¿Adónde fueron ahogadas aquellas caricias,
perlas susurrantes que se llevó el viento?
¿A quien voló la marea,
como quien se lleva algo que no es suyo,
algo que siempre lo ha sido?

Tu lo sabes, Corsario;
Corsario traicionero,
tu amor son caricias que no tengo,
tu cariño son sonrisas denegadas.
Negaciones que no tengo,
amor cariñoso, sonrisas acariciadas.

Otros poetas nada saben,
nada saben de tus sueños, Corsario,
nada saben de tu cantar,
de tus canciones de ensueño,
tu dormir melódico.
Y sola aquí te espero, Corsario,
en el punto acordado al que no acudirás.
Y aquí te escribo, Corsario,
en el instante acordado en el que no aparecerás.
Y aquí te escribiré siempre, mi amor,
y mi cuerpo omnipresente llorará tu muerte.

//

Where did those caresses go drowned,
whispering pearls the wind took away?
¿Who did the tides fly,
like someone taking something that is not theirs,
something that always has been?

You know, Corsair;
treaterous Corsair,
your love are caresses I do not have,
your affection are denied smiles.
Denies I do not have,
affectionate love, caressed smiles.

Other poets nothing know,
nothing know of your dreams, Corsair,
nothing knkw of your singing,
of your dreamlike songs,
of your melodic dreams.
Alone here I wait for you, Corsair,
in the accorded point to which you will not come.
And here I write you, Corsair,
in the accorded instant in which you will not show up.
And here I will always write, my love,
and my omnipresent body will cry my death.

Esperaba algo, no sabía que.
La muerte susurraba sus canciones más bonitas
en mi boca de amante impura
y yo la besaba, jugando con ella,
sin llegar a amarle como ella me pedía,
sin llegar al sacrificio por ella deseado.
Pero ella me amaba y me ama,
y sus labios perfectos endulzan
poco a poco mi corazón incapaz de amor.
Tal vez este sea el primero.

//

I waited for something, I didn't know what.
Death whispered their most beautiful songs
in my mouth of impure lover
and I kissed them, playing with them,
not coming to love them like they asked me to,
not getting to the sacrifice wished by them.
But they loved me and love me,
and their perfect lips sweeten
little by little my heart uncapable of love.
Maybe this will be the first one.

Among the garbage and the flowers,
forgotten between stars,
abandoned by their creator,
who probably didn't even exist;
a poet is born.
They care not much for their life
for they've seen through it, they know.
Not different from their peers,
not new in their painful world,
sometimes garbage, sometimes a flower,
maybe forgotten, maybe a star,
certainly a creator.
They know and are known,
they love and are loved,
they hate and are hated.

Among the garbage and the flowers
a totem is erected, its life decided,
it's grow is determined, forever.

Among the garbage and the flowers,
between the poet and the totem
a poem falls and makes a soundless noise.
Dutiful in its love and hate,
it loves the totem and hates the poet.
It moves, unmoved and unmoving,
away from the poet to the totem,
it races towards an unseen goal line.

Among the garbage and the flowers
a photo is taken,
an image of a poet, a totem, a poem.
Something calls your attention
you look at it, and they are gone.

Two seven three,
Molecules set free.
Heat coming,
Sun shining,
More than it ever has before.
And it shall shine more,
And it shall get worse,
And the rise of Poseidon shall **** many.

SO3,
Oxigen roaming free.
Your sunflower rots,
The world keeps spinning,
But the caps get thinner.
And the shall thin more,
And it shall get worse,
And the rise of Poseidon shall **** many.

Take out your lenses,
**** the ant,
**** the man,
**** the snow,
**** the world.
And you shall **** more,
And it shall get worse,
And the rise of Poseidon shall **** many.

Arange your umbrella,
Cover the sun.
Grow tropical plants
Wherever you want,
**** indiginous plants
Whenever you can.
Save the pandas
Not the bees,
Whatever you say.
All shall rearange into place
All shall die or live more
And the rise of Poseidon shall **** many.

Y ante la bondad del mal,
nos encontraremos.
Y ante la maldad del bien,
cabalgaremos.
Y de la piel de nuestros caballos muertos
saldrán mudas hormigas,
que centellearán al anochecer
entre los destellos de mi cuerpo que se pudre.
Y ante la bondad del mal,
moriremos.
Unidos para siempre en un abrazo finito
como finas son las hojas sobre las que escribo.

Y ante la bondad del mal
nos encontraremos.
Preparados para morir,
si no ya muertos.
Y sólo entonces nos comprenderemos.
Y sólo entonces centellearán nuestras bocas
como las hormigas que salen
de la piel de nuestros caballos muertos



And before the goodness of evil,
we'll find each other.
And before the evilness of good,
We'll ride.
And from the skin of our dead horses
mute ants will come out,
which will glisten at sunset
among the flashes of my body that rottens.
And before the goodness of evil,
we'll die.
Forever joined in a finite hug,
like fine are the sheets on which I write.

And before the goodness of evil
we'll find each other,
ready to die,
if not dead already.
And only then we'll understand each other.
And only then will our mouths glisten,
like the ants that come out
from the skin of our dead horses.

Today I am happy,
today I don't know what to write about.
I think there's a connection,
that I've developed the bad habit
of writing only when I'm depressed.
That's why today
I'm forcing myself to write,
to write more than naughty feelings,
to write about life
and only ocassionally about death.
Is life not worth writing about?
You see, I'm a scientist in mind,
so, naturally, life comes to me as a surprise,
unprepared,
maybe that's why my body was off
by a big margin,
maybe that's why my brain
functions only from time to time.

I digress.
What I ment to say is
that life is so ******* wierd is crazy.
Think about it,
we are pieces of universe,
barely distinguishables from our own selves,
who observe the universe.
Wouldn't bet with those odds,
yet here we are,
and what's more crazy,
we appear to be able to tell
the difference between now and then,
to call ******* on some stories,
yet,
we are not *******,
we are alive;
we have memories but we are not them.
We make them.
Our past is but our future,
it just came a little earlier,
let's use its help to be prepared
for what is to come:
Life.
Isn't it crazy?

"Furia color de amor,
amor color de olvido"
-de "Un río, un amor" por Luis Cernuda

olvido color de olvido,
amargo color de amor,
tintado de olvido.
Frágil aroma de remordimiento
suave sabor de lamentos,
lamentos con timbre de lágrimas rotas,
rotas y con olor a desesperanza,
desesperanza color de sinestesia,
que es un nombre más para mi muerte.

//

"Fury the colour of love,
love the colour of oblivion."
-from "Un río, un amor" ("One river, one love") buenos Luis Cernuda

oblivion the colour of oblivion,
bitter colour of love,
dyed of oblivion.
Fragile scent of remorse
soft traste of laments,
laments the timbre of broken tears,
broken and with the odour of despair,
despair the colour of synaesthesia,
which is another name for my death.

A day's oscurity,
shadows.
There are men who live in those shadows
there are men who have lost
all they fought for.
These people are nothing but wanderers
and they wander.

I am destined to join them,
some day,
when I lose all I fight for,
which is shadowed and half lost,
which is close to nothing.

Mi corazón y el océano son polos opuestos,
por eso en mi corazón lo siento.
Me llora cada noche por no verme,
me grita con tormentas su añoranza.

Yo también añoro al océano
y de mis ojos surgen lágrimas saladas,
sal de océano.
Mi corazón se rompe y él lo sabe,
el océano lo sabe todo.
Sabe su soledad y sabe la mía
y sabe que estamos destinados a encontrarnos.

//

My heart and the ocean are opposing polea,
that's why in my heart I feel it.
It cries me each night to see me,
it cries with storms its longing.

I long the ocean too
and from my eyes salty tears emerge,
ocean's salt.
My heart breaks and it knows it,
the ocean knows it all.
It knows its loneliness and it knows mine
and it knows we are destined to meet.

Busco amor donde no lo hay.
Busco arte donde sólo hay mierda.
En busca de la belleza me encuentro.
En pos de mi  sino me hallo.
Mal acompañada voy en este viaje.
Mal acompañada voy en la vida.
Cuatro amigos mal contados que se alejan.
Y tú que podrías estar tan cerca
pero estás tan lejos, tan lejos.
Lejos de mi camino se halla tu montaña
y mi pack de escalada se torna inútil.
Quisiera conocerte como no lo hago.
Quisiera que me conocieses como no lo haces.
Y mi pack de escalada se torna de piedra
y pesa, pesa, pesa...
Pesada mi alma por armas inútiles.
Cercenado mi corazón por mi propia mano.
Mi alma pesada por mi corazón cercenado.
Mi mente dolorida por mi estupidez humana.
Me siento inútil.
Inútil porque no se vivir sin tí y no te conozco
y ojalá conocerte.
Inútil porque lo que conozco se torna de oro
y el oro pesa, pesa, pesa...

Ni siquiera sé a quien va dedicado este poema.
Tal vez este poema vaya dedicado a mí.
Porque no me conozco.
Porque no me entiendo.
Porque no valgo para nada.
Mi cuerpo es inútil y es otro peso muerto
que pesa, pesa, pesa...
Mi cuerpo que odio con todas mis fuerzas.
Me gustaría otra vida,
me gustaría empezar de cero,
ser mujer desde el principio,
saber quién soy y saber qué quiero
pero nunca sabré qué soy
pero nunca sabré a quién quiero.
Voy a rajarme las venas esta noche.
Voy a hacerlo porque me pesa el alma
y atraviesa la cama y llega al suelo.
Estoy tirada en el suelo.
No se si voy a morir
pero mi sangre manchará el baño
y tal vez mi cabeza volverá a ser ligera,
como ligero vuela el boli sobre la página.

Tengo fijación por algunas palabras,
por algunas letras,
efe, efe, efe.
No me quiero pero quiero a las efes,
pero no sé a quién quiero,
pero no sé a quién va dirigido este poema,
pero creo que no me quiero pero...
Cierro los ojos y se me nubla la vista.
Quiero morir.
Otra vez...quiero morir.
Quiero morir otra vez.
Me asumo Jesús insatisfecho por su resucitar.
Me asumo Cronos en el abismo infernal,
llorando por no estar muerto
pese a estar muriendo.
Lloro por no estar muerta
pese a estar muriendo.
Digo que lloro pero no lloro.
No lloro porque no me quiero.
No me importa mi propia muerte.
No me importa que no me quieras
porque estoy muerta.
Me gustaría escribir como sangro.
Me gustaría escribir como mi vida se resbala
porque no la quiero.
Porque no me quiero.

En medio de la soledad me vi pasar,
iba sola yo con mi abandono,
que no es mal compañero
pero es más bien callado;
cuando me vi pasar,
tan sola como yo misma,
tan pura pero tan perdida.
Llamé por mí pero no pude escucharme,
me tendí la mano pero no me alcancé
pues ya estaba lejos, me había ido,
me había muerto.

//

Among my solitude I saw myself passing,
I was alone with my abandonment,
who is not bad company
but is more on the silent side;
when I saw myself passing,
as lonely as myself,
so pure but so lost.
I called for me but I couldn't listen,
I reached for me but I couldn't catch you
for I was far, I was gone,
I was dead.

Donde mis pasos resuenan
en el eco de mi mente
una mariposa se calla
y parpadea.

La luna me mira
y sonríe,
apiadándose con benevolencia
como sólo ella sabe hacerlo.

Me tumbo en mi cama
y lloro
lágrimas de amor
por ese alguien que no existe.

La miel de mis labios
es agria y salvaje.
Por eso tal vez cada beso que doy
miente
y cada cosa que digo
duele.

Sólo nadie puede entenderme,
por eso estoy sola.
Sólo nadie puede amarme,
por eso te quiero.

Sólo la luna de mis labios resuena en mi cama.
Sólo aquí me lloro,
y el azabache de mis ojos
enturbia la realidad
con sus fluídos azulados.

//

Where my steps echo
in the echo of my mind
a butterfly shuts up
and blinks.

The moon looks at me
and smiles,
taking pitty with benevolence
as only it knows how to do it.

I lie on my bed
and cry
tears of love
for that one who doesn't exist.

The honey from my lips
is sour and wild.
Maybe that's why each kiss I give
lies
and each thing I say
hurts.

Only noone can understand me,
that's why I'm alone.
Only noone can love me,
that's why I like you.

Only the moon from my lips echoes on my bed.
Only here I cry for myself,
and the jet from my eyes
muddies reality
with its bluish fluids.

"Manos crispadas me confinan al exilio.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda."

Cuervos negros me prohiben mi alegría.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.
Armas siniestras, seres aciagos.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.

Mi muerte se acerca, mi mano se acerca.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.
Mi pálida reflexión me prohibe la vida.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.

"Me quieren anochecer, me van a morir.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda."
-"Figuras y silencios" de Alejandra Pizarnik

//

"Contorted hands confine me to exile.
Help me not to ask for help."

Black ravens forbid me my happiness.
Help me not to ask for help.
Sinister weapons, fateful beings.
Help me not to ask for help.

My death gets closer, my hand gets closer.
Help me not to ask for help.
Mi pale reflection forbids me my life.
Help me not to ask for help.

"They want to night me, they are going to die me.
Help me not to ask for help."
-Extracting the stone of madness, by Alejandra Pizarnik

Hello Poetry
we just met
while I was looking through tired prose
that started hitting enter from time to time.

Hello Poetry
this is for you
not my first poem, nor my last,
but a poem that comes from a young heart.
A young heart that started hitting enter from time to time.

Hello Poetry
this is for me
for my broken heart that moans for love and cries for more
for my broken heart when it wishes itself sunken
at the bottom of the sea.

Hello Poetry
this is my cry,
I cry not because I'm sad, but because I'm alive
I'm alive yet I wish to be dead, and I shouldn't.
I shouldn't want to be dead yet I do
because I feel alone
yet you
you are here for me
you are here to save me, to heal me from my suffering,
to bring me to my feet.

Goodbye Poetry
I hope we meet again sometime tomorrow
I wish we both carry on, and our paths cross again,
and I find myself writing you, loving you,
even though I'm just a child in your ancient world
of mixed treasures.

Goodbye Poetry
I hope I am not boring you with my unending talk.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you poetry, that's why we'll meet again
because I want you,
because I need you.
I'm leaving now,
bye.

Sun finally shining,
rare to see where I am from.
Beach day for some,
but not for me.

Not for me.

Not for me because I feel trapped
in a body I didn't ask for.
Not for me because I am down
even when the sun is up.

I feel down.

I feel...I feel like I should be all right
but I don't feel so well tho...

If there is a god in the sky
why did he gave us so many tears to cry,
why did he give us a body
that can only give us pains and false pleasure.

If there is a god in the sky
why are there so many who die
not knowing more than a fly
not knowing how to ask why.

If there is a god in the sky
why did he give me this body I hate
and the only thing he says to me
is: "Girl just do what you can"

If there is a god in the sky
why do we die, why do they die
and leave us only with tears to cry
and leave us alone in a world that is vane.

If there is a God in the sky
why aren't we born alike
why do so few hold so much
while others die not knowing none.

I remember you little kid.
You always were the first in school
even though that didn't make you really cool.
You did not care about you body,
you treated it just like another toy.

But just like this poem's rime
you became a broken toy.
Your mind so full of stars
became silent in shame
over your broken soul.

You killed yourself when we were twelve.
I was left alone.
Alone with your body
in a room
with no doors.

I tried to cry over you rotting body
but the tears wouldn't come out anymore.
We used to cry together over childish things,
but now I am alone and I feel like actually crying
yet it won't happen so I try to laugh.
We used to laugh
all
the
time
but I no longer can
for you are not here,
only your carcase is.
Only your ****** carcase.

You used to say:
"Laugh because you are sad,
cry because it'll make you happy"
and maybe I agree, so I'll remember it.

I'll remember you as if you were real.
I'll remember you as if you existed
far above the page I'm writing in,
but you don't.
Yet your body is tied to mine
rotting in this room with no doors
and I hope I can forget you once more.

It's surprising the power words have on people.
I could have tried to **** myself at 12,
but it never crossed my mind.
I tried to **** myself a couple of times,
yet here I am.
Remembering you kiddo.

Te veo
y estás tan cerca
en el tiempo.
Te puedo contar en horas,
como contaba ovejas
en mis noches insomnes,
y aún seguiría despierta
para contar los minutos.

Te miro,
y estás ahí,
tan cerca en el espacio
que podría abrazarte
como hacíamos antes.
Mis brazos son largos,
pero mis abrazos no te alcanzan,
tu corazón me rehuye.

Cada segundo que pasa
este medio metro que nos separa
se hace más largo,
como si la expansión del universo
tuviese algo en mi contra,
como si la vida
nos hubiese separado
en ausencia de la muerte.

La distancia entre corazones
se mide en abrazos por  segundo.

//

I see you
and you are so close
in time.
I can count you in hours,
like I counted sheep
in my insomniac nights,
and I would still be awake
to count the minutes.

I look at you,
and you are there,
so close in space
that I could hug you
like we used to do.
My arms are long,
but my hugs don't reach you,
your heart escapes me.

Each second passed
this half a meter between us
grows longer,
as if the universe's expansion
had something against me,
as if life
had separated us
in absence of death.

Distance between hearts
is measured in hugs per secod.

La niña ahogada usa su mirar y explora,
indaga con sus ojos profundos su soledad sonora.
La niña ahogada es sabia y sabe,
sabe la sonoridad de la ausencia,
conoce el timbre de los pájaros callados
y el color de ojos de la soledad.
La niña ahogada sabe demasiado
y tal vez por eso la soledad le ahoga.
Luces de cristal, color transparente,
brillan en sus ojos añejos, añejos de ausencia.

En su boca yace una última sonrisa,
una risa de nostalgia de tiempos que no sucedieron.
La niña ahogada se ríe sola, porque está sola
y solamente ella se escucha.
Se escucha entre tinieblas, entre el ruido se entrevé.
En la noche de su risa solo hay sitio para una
pero ella no está, está ahogada,
y la dulcez del mar le susurra en sus adentros
lo que nunca ha sido escrito
lo que no debe ser escrito
y mientras la luz de la luna le grita
la niña ahogada se hunde.

Se hunde en si misma
cuál enredadera, cual caballo de ajedrez.
Se hunde y busca un apoyo
más en su eterno saber
sabe eterno este mar insondable,
sabe infinita su soledad propia
y su ausencia ajena.

//

The drowned girl uses her seeing and explores,
she stares with her deep eyes at her loud loneliness.
The drowned girl is knowing and knows,
she knows the loudness of her absence,
she knows the timbre of quiet birds
and the eye colour of loneliness.
The drowning girl knows todo much
and maybe that's why loneliness drowns herramientas.
Crystal lights, of transparent colour,
shine in her aged eyes, aged with absence.

On her mouth lies one last smile,
one laugh of nostalgia oferta times that did not happen.
The drowned girl laughs alone, because she is alone
and only she listens.
She listens among shadows, among noise she glimpses at herself.
In the night of her laugh there's only room for one
but she's not there, she's drowned,
and the sweetness of the sea murmurs in her insides
What has never been written
what must never be written
and while the light of the moon shouts at her
the drowned girl sinks.

She sinks into herself
like a climbing planta, like a chess knight.
She sinks and she looks for support
but in her endless knowing
she knows endless this fathomless sea,
she knows infinite her own loneliness
and her alien absence.

Dying is a drag,
but I'd take it any day over being alive,
especially on wednesdays.
Life ***** on wednesdays.
Caught nowhere
between here and there,
you stumble,
you doubt if you're going back or forward,
whether you die or you are born;
but yet,
time keeps moving
and you can't fall behind.
Time keeps moving
between birth and death,
one way only,
no refounds.

"Toda la noche hago la noche. Toda la noche escribo. Palabra por palabra yo escribo la noche"
-Extracción de la piedra de la locura, de Alejandra Pizarnik

La luna riela en las olas de los gemidos de mi viento.

La noche se torna amarga en el nacer del día
pues su muerte llena al corazón solitario de alegría.

Alejandra y yo escribimos mejor por la noche,
para la noche,
en la noche.

Alejandra ya no está con nosotros pero su noche es eterna en mi dicha.

Podríamos haber sido amigas,
compartir alguna noche;
pero la muerte nos separa,
su muerte,
su noche.
Este es un canto a las almas perdidas en la noche.
En nuestra noche.
La noche mía y de Pizarnik y de tantos otros.
Espero verte
al
nacer
el día.

//

"All night I make the night. All night I write it. Word for word I write the night."
-Extracting the stone of madness, by Alejandra Pizarnik.

The moon shimmers on the waves of the moans of mi wind.

The night is turned bitter at the birth of day
for its death fills the lonely heart with joy.

Alejandra and I write better at night,
for the night,
in the night.

Alejandra is no longer with us but her night is endless in my joy.

We could have been friends,
sharing some night;
but death does us part,
her death,
her night.
This is a song for the souls lost in the night.
In our night.
This my night, and Pizarnik's and son many others'.
I hope to see you
at
the birth
of day.

La vida es lo que pasa
mientras nos amamos,
tú y yo,
nunca.

Mi corazón se rompe
y no sé porqué,
tal vez mi ignorancia
llame a la muerte
y por eso está siempre
tan cerca.

Debo vivir.
Debo vivir aún sin amor,
aún con la muerte
respirándome besos
en mi oreja.

Debo vivir,
debo vivir para siempre,
aún con sabor a sangre en mis labios,
que nunca tocarán los tuyos.

Suavemente...
la muerte resbala su cara
por la mía;
ya no susurra,
sus besos no respiran mis oídos.

Suavemente...
la muerte me besa suavemente
con sus labios fríos,
y en este momento
sé que jamás nadie
me querrá tanto.

Yo y la muerte,
we have a history together,
nuestros besos se entrelazan
en el tiempo
como nuestros cuerpos
en el espacio.

Oh muerte,
déjame vivir añorando tus brazos,
añorando la cuchilla,
la soga,
la bala,
el veneno,
el fondo del mar...

Oh muerte,
déjame vivir
suavemente...

//

Life is what happens
while we love each other,
you and I,
never.

Mi heart breaks
and I don't know why,
maybe my ignorance
calls death
and that's why it's always
so near.

I must live.
I must live even without love,
even with death
breathing me kisses
on my ear.

I must live,
I must live forever,
even with taste of blood on my lips,
which will never touch yours.

Softly...
death slips its face
across mine;
it doesn't whisper anymore,
its kisses don't breath my ear.

Softly...
death kissis me softly
with its cold lips,
and in this instant
I know noone ever
will love me this much.

Me and death,
we have a history together,
our kisses intertwine
in time
like our bodies do
in space.

Oh death,
let me live longing for your arms,
longing for the razor,
for the rope,
for the poison,
for the bottom of the sea...

Oh death,
let me live
softly...

Entre escaques de cristal
perdida está mi alma
entre el azabache y el mármol
mi atontado corazón se halla.

Ven a mí rey de marfil
y libérame de esta desventura.
Corre reina de caoba,
necesito tu abrazo en esta hora.

Venid a mi, oh piezas de cristal,
pues entre escaques me hallo
y sólo vosotras sabéis
cómo encontrarme.

Y sólo vosotras sabéis
cómo he de encontrarme,
cómo he de ubicarme.
Entre la caoba y el marfil,
entre los escaques en que me hallo.

//

Between cristal squares
lost is my soul
among black amber and marble
my numbed heart is found.

Come to me ivory king
and free me from my misfortune.
Run mahogany queen,
I need your hug this hour.

Come to me, oh cristal piezes,
for among squares I am found
and only you know,
how to find me.

And only you know
how I shall find me,
how I shall locate me.
Among mahogany and ivory,
among the squares I am found.

I'm torn appart,
torn from the inside
torn between two forces
in me.
I am most definitely a misanthrope:
asexual, friendless, dysphoric, and even
ugly.
I struggle with life,
but I especially struggle with life around others.
You can call me shy or an introvert,
but I think there's something more to it.
Perhabs something in that desire
to erase the whole human race
and substitute it with a powerful computer
maybe capable of thought, definitely of science,
with luck art;
most certainly not capable of love,
and harm.
An unmoved observer of the world
would produce our random beauty with its ones and zeros,
and none of the pain.
Perhabs just my inability to enjoy being with others;
they are my species yet sometimes
I wish they were not.

I've always been shy.
I've always been an introvert.
Maybe I've always felt alone,
but not this alone.
I've never been this alone.
I've had friends,
real life human friends too,
but they are gone,
I no longer feel them,
they got tired of knocking at my walls for me to open up,
relax,
talk.
I used to be able to talk to them,
occasionally,
but I no longer can.
It's not their fault;
I'm just being misanthropic,
that's my thing now,
they better just move on.

But I do feel alone.
I imagine myself being loved
and it looks like a chimera:
it has fear's wings
and frustration's claws;
it has overcooked thoughts' head
and, worst of all, my body.
I imagine my life alone
and it looks so real I could touch it.
It is here.
This twenty years of preparation
where a lie,
design to sell me life
as a worth living experience with friends and family.
My friends are gone,
they are gone because I made them leave,
I am gone.
My family is here but they are not with me,
they would be better without me.

Is this the conclusion,
that life is not worth living
and everybody is, or would be, better without me?
Maybe it is.
Maybe I should.
Maybe I will.
Maybe  I'll see you around
at the bottom
of the sea.

New notebook.
Savagely ripping through the white paper,
stripping it of its white pureness.
Crossing dots,
meeting lines,
poetry on the making.

I love how my poetry
is modified by its support.
I had a bigger notebook before,
my verses hang like open bottles,
restlessly unending.
Now its smaller, shorter.
Just phrases separated by the end of the line
and hurry up 'cause the page is ending.

"Hubo un día en que el día no engañaba,
en que sus manos tristes no sostenían un cuervo
indiferente como los labios de la lluvia,
como el rojizo hastío."

Hubo un día en que la noche aún soñaba,
aún se perfilaba agridulce como el graznido de una cebolla,
como la luz del espacio indiferente.

Esos días son largamente pasado,
de ensueño esas noches difusas,
ensueño de luz de alba, de nacer de día.

En estos días sueño con tus noches,
con tu paradisíaco mirar naranja
y tu dionisíaco sabor azul.

En estas noches lloro por tu pérdida,
por los sentidos perdidos,
por los placeres privados;
y añoro con añoranza tu existencia vana.

//

"There was a day in which the day didn't deceive,
in which its sad hands did not hold a raven
indifferent like the lips of rain,
like reddish boredom."

There was a day in which night still dreamt,
still took shape bittersweet like the croacking of an onion,
like the light of an indifferent space.

Those days are long past,
of dreams those dim nights,
dream of dawn's light, of day's birth.

In these days I dream of your nights,
of your heavenly orange look
and your dionysian blue taste.

In these nights I cry for your loss,
for the lost senses,
for the deprived pleasures
and I long with longness your vain existence.

Midnight’s sun rains down
my face, my tears, my happiness
like shallow birds that fall
from the ground
causing earthquakes of joy
on my paintings,
on the glory of beauty;
because the day is high
the poet writes and
I fall into the sky
and spread my dreams
and go where you take me,
to whom hours wheep.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

I like how,
every now and then,
my poems make no sense.

I start them
with hope and direction,
almost like a vector.
They have weight
when still unsung,
their force unspoken,
their miracle undone.

But soon,
my mind starts to mumble,
to modulate,
the vector falls apart,
my idea of the poem crumbles,
what I meant to say
is twisted,
not really a poem anymore,
but yet
so beautifull.

Not that I care much for living.
Not that my lord is in heaven.
Not that my body is my prison.
Not that my heart is my liedge.

I am simply a wanderer
this is not more than a stage
act well to earn a living
and hide from yourself when you cry.
Look out for those who are wanderers
for they are your mates in this world
that may be the only to come.

Don't take my word as a Bible
for my lord is not in heaven
for I care not much for living

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz.
Ojalá mi cara fuese atardecer de cien días
y se perdiese como música en la marea.
Ojalá mis notas fuesen fuego
que corriese raudo por tus venas.
Ojalá se perfumasen en el aire
y  diesen sentido al amanecer del alba.
Ojalá fluyesen como el agua
suavemente rizando la rojez del cielo.
Ojalá fuesen contundentes como la roca
y cayesen a plomo junto a mi corazón muerto.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz.
Siempre cambiante, nunca la misma
subebajando en el horizonte.
Tierna y vibrante, siempre difusa
alzándose hacia el cielo con alas desplegadas.
Dulce y salada, externa e interna,
por ósmosis entrando por cada poro.
Pesada y rígida, sólida y pura
cercenando la realidad con su ser preciso.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
siendo lo que no es,
no siendo lo que es.
En cada instante de su espacio manifestándose
en cada punto de su tiempo existiendo.
Única e indivisible, aunque difícilmente alcanzable.
Verdadera mentira que perdura tras los siglos.
Satírica cual elefante boca arriba
dando a luz a lo que siempre ha sido nuestro.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz.
Saliendo hacia la luz verdadera
y tornando hacia la oscuridad traicionera.
Volando hacia arriba y en picado,
oteándose a si misma , eterna y cierta.
Creando un nuevo mundo igual a este,
igual de distinto que este a si mismo.
Imitando la certeza de lo incierto.
Pretendiendo con falsedades llegar al verso.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y fuese objeto de su ser
y fuese sujeto de su haber
y se realizase siempre que le dieses tiempo
y se realizase siempre en lo que siempre fue
y avanzase inmóvil hacia la verdad
y esperase impasible a la mentira.
Ojalá de cada error saliese un mérito,
una esperanza, una virtud siempre precisa.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
tornando el arte arcana en ente nuevo,
aunque sea falso.
En estúpidas epifanías tornando el acto
cual poeta escribiendo estos versos.
Ojalá repetir versos pasados en lenguas nuevas
y llamarse artista.
Mero comentarista y observador
de lo que precedió en tiempo y espacio.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
existiendo con sólo pensarlo
negando el pensamiento mismo,
lógica implacable mintiendo mi rostro,
contradicciones inapelables mintiendo mi ser.
Con precisión matemática ser mentira,
con la etereidad del arte ser verdad.
Ojalá como estafador maestro ante tu mirar
se hiciese música que disfrutar.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz,.
Ojalá mi cara no fuese jazz.
Ojalá no tener cara, ni nada.
Ojalá el solo pensarlo me dejase ciega,
sorda para la música de mi rostro.
Ojalá pasar por debajo de una escalera tirada
para no recibir buena suerte.
Ojalá austera o inexistente,
cual dios mirando tu filosofía vana.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y unificase tantas corrientes
como puede abarcar con sus brazos.
Ojalá pudiese tornar cierta la realidad
por el mero hecho de pensarla, pero no puedo,
pero mi rostro se muestra impasible
ante desdicha tal y sigue avanzando;
regla dorada entre uñas de marfil,
largos palillos para comer la realidad desvirtuada.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y revolucionase el mundo con su pensar
y desmontase heregías como ciertas.
Ojalá años más tarde siguiese su lucha
contra el infiel divino hasta su muerte,
y como la de un mono con barba
se tornase contra el padre de la ciencia moderna,
y le enseñase a pensar en sueños,
a soñar en vida, a soñar en muerte.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y se repitiese eternamente para mi suerte,
nunca cambiando, siempre presente.
Ojalá asesinase al padre de todo
y se adueñase de su lugar.
Ojalá existir antes de ser.
Ojalá rodar por la vida sin mirar a los lados,
destruyendo lo que tantas veces nos ha aplastado
y creando la belleza del arte, que es eterna.

//

I wish my face were jazz.
I wish my night were sunset of one hundred days
and it lost itself like music in the tides.
I wish my notes were fire
which ran swift in your veins.
I wish they would perfume itself in the air
and gave meaning to the morning's sunrise.
I wish they flowed like water
softly curling the sky's redness.
I wish they were sturdy like rock
and they plummeted next to my dead heart.

I wish my face were jazz.
Always changing, never the same.
updowning in the horizon.
Tender and vibrating, always diffuse
rising towards the sky with open wings.
Sweet and salty, extern and intern,
by osmosis entering through each pore.
Heavy and rigid, solid and pure
cutting through reality with its precise being.

I wish my face were jazz
being what it is not,
not being what it is.
In every instant of its space manifesting itself
in every point of its time existing.
One and indivisible, although hardly reachable.
True lie which endures beyond centuries.
Satiric like elefant on its head
giving birth to what always has been ours.

I wish my face were jazz.
Going out to the true light
and turning to the treacherous darkness.
Flying upwards and in a dive,
scanning itself, eternal and true.
Creating a new world equal to this,
equally as distinct as this to itself.
Imitating the certainty of the uncertain.
Trying with falseness to reach the verse.

I wish my face were jazz.
and it were object of its being
and it were subject of its having
and it came true always you gave it time
and it came true always in what it always was
and it moved fordward unmoving towards the truth
and it waited impasible the lie.
I wish of every error a merit would come out,
a hope, a virtue ever precise.

I wish my face were jazz
turning arcane art into a new being,
even if false.
Into stupid epiphanies turning the act
as a poet writing this verses.
I wish to repit old verses in new tongues
and to call myself an artist.
Mere commentator and observer
of what preceded it in time and space.

I wish my face were jazz.
Existing with only thinking of it,
negating thought itself,
implacable logic lying my visage,
unnappealable contradictions lying my being.
With mathematical precision being a lie,
with the ethereality of art being the truth.
I wish that like master con artist before your looking
it turned itself into music to enjoy.

I wish my face were jazz.
I wish my face weren't jazz.
I wish I didn't have a face, nor anything.
I wish only thinking of it made me blind,
deaf to the music of my visage.
I wish passing under a fallen ladder
to not receive good luck.
I wish austere or non-existant,
like god looking at your vane philosophy.

I wish my face were jazz,
and it unified so many streams
like it can embrace with its arms.
I wish I could turn reality true
with the mere act of thinking it, but I can't,
but my visage shows itself impassible
before such misfortune and continues onwards;
golden rule among ivory nails,
long chopsticks to eat the desvirtuated reality.

I wish my face were jazz
and it revolucionised the world with its thinking
and it disassembled heressies as true.
I wish years later its fight would continue
against the divine infidel until his death,
and like a bearded monkey's
it would turn itself against the father of modern science,
and it taught him to think in dreams,
to dream in life, to dream in death.

I wish my face were jazz
and it repited itself enternally to my fortune,
never changing, always present.
I wish it assassinated the father of everything
and took its place.
I wish existing before being.
I wish rolling through life without looking sideways,
destroying that which always has crushed us
and creating the beauty of art, which is timeless.

Cut and gone.
It was easy.

Why?
you would ask.
Cut and gone.
It was easy.


You see,
for some trans folk,
most I dare say,
it's not cut and gone.
Your name,
the way people used to call you,
to know you
to be with you.
It's not easy.

That's why,
many of us
grow multiple heads.
One for my family who wouldn't love me,
one for my closest friend, whom I trust;
one for the random person who reads my poetry online...
I'm fed up with it.
I don't want to keep having multiple heads,
I want my family to know me for who I am,
not the head I made out of their memories.
I want to be me,
and I'm Nis.
That's why I came out on twitter,
that's why I'm erasing this pen name
and letting my true head speak,
that's why I will be soon cutting contact
with those that refuse to see me for who I am.

This is the end of Headless Starfish,
but I'm not gone,
so be it.
I cut it,
and it is gone.

In the state of Oregon
the roads of air have names of snakes
and there's a smell of music in the air
music of flowers, scent of love.

Even ravens laugh, and cry with laughter
even ravens smell of snakes
and have names of love.
Blossoms cry love and ask for more,
but it's not to come,
because the grey men creep,
and their grey hands reach
my heaven on Earth.

The sun makes me sneeze,
twice,
always.
Like Plato's prisoner I reach for the light
but I'm answered with closed eyes,
twice,
always.
Like Icarus I fly in my glory
only to fall to the unresting sea,
twice,
always.

I fall back on my seat,
a poet's seat,
and I write,
I write about the sun
and the cloud that just protected me
from the powerful influence on my nose.
I cry.
Funny thing, in English this word has two meanings
that not always go together.
I  could wheep, I could shout,
but I just cry,
twice,
always.

I feel like there is this feeling
that poetry is suposed to make you feel.
I feel like that's *******.
There is no universal rule for poetry,
no arrow to follow,
no points to link.

Just write.
You can write how you feel, that's ok,
but you can also write how you think.
You can write what to think.
You can write to make others think.

Just write.
You can write like you breath,
you can rime just for fun,
you can randomly join words an call it poetry.
It is.
Poetry doesn't mean good poetry.


Just write.
It doesn't have to be good,
for you are only one to judge,
and art isn't a universal thing,
so it might inspire others.
Share your art, share your voice.
It will be welcomed,
in the choir
that is life.

As I light alight my city,
as the sky shines in the moon,
as Tom Sawyer's battery enters through my ears,
as my phone's battery dies
I see
I see
I see
I see the lights and the sea
I see the moon shining onto my eyes.
And Red Barchetta is already kicking in,
and god it's been long since I've listened to Rush,
and I hope my phone survives it.

I think
I think
I think
I think if I am, but I reach no conclusion.
I think I am young,
yet so many things have flowed through me,
as YYZ flows through my brain,
I think it's this album's best.
As the sea shall flow through the ashes
of my waking city.
I am alive today.
I may have died in another universe,
probably flowing myself to the sea,
my suicide of preference,
maybe by sudden piano fall
or rather unprobable spontaneous combustion;
yet I am not dead.
I am alive
I am alive
I am alive
In this moment I exist,
or at least I think I exist,
and I write it
as the moon shines on the fire as it flows into the sea.

Qué música tan triste hacen dos mentes cuando se aman,
se lloran, se caen, se meditan,
y los violines chirrían su suerte despiadada,
su perdición desdichada que se cae
y se cae, como el mar en la lluvia;
que precipita la cara del ahogado
que encalla y garantiza el grito del niño.

Qué música tan triste hace mi mente cuando te ama,
y tú no me amas, y el sol cae
sobre nosotros cuando me besas
y yo no siento nada,
pues no te amo,
mas los violines siguen eternos.

//

What a sad music two minds make when they love each other,
cry each other, fall each other, meditate each other,
and violins screech their ruthless luck,
their unhappy doom that falls
and falls, like the sea in the rain;
which precipitates tha face of the drowned
which runs aground and guarantees the scream of the child.

What a sad music my mind makes when it loves you,
and you don't love me, and the sun falls
over us when you kiss me
and I don't feel anything,
for I don't love you,
but the violins continue unending.

Night is  day covered with tears,
my tears,
and they fill my night's hands
and it drinks them.
Salty with scent of fallen ladybirds
they take residence within my night
and they come to play each sunset.
I don't like tears running alone
so I give them more.
And tears come from my eyes
just to play,
not real reason,
yet so profound.

"Un hombre gris avanza por la calle de niebla,
no lo sospecha nadie. Es un cuerpo vacío;
vacío como pampa, como mar, como viento,
desiertos tan amargos bajo un cielo implacable.

Es el tiempo pasado, y sus alas ahora
entre la sombra encuentran una pálida fuerza;
es el remordimiento, que de noche, dudando;
en secreto se aproxima su sombra descuidada.

No estrechéis esa mano. La yedra altivamente
ascenderá cubriendo los troncos de invierno.
Invisible en la calma el hombre gris camina.
¿No sentís a los muertos? Mas la tierra esta sorda."

La tierra está sorda y no oye,
no oye a los muertos llamando por ella;
por ella que les ha dado tanto,
que les ha acogido cuando les exilió la vida.

La vida desentendida camina por los campos de trigo
cuando le cae la noche, le cae la niebla
y su camino se cruza con el andante implacable,
el andante que es sombra, el andante vacío.

Con la mirada aún feliz estrecha su mano,
y la yedra altiva asciende cubriendo los troncos del invierno.
Sus manos estrechadas los cuerpos se vacían.
¿No sentís a los muertos? Mas la tierra está sorda

//

"A grey man passes through the streer of fog,
nobody suspects of him. He is an empty body;
empty like pampas, like sea, like wind,
deserts so bitter under an unstoppable sky.

He is the past time, and his winds now
in the shadow find a palid strength;
he is remorse, whom at night, doubting;
in secret aproaches his neglected shadow.

Don't shake that hand. The climbing plant proudly
will ascend covering the trunks of winter.
Invisible in calm the gray man walks.
Don't you feel the dead? But the earth is deaf."

The earth is deaf and she can't hear,
she can't hear the dead calling for her;
for her who has given them so much,
who has welcomed them when life exiled them.

Life without noticing walks on the wheat fields
when night falls on her, fog falls on her,
and her path crosses with the unstoppable walker,
the walker who is shadow, the empty walker.

With her view still happy she shakes his hand,
and the climbing plant proudly ascends covering the trunks of winter.
Their hands shaken the bodies empty.
¿Don't you feel the dead? But the earth is deaf.

"Y es siempre el jardín de lilas del otro lado del río. Si el alma pregunta si queda lejos se le responderá: del otro lado del río, no éste sino aquel."
-Extracción de la piedra de la locura, de Alejandra Pizarnik.

Siempre cercano,
siempre lejano,
el jardín de lilas se vuelve inexistente
pues siempre está del otro lado.
Tal vez la muerte te lleve a tu otro lado,
a tus ansiadas lilas, Alejandra.

Yo sólo pido encontrar en mi orilla una mísera margarita.

//

"And is always the garden of lilies on the other side of the river. If the soul asks if it's far it will be answered: on the other side of the river, not this one but that one."
-Extracting the stone of madness, by Alejandra Pizarnik.

Always close,
always far,
the garden of lilies becomes non-existent
for it is always on the other side.
Perhabs death will take you to your other side,
tu your coveted lilies, Alejandra.

I only ask to find on my shore a miserable daisy.

Si odiase a alguien como odio a mi cuerpo,
La luz de mi odio guiaría
a los peregrinos de la disidia a mi corazón,
y la pereza de mi odio sería tan grande
que tu belleza sería opaca como la de cualquier otro.

Si odiase a alguien como odio a mi cuerpo
lloraría todos los días por el ingrato muerto
como no lloro todas las noches por mi desdicha.
Si odiase a alguien sería a mi mismo
por tener mi cuerpo.
Y de mis venas fluiría la sangre
como de tu corazón el olvido.
Mi olvido.

Si amase a alguien os amaría a todos
pero el odio a mi cuerpo me impide veros
como si fuese niebla en una noche de Enero,
pues mi corazón ya está roto por dentro
como mi cuerpo está roto por fuera.

//

If a hated someone as I hate my body,
the light of my hatred would guide
the sloth's pilgrims to my heart,
and the lazyness of my hatred would be so big
your beauty would be opaque as any other's.

If I hated someone as I hate my body
I would cry each day for the ungrateful dead
as I don't cry each night for my misery.
If I hated someone it'd be myself
for having my body.
And from my veins blood would flow
as from your heart the oblivion.
My oblivion.

If I loved someone I would love you all
but the hatred towards my body unables me to see you
as if it were fog in a January night,
for my heart is already broken inside
as my body is broken outside.

Lluvia sobre paragüas mojados,
sed de semilla de amor;
la caída del otoño
resuena en la profundidad de la nada
y soy yo
pero no hay nadie.

//

Rain on wet umbrellas,
thirst for seed of love;
Fall's fall
echoes in the depth of nothingness
and it's me
but there is noone.

So let's talk about suicide
and how it could have taken me
and how it still might.

So let's talk about suicide
and how childs not yet old enough to wake their minds
try to end their lives as we just sit by.

So let's talk about suicide
and how tired old folks cut their time too short
because they have noone to love.

So let's talk about suicide
and how self-harm is cause of laugh
and how one day it goes too far.

So let's talk about suicide
and how I never thought I'd see myself
writing about my own.

So let's talk about suicide
let's talk about mine
my first try I threw my knife before the red shone in my eyes.

So let's talk about suicide
and how my second try I mixed ***, Coke and bleach.
It tasted really bad, but I drank on.

So let's talk about suicide
and how I don't really want to **** myself anymore
but I guess there is something about me that makes me close to it anyway.

So let's talk about suicide
and how my last attempt will be at the bottom of the sea,
drunk with misery, drunk alone.

So let's talk about suicide
let's talk about it because it happens all around us
and talking is the best way not to break.

So I've talked enaugh, now it's your turn

"Libremente los besos desde los labios caen
en el mar indomable como perlas inútiles"
-de "Un río, un amor" por Luis Cernuda.

Libremente desde mis labios caigo
en el mar indómito cual ****** piedra.
Ahogo mi amor en penas
que pesan mi cuerpo y me hunden.
Mi amor se pierde en la inmensidad del océano.
Besos caídos, abrazos solitarios, caricias al viento.
Tanto amor tenía por darte, a ti, a todos
mas ahora se pierde
en el abismo
donde mi cuerpo perece.

//

"Freely from my lips the kisses fall
in the unteamable sea like useless pearls"
-from "One river, one love" by Luis Cernuda.

Freely from my lips I fall
into the untamed sea like ****** stones.
I drown my love in pitties
which weight my body and sink me.
My love is lost in the inmensity of the ocean.
Fallen kisses, lonely hugs, caresses to the wind.
So much love I had to give,to you, to everyone
but now it is lost
in the abyss
where my body perishes.

Pensaba que era alguien
y era mi reflejo.

Era yo,
era mi cuerpo,
no era yo
era mi avatar en este mundo,
un hombre joven y asustadizo,
no era yo.

Pensaba que era alguien
y era mi reflejo.

Mi reflejo,
ese mundo mudo e invertido,
como este tantas veces.
Espero que a mi reflejo le vaya mejor que a mí.
Ciertamente tiene mi cuerpo,
vaya desgracia.
Aunque tal vez en su inversión
se reniega de mi condición transgénero,
de mi desgracia con los expertos de la salud mental.
Tan invertido ese mundo de reflejo
que tal vez pueda disfrutar de sus amigos,
disfrutar de su reflejo.

Mi relación con los espejos
siempre fue de amor-odio.
Amor porque la científica en mi
sólo veía un instrumento semimágico
que replica nuestra realidad.
Odio porque yo no estoy en esa realidad.
Un energúmeno ocupa mi lugar,
un inútil al que odio con todo mi ser.
Un chico.
De pequeña jugaba a que luchaba con ese chico,
nunca pude derrotarle,
sigue ahí.
No era yo,
era mi reflejo.
Mi archienemigo.
Mi odio.

//

I thought it was someone
and it was my reflection.

It was me,
it was my body,
it wasn't me
it was my avatar in this world,
a young and shy man,
it wasn't me.

I thought it was someone
and it was my reflection.

My reflection,
that mute, inverted world,
like this one so many times.
I hope my reflection is doing better than me.
Certaintly it has my body,
what a pitty.
Although maybe in its inversion
it denies my transgender condition,
my disgrace with mental health experts.
So inverted is that world  of reflection
that it may enjoy its friends,
enjoy its reflection.

My relationship with mirrors
has always been of love-hatred.
Love because the scientist in me
only saw a semimagic instrument
that copies our reality.
Hatred becouse I am not in that reality.
A madman takes my place,
a vane man that I hate with all my being.
A boy.
When I was young I fightplayed with that boy,
I never could defeat him,
he's still there.
It wasn't me,
it was my reflection.
My nemesis.
My hatred.

Pensaba que era alguien
y era mi reflejo

//

I thought it was someone
and it was my reflection

"Sabiendo nada más que vivir es estar a solas con la muerte"
sabiendo que palpita en la sien la rabia
de la vida no descrita, tal vez pensada.
Sabiendo la amargura, de la muerte los colores
y la sangre.
¿Somos felices?

//

"Knowing that living is being alone with death nothing more"
knowing that in the temples pulses the rage
of life not described, maybe thought.
Knowing the bitterness, of death the colors
and the blood.
Are we happy?

I look at myself
and once again
I have that feeling.

That stone in your heart,
that heartless stone
that is me.

Raw feelings go here
unscheduled
no words to describe them,
just feeling.

I could say that I'm down
In this English language of yours
But no, that's not it.

You may argue it's depression,
and yeah, my psychiatrist would agree,
but that's not it either.

Maybe it's dysphoria kicking in once more,
certaintly I feel its awful hand greeping me again,
but that's not it.

What may it be,
this ugly feeling I puke to the poem.
I don't know.

But I want it to stop

Standing at the Rijksmuseum
we find ourselves part of a lesson,
a lesson by a master in his craft.
Our company seven men
some look at us some look away
while Dr. Tulp, our eighth man
digs into the elefant in the room.

The cool body lies bare
like light were coming out of it
reflecting on the faces of the more curious,
leaving in shadows the uninterested ones.
The dead arm opened wide,
some lesson on tendons or bones.
Three hundred and fifty years
mute the master's words so clear
make the master's brushes so loud.

It was a time of studied ignorance,
of white collars on shallow knowledge
when my favourite of the Old Masters was born.

Retract.
Step back into our reality
observe the beatiful museum
for we are before one of its finest pieces.
But it's hard.
It ***** you in.
Something about the crepuscular glow of the body
makes you get stuck in it.

Observe the perfect composition,
the diverse faces.
It's like a photograph taken at a random instant
yet so deliberate,
so randomly deliberate,
so deliberatly random.
But step back,
look at the whole thing,
it's just
so
beautiful.
You could say it's just 3D
masterfully represented in 2D
but it is not,
there's something more to it.
Something you could call extradimensional.
It's like if the artist knew the algorithms our mind follows
and knew the exact input needed for the desired output,
beauty,
art,
even shock.

Let's move on to the next painting,
but don't let this image fade away,
let it rest,
let it click,
and let it grow
in you.

Look up
among the clouds that wrap the sun
there's someone there
her eyes are there
and then it's me.
I am in the sky with diamonds.
I look at me and I'm gone.

Look past the flowers that hang from the sky,
noone is there, noone ever was,
yet you are there, you never were.
You and I eating marshmallow pie
with the head in the clouds
and we are gone.