À son plaisir rationnel.

Et Jeanne « du Russe » a l’odeur
De la cuisine
Et du refuge.

Bury all my entrails.

Y otros deshielos,
Sin ningún cubrimiento
Literal o no,
Sin tumba de piedra
Ni flores ya matados
Para mi indulgencia.

En un bosque.

Tenero e silenzioso,
Ma della grandezza
Dell’Allah creato,

Al lado de un árbol
Que me elegirá
Por debajo de la tierra.

No coffin,
Priests,
City
Nor money.

Planter pépins
Et autres
Futures vies
Dans ma tombe pour que
Mon corps puisse alimenter
Ces pousses du sol.

Pour que les racines
Me donnent bienvenue
Chez ma Maison enfin
Et qu’elles
M’embrassent.

Spread into the world
All the tears & blades
Of my guilts & glories,
Publish one way or another
My mission/
Legacy/
Work to them
With due dedication
Said.

Don’t recall my intelligence
Or talent,
Rather all beauties I was
& gave life to,
My Passion in my
Chosen things,
My love,
Heraldry,
Striving for beating the measlyness
Of this world out of
Or in me,
My wisdom.

How I placed my eyes,
Poems and efforts upon you
And on this state of things’ world,
How Language, Literature,
Words, Dreams,
Tears and Art celebrated my
Days alongside me as true
People indeed.

How I fought shame and death,
Longed to make you feel
My gaze’s intensity on
(Or not) you,
How I kept facing lies
Of useless withering
Despite ingenuity of mine.

I shall finally embrace
Eywa/Allah/God/The Moon
And see if I was worth it all
In the end.
I will probably finally meet
My Lover dearest
To see if they were there after all
And kiss them with the greatest
Fervor I can muster.
I will become all those things
Lingering in the air
And coming to your gut
Knittances
When you sense
And as much suddenly
Can’t explain.

No more will I have to eat,
Sleep,
Be clothed (in muzzle)
Or wear shoes.
No more will anyone make me
Care about how my vessel
Looks like.

Join my departure,
All you
To whom I’ve ever mattered
More than casual,
Join my freedom.
Live, strive,
Breath at last,
Poetise,
Think, love, wonder/wander,
Feel, read, touch,
And literally kiss the
Trees, sky
And all sacralities you are in/on.

And if I hadn’t completed
My mission yet,
I’ll do what I can
To be back
And linger
To
Make
It.

Thank you.

A gun came up along the way.
Marrying you with the grave prematurely.
However, all that was needless,
As your father had already engaged you two before,
You’d been dead inside for oh so long.

Todd was right about that all along,
More perceptive than the rest.

How ironic and grotesque:
a fire burning so truly and strongly was put out
with a single blow,
How the greatest few hours of your life were made gradually
into your worst and, eventually, your end.

And how is that fair?

The curtains have been drawn,
The audience is long gone,
Yet your act won’t be in vain,
Not if I have something to say.
No, most certainly not!

You’ve become the greatest proof for all those fools
Of the power of the living word,
Of the power of a rebelled voice,
Of the immortal art of a being of poetry,
who’s the true soul of the universe.
Keating’s work became fulfilled in your choices,
The very fruit of his teachings.
You showed those mortals, that no matter
what they claim, do or inflict on you,
they could never **** you.
Neither rules, nor words nor the trigger.
You’re the champion, you’re the winner.

Altogether, we became Poetry ourselves.
No quills, paper or audience were needed,
just the world around us, our voices and passion in our eyes.
We gained the upper hand in the process of the withering,
Weaving ourselves into the tether of all the matters.
Now, no grave or unwritten memories shall restrict us or make us perish.
Never more, as art has no rules.

With all due respect, I give you back
your rightful laurel wreath.
With all your greatness you deserved that prize,
of meaning greater than just a crown of an actor;
The victory over others’ power,
Over fear to speak,
Over fear to sing,
Over fear to be.

You were a misunderstood artist, though not like those, that are many of them.
Your amalgamation of all that you were,
Though so harshly interrupted on that fateful night,
made the authorities and that cold academy see,
That it is them who let you down, not you,
That they can never quench
the call of the Life,
the truth whispered up there
among the trees,
A soul’s thriving beauty, in all the madness of the existence

The curtain’s fallen,
The audience is long gone,
But I shall commemorate you forevermore,
As a poet and artist of the Life owes it
to another of their kin.
With all the pride, honour and bitterness,
You are more than welcome,
as a true member,
in the Dead Poets Society.
- - -
As I let quote myself
in this gender observation,
based on the B. Sáenz work:
“Por eso lloramos,
Por eso reímos,
Por eso se alborota
nuestro corazón,
Y por eso vivimos”

Do you see, grasp in the nowhere and nowhen
the whole picture?
Register the tedious highs, lows, widths and breadths
before your private, iridologic rainbows?
Like grasping the rims of “allness” on the path of a forest,
letting yourself grow a vertigo, fragile and docile.
Every, every time you meet up with a person,
do you encompass in your grasp, mind’s eye, all they are, all they are,
at that one very time?
My vision dims out into dependence, when glasses leave, when the forest my attendance seeks
in utter loneliness without my harmony with it weaved.
I no longer have in survival advantage
but it feels more than right to fall, give over,
I give myself fragile, more just, and fit.
In that vulnerability I can see more than
a healthy eye can: Van Gogh’s work on my trees’ leaves.
That is what all presences, forms and life’s skies are for:
fragileness, undoneness, nothingness, reasonlessness

When you play the piano like
a rasped yet ****** hopeful breath of your last moment,
in ink and milk hues,
you pay heed to the never audible sound
the wave of falling gradients on the last day
sky bear lightly mournfully

God,
I ask of you beggingly,
That if there ever shall
Come a moment of this
Life of mine’s when
It abruptly ends before
Its goal,
Its soar,
Before it’s vocation is greeted
Properly in passion at
The finish line...

Please, let Me
Somehow linger,
Endure,
As inspiration,
Wind of embracing
Freedom, for all those
Who would still need Me.
May I accomplish my
Mission this way,
In the words/feelings/acts
They don’t apprehend,
For I am those.
Let me guard them,
Behold and
Last in their eyes
Or words
Love
The legacy I'll leave.
Let me come as seeds
Of greatness, planted
On this Earth (in)directly.

One of my last future momenta

There must be a message
in the occurrence that whenever
in a closed-up space of time
I can never sit down
to any mind-occupying activity
yet resort no matter what
to observance,
passing as unrequited passion
of someone else’s (vocation),
shape-o-thoughts and sensing,
being the music the radio is listening to, and tender stupefying approaching
to hurt questions and structures
who hold onto philosophy
and one stance.
My depth darts me over
to finally look straight
into my own eyes
instead of straying,
diverting from the claim of my proper door.
I cannot die and will not,
will not leave my higher stake
for the trash bins’,
among which we live in,
sake.

I praise Allah and thank Them
in both the physical and existential aspect for every beautifully greyish day
when I feel back in an English harbour from the 17th century,
where birds, ropes, wind,
bells and hammers against
the ships’ casings resound,
half in my vision stuck on reality
and half verily,
or on a faraway heather field,
where my books, thoughts,
words in pictures
and lives of Heart
are as if my own
tremendous in passion atelier
of a scribe
or my other flowers of brown.

I posses adoration in these grays,
blues, whites,
greens and browns of these days, freshnesses and delightments.
Nevertheless I need to meet and comprehend each other
till the end belovingly
with the Sun,
see behind its backstage the lack of imposing Time,
periods or actions, rush.
Sit down once without carnal duties
nor other shenanigans
and witness the whole solar and lunar cycle for the whole 24 hours
and thus see beyond their mechanism
and presence
and thus go
through that next conscience,
through these silver-golden curtains
with navy blue clips.

Isn’t that sitting over,
sitting down face to face
with the Day,
supposed Time, Matter,
instead of constant doing,
having or confusion
of the thoughts
the same as finally looking
straight into the other person’s eyes
to give them our witnessing
of our attention,
a bow,
and at the same time
a proud head raising,
especially for them,
instead of walking around them
and treating as another matter
to be solved?
No rhetorical question.
May I reach as fast as it’s the best
the beloving of wisdom
as a true philosopher
in my identity, not cognitivity.

In freedom,
madness of beauty,
I love all and nothing,
every member of the space surrounding, so much
and extendedly
that I come to tears,
my physical demonstration of overconscience.
I am truly and on all the planes
a Lover.

Aren’t most of us crying
At
The funerals
From our own
“Selfish” reasons?
Not from the dead one’s
Biggest treasure passing
Yet ‘cause we won’t get to feel
Them clearly
For our own needs
And desires?
Anymore?
They are most probably
Joyful,
At least peaceful,
In the new realm
Yet
We mourn
For the moments no longer
For us
To
Be.

How wondering it feels
To think
That usually we are those,
Who must and should learn
To live on and rejoice
After someone’s death
When there comes at last
The moment
When we become those,
Who leave
And are to tell others
Of
It.

Taken out of kitchen in a rush,
In the same tiny cape of black
I use when naked,
Clad,
Now standing before sudden
Church “shanties” and
Of my father’s friend no-more-together
Crowd,
I watch, cry solely
In the colours of thoughts of my eyes.

What are those measly flowers for
If they shall wither soon, Dad?
Why can’t I break now, Dad?
How much did he mean to us, Dad?
...
Dad?
...
Step blocked as such,
Adam grips calmly yet strongly
The collar of my cape
And there’s no more another place
For him
To stay,
Than the crook of my
Seventeen-year-old tanned neck.

Hold his hair, backside,
Protecting all the salty water
He has nobody yet to everyone
To offer.

Can’t move.
Don’t move.