Tragic corpses,
Memories of yore,
Withered float
Upon swelled brine;

Limbs regress
By night to my shore
And by morn
Few ribbons of flesh

Far many of them
(Which shalt never take place)
Stranded last night
Idle, lapsed and inert

Now cometh recollecting
The scraps of this gore
Take sail to high seas
With a mast and the winds.

I can picture pumpkin rain
Falling from October’s sky
Even wisemen dare to try
Reason’s gambrels to enchain

Though,
When this pulp falls on the leaves
And by liters floods the streets
We shall dance under these drops
While we sing grotesque swift songs

I can picture pumpkin rain
Falling from October’s sky
We no longer can remain
Dry

My valiant voice
Speaks verses in vain
Vacillating but violent
Voraciously expands

The vibrant sounds
Embark in a voyage
Which leaves it vulnerable
Then, victoriousless, it dies

Today, I  stumbled upon an imperfection on my water cup –a protruding bulge disrupting the otherwise Smooth. Circular. Perfect rim.

So that I, as I –unaware– brought myself to drink; felt this quirk, the cup’s pouting lip, pressing sternly against my own quivering pair.

I can’t remember the last time I was kissed or someone kissed by me. So the question if I should find solace in a plastic cup is now nailed to my mind.

But I know I’ll break the promise of finding to this question an answer by drinking the water.

Because after all, it’s just that. Water.

Mathematically speaking,
Between this moment and the next,
there lies an infinity

He wondered when his life was to begin
He wished he didn’t

but I’m here, eating microwaved
pizza
doing my best not to forget
which is the slice that fell on the floor

while I read,
while I try to read yet think of myself
reading
which I hate

almost as much as the stains on the paper

and then
I see myself finishing
the last slice
with too little
cheese

At dawn our moans,
Are but melodies
To finish good nature
Our sweetened end;

We'll live possessed
By improvisation
Of melodic contractions,
Whence our bodies
drums

I despise death’s taste
On the roof of my mouth.

have you felt life
palpitating your eardrums out of sleep
entrenched in expectation,

the telltale heartbeat of the morning
tapping, rapping at your door

the sweet dalliance with insomnia
under a moonlight sonnata
and the ardent awaiting of awaking?

not me,
I sleep

So it goes.

I’ve just been asked
if I was reading
Poetry.

I said yes

then if i was writing
poetry

I said no

then i said i have written poetry before
I lied

Everything’s most beautiful at night,
that’s why it needs be darkened by a cloak

All beauty is to be obscured
from our undeserving eyes

As not to stain its grandeur
by thinking it sublime

Noun
I [noun|ˈī ]: Someone aware of possessing a personal individuality.
Compare – Me, mine, my, we.

Ex. I am

Pronoun
I [First person singular pronoun|ˈī]: The one who’s writing or speaking: Self.

Ex. I don’t know

So when I say « I don’t know who I am »
Even the I’s in the phrase differ from each another.

From Carpe dime, Tempos fugit, Vanitas to Yolo; humanity is entirely defined by its own death; and will continue to be so for ever and ever, amen.

Beware!
Beware of the consequences
of what’s been deemed

Procasturbation...

Precarious pleasure
Addictive piquancy

[Oversaturation]

As Time will come
before you do

If I told you

You were born this morning
and you will die tonight

How much of your day has gone by?

You.

If you were to squeeze a poem
Love would likely ooze

To say the least, perplexing.
one would think it’s all been said

The scent of skin
The taste of dusk

All tarnished by ink

But talk to me of squalor
Weeping dirt under our nails

And you still will fail to impress
Yet that’s never been the point

Remember the price you’ll pay
While reading this verse
What each word, from you, has flayed

How closely Joy resembles Life
its transience and good-bye

As the setting of the sun occurs behind the brooding sea
the petals of so withered landscape swiftly reek of Glee,
though as the quaintfilled scent of skin this feeling seems to be
therein sunsets there’s something else than aweful kitsch to see;

When ebbing is the light of day with all delight for night, then
often times one finds the trails Joy left ploughed deeply into the flesh

[Some sweet reminiscence]

For an eternal red is twilights dearest pledge and
Just like joy lies on the edge of endless permanence,

An ephemeral Eternity is then seen.
As when grains of sand tickle
as they trickle
through the
fist

How closely Joy resembles Life
it’s Transience and Good-bye

Every day is its own life
That get’s swept away by night

Oh, warm bed;
     most murderous depredator
of midnight reverie

Suffocator of thoughts,
Stifler of desires,
                desires for fervor
Sufficed by lukewarm
                                        blankets
    
“Frozen feet far take your mind!”

If these bedclothes
                       were not my socks, my coffin

Joy:
– Fleeting savior from the grave
– So it’s Time’s most treasured slave
– It in thralls Thanatian thoughts
    by the use of their own cuffs

    +As an albatross mid-flight
      caught and placed on deck
      by the weight of its own wings
      being from flight kept

Oh...
I am dangerous.
Beware, as I am – Dangerous
A tall man among giants

Proud and conscious
of my immortality

Every second may be stripped away, flayed.
but I
Remain

There is a centerless void
Hidden under the navel
To which we are forever pulled
In search of __________

                Unending  spi­ral
                Unnerving spiral

This famished vortex
has swallowed them whole
Self; Soul and Meaning

Oh distasteful Charybdis!
I beg you to *****
                      *****
                      *****
                      *****
Me

“This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.” said the Joker.

What a beautiful way to describe the irredeemable passage of time.
Yes, Death kindly awaits for us.

The hatching tempest
drinks convulsively of
her voice
drowns in thunderous
wit the flimsy temptings
of his heart

Not even feathered hope
will oversummer her assail
nor provide respite from her sands

Ô, Enkindled Time...
Please! Please! Don’t forswear his shriveled ash!

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––­–

Against your snowy nape
he catches the reflection
of a withered mien
Blindfolded by the starch yet
thinking he’s enveloped by the starts
he’ll abandon his abode of solitude and freeze
and die

As every night,
when even sound’s asleep
The most terrible storms
overturn/run and take
his heartfilled eye

Forever encumbered by the window’s lie

In some odd way we are now living out the last years
                                                           ­                          months
                                                          ­                           days
                                                            ­                         hours
                                                           ­                          minutes of our life.
How loudly the clock ticks.

My hopes prevail unfulfilled,
by those who avow
an intent to have Time killed

Greats and geniuses are not angels among men,
but men among angels.

While, them – firmly grounded to the floor
We – an ephemeral, peripheral bunch–

Our dreams of grandeur, like us, drift in the air, aloof.
But they, they do not dream, they are, they do.

It is, in fact, not how you say it, but what you say

And will always be so

There is this rare noun in spanish – Conticinio,
defined as ‘the time of night when silence reigns’

When one will find the ink-stained poet
the smoking ******

Drenched in amber streetlight
and moonlight blue

With their gaze significantly perched upon some horizon

they better go to bed before they think of f*cking the mirror

If when I say “I don’t know who I am”
Even the I’s differ from one another

I remember being younger
heading home on the school bus
and closing my eyes shut
Sometimes with the tongue out sometimes
not
posing for a corpse
waiting for someone to notice
that I had died
for someone to call my name so I couldn’t respond
This - everyday after school

The question :
¿Why me?

merely shows the remnants
of an uncouth faith
a tender hope

for respite

I went looking after her smile, but it seemed I was given the wrong map. As I understood it, a smile wavers between lips and eyes, but I only came across a nose. I kept exploring, and rethought the directions I had, but remained lost. This time instead of a nose I stumbled upon a navel; so I kept looking. Searching. Can it be that one smiles with the whole body? I uncovered every last inch of skin with a thorough gaze yet wasn’t able to find where the smile hid. I looked from afar and real close, but never got close enough to your smile. Perhaps if you were still here, I’d be able to find your smile.

Living is about embracing death
as though it were unique
As though death was made for living
and living for ‘em dead

So if you must disappear in some night’s distrust
remember we are made of Time, and Time is made by us

The train, bus, car moves faster and thus leaves your resting gaze behind, perched upon an ever fleeing, shrinking back, neck or smile. And as the trees, houses, mountains merge into a single nauseating line; so do your memories into a single sepia kitschy photograph.