When you are passionate,
When you don't want it,
When you don't long for it.
When you NEED it
When the night calls your name
When you are the only person alive
When your consciousness begins to enflame
When your eyes collide with the stars
When your head spins yet focuses on one point
When your spirit is not a spirit and you are one with your body
When your arms are machines steaming and burning with glory
When your legs are a rocketship light-speed towards the moon
When you are the ARCHANGEL you always hoped for and never appeared
When it all vanishes and you are trapped only by that NEED
That HUNGER
That FLAME.

When you are ONE with the adrenaline which burns your veins into infinity
When you are your own GOD
When you are thirsty tired broken yet keep going,

When your passion renders you complete.

"O victory forget your underwear we're free"...
Yet we all keep our genitals intact, immaculate, in closure
Inside flannel suits and ties and shirts and microphones
And all of that ******* we created called modesty and decency
Oh...and kindness
Kindness is no more than a way to keep our will from funcioning
Modesty and decency no more than ways to keep our
                                             love from being free

And if love can't be free, what else can?

I want to reach down your skirt and bring
                             The souvenir of the gods

I want to ****** your voice
                                With a silent kiss
Let me bring you joy and slip my hands through
                                Your bleeding fingers of working too much.

I will run my fingertips down your back
And feed you my touching love,
                      I want to touch your sweaty soul again.

Without you is without the sun
And the moon isn't there
To watch me in the night,

Without you is unbearably strange
Like a fallen arm
An empty rage,

Without you is heartless and odd
Sinking in bed
Stranded thought,

Without you my poems rhyme
Aren't the same
And the smell of your hair...

...the touch of our lips,
Our first kiss in the car
The endless nights awake

With your love.

Tried everything,
Only a mother's love can mend
A broken heart,
And feed an empty soul.

I am yours.
I have no choice and I don't want to choose,
I am yours.
In your womb started the journey,
I am yours.
Besides any hate or stumble and our great disagreements,
I am yours.
Not because you made me, because you fed me your holy milk and the serum of words,
I am yours.
Through every night awake I always thought of you,
I am yours.
You are as sincere as a sharp blade and I love it,
I am yours.
I have never cried for a woman the way I cry for you,
I am yours, my first teacher, my eternal goddess.

Bittersweet poetry why you call me at night
Sleeping just to make me ***** your holy ink.

Bittersweet poetry I'm only a child let me be
Don't mess this innocence you don't know.

All right I'm as innocent as you
Let me at least hold my breath
And after my bleed in thy honor, rest.

Burn ancient burn on the sweet child's
Eyes
For he has yet to conquer the world
And his father's rhymes.
He won't rhyme though he is free
And like all free men
The ancient roar will smile in his face
                            Pure as a flower
                                    Proud as the sun
                                              Soft as the rain.

Electrifying like a brainwave
He shall surpass his fathers
And build his own empire
                        Where he shall perish
Yet free as his son too will be,
Dreaming in clouds of fire.

The fresh paint leaks
It is not a painting
Naked in bed.

Absence is the name we give to things which are always there
Places people memories and jokes turned sorrow
To the same man's eyes.

They keep poking and getting toes to scratch the calf
And head to explode in a bursting shooting of images
                       And smells
                                 And touches
                                          And sensations you never knew you had.

Absence is the dread-full page
                          Of a poem written
                                   Laying on a dead man's face.

That moment
When her lips are your favourite lollipop
And her skin tastes like ice cream melting in your tongue,
The flavour drools godly juice.

That moment when the rythm are two beating hearts,
The winds outside take over
And you take shelter sheltering her.

The shrines of power ask every citizen for a dime.
Monumental, omnipowerful yet always needy-greedy
Minions, minions help them out!

Careless, conventional and extra-conservative they shout:
'Extra! Extra! Drop your money, you'll be richer!'
'Put your money on the shrine, mumbo-jumbo'll save your life!'

It won't save your sanity though.

Each lives inside everyone;

We have little versions of others  pumping hearts
Sharing words with us;
An image, well more than that,
                           It's as if each one
                           Was a poem, a half-living poetry in motion
                           And it's good to talk with those.

Yet sometimes I have to put them all out to sleep,
Sometimes I need a moment with the dark.

Himself a machine,
Like a cool train
Like a moving rollercoaster
Like a ravaging mechanical animal

Iron oil and rust,
Pulsating boiling blood
Bursting brilliantly.

I see all the colours and the
                     Shapes  leaves can turn into

I feel the rough wood of a gentle tree
                          Scratch the moss around its trunk
                                               Getting it under my nails

I touch your skin your hair your lips
                                Look at you in the eyes to gaze your joyful expression.

But all this in thought as I
              Lay down in bed my hair dying on sorrow pillows

The jazz man,
Beaten up in his own bar
Needing rescue yet the bass won't be playin' fo' him tonite.

Dragged down,
Into the street raging
Unable to move from the pain the wound,
                                                     Grinding his teeth
                                                           ­           twistin' turnin'.

Looks as if dancin',
Speaks a language only he knows
Grunting spitting blood and at certain time laughing his own misery down.

They make up for you the human condition
They create the world, how it came up,
And put matters simple
They oppress and suppress thought
Rendering it brittle
They constantly tie you to the ground
To the rotten roots grown in hatred.

Saints appear all over the place
                        Yet GOD is the only idol
                        And humans equally special...they say;
They propagate and infect children with their diseased minds
                             Yet 'belief is liberating'
                             And never CORRUPT and pure.

Oh father, sweet sweet 'padre',
I almost forgot:
                            How many infants have you devoured lately?

Love will not save you
It won't save anyone,
Ask any cardiologist.

It is a bitter thing, love
And every feeling that traps you
In ecstasy tying you to another soul.

Never more blissful than the effort  it takes
To handle,
The gut screams, the heart fails.

The spirit laughs.

Woman at home,
Woman at home is different from woman at work.

At work,
At work she's vicious, tenacious, irresistably precise and cold.

At home,
At home she's lovely, tender creature speaking verses in each simple word.

Not just women,
Not just women, as men can be as vicious but never as tender.

Never as tender,
Never as tender, for he has yet to understand the meaning of love.

Although, women don´t bother understand,
They only love and are marvelous at it.

Run, roam, go
And get doped on scent
Of jazz and midnight flow,
The afternoon creep was never heard
And the nauseating sun yet to be seen...

Sense the night, the million souls within,
Become the endless body and soul,
Gleam.

You are the only
The holy
The great,
A dazzling star in a fearful night.

The beauty of a dancer,
Carefully spinning,
Light, soft, smooth as silk,
Moving at the rythm of vibrating air particles...

Nothing like a bird or a swan,
More like a free indian making an ode
An ode to freedom, to feeling without thinking
Into bringing sadness to an end.

Sometimes making a quick turn simulating restraint,
Yet always ending as it began:
Pure, free, dynamic,
Light blue...

A leaf swinging in the wind
And the sense of lightness that it brings,
As the curtains slowly fall down on her.

You and me,
We are different from other people,
Victims of the same experiment,
Sufferers of the same cataclysm
Lost in the same food for thought,
Rainbow-skinned aliens with antennas and crystal hearts...

Yet, let the wind take over and ride it,
Let the drive which makes your heart burst
Be your fuel,
And let it burn inside you until you've got nothing left to burn...

Let's stop pretending,
Let's not be lab rats anymore,
Let us be more than humans
Let us dream and grab and have peace of mind...
Let's **** the scientists one by one
And finally reach infinity
While experiencing the last brief moment of consciousness
With only a smile.

Into the deep night I jump,
I become involved in her perfume,
In her sorrow...
She just keeps me captive,
Draws me like a magnet.

Not that I don't want that...
She makes me captain of the seas,
Astronaut on the weirdest ship,
Shot like an arrow light-speed,
She makes every impossible and intangible star
Seem like a common rock,
She makes my heart feel like nothing at all,
No pulse, no body, no rational mind...
I live for the experience
Merely spectator of my own existence...

Paradoxes: regular facts,
Time-travel: normal walk through the park,
Entering a state of nothingness:
The trivial awake of every morning...

And so I soar,
And so I let
The sky drive me,
And then the stars and the quasars,
As my existence fades away
Becoming  the matter and energy that
Will be the stars of tomorrow,
Will be fuel running the engines of a spaceship,
Will be electrons and fire,
Will be the echo of a planet's magnetic field,
Will be, lately, the ancient roar of light
From the edge of a blackhole,
The limbo zone expressing the rage of the fallen,
Will be ghosts and gods and angels
Inside the mind of a child,
Who will one day become just a story-telling bartender...
Will be the ashes of a nuclear explosion,
Will be the rotting mob of a lifeless planet,
Will be the burns on the skin of a suffering mother,
Will be light reflected in the eyes
Of a hopeless homeless,

Will no longer be cosmic,
Will no longer thrive and survive,
Will decay and never again see the day
Rising in its exuberance,
As the whole world dies,
Forgotten...
And the light in the stars stays on.

I like the nastiest bars,
Those where the waitress is called names
But she doesn't care 'cause she's too kind
And tries to keep it all clean for 400 a month.

Those bars have drama
Whole worlds and stories continuosly entangling,
Whisky on rocks, vomits and shouts
Here comes Rita the waitress to clean it all again;
Dogs bark in the streets
Women cry in their beds as men get drunk
And kick the innocent trash can over a discussion about gibberish.

The loner cat lurks the street at night
Hunting for hamburgers that fell off the trash can,
The drunk men start a fight,
'Here comes the police!' 'Run-run!'
One falls, gets the blame and a free trip to county jail,
Three others join a party and feed the ******
Money and **** --- tails.

Finally, the last one goes home
To beat the crying wife over the same junk
And the repressed anger only a coward can hide.

See me waiting for you at the bus station
Think of me waiting for you naked in your bed
Dream of me writing poetry with my tongue under your skirt.

See me writing a poem in class
Think of me running the rainy street towards your room
Dream of me desperately designing all possible number of perfect circles IN your body.

See me kissing you goodnight
Think of me holding you at 5 after midnight ride
Dream of us naked sailing to Hawaii the ocean blue and the blue moon moves the tide, swearing to your ear unimaginable '*****' words.

They wouldn' let us, wouldn' do, would be too ***** for them,
For they don' have the burning desire of being human.

The bearded man sleeping on the park bench
An old man,
His walking stick leaning and his bag in between crossed arms.

He didn't have a smile though he was sleeping a rested sleep with his face unconstricted below the shadow of the tall city hall;
Hidden from the summer heat which came early,
Not hidden from looks,
Not caring at all.

The old man holding his half-grey beard with an expression as cool as the breeze.

How they fake
How they copy
How they fear
How they dream scared dreams in tears.

How they drink from bored mugs
How they live like slugs
How they make money cigarettes
How they pray for money bags

How they crave recognition
How they bend for the system
How they brag ignorance
How they weep romance

How they shove it up their *****
How they're continuously embarrassed
How they play the game
How they never blame

How they praise intuition
How they preach superstition
How they form their private cliques
How they corporate religion´

Will this joke ever end?
Sorry, no, I will not bend.

I am not here for a reason.
I have a reason because I am here,
And don't start drawing your conclusions or jumping on me;
Reason was not bestowed upon me
There were no gods meddling my own businesses.
Reason was owned, earned and passed on by those,
At least some of those who share my blood.

Then there were some trying to fool them, to fool me,
Yet, I am not here for a reason,
I have a reason because I am here
I've earned it, I said it.

Leave your imaginary salvation heroes, happy self-degrading and sexless humorless slaves and martyrs.

As also --- and I am truly sorry for this ---
You are not here for a reason,
You have a reason, a passion, a drive, a **** provocative imaginative mind because you are here
You've earned it, **** it.

And if you don't have is because you are not looking enough.

Fools live obsessed by lives they don't have
                      fake fantasies
                               sweet dreams
                                          yet at night they shake with fear;
Slugging vomitin' 'n' ******* from their mouths
                                "truths" and "worries"
                                            with their "beliefs"
                                                     Oh so sensitive;
******* on thumbs with their small hands they go
                                            happy they bought that car
                                                         **** because of lipstick
                                                                  intelligent as they bark trash.

You could all be ******* me instead, you'd do a better job.

My knee stings
               My back curls
                            I need to move a little,
                            I need to go
                                       Feel the wind, even brittle.
Fall down
              Back up
Push it away and make it.
Don't you know?
Same as ever,
               Lightweight dynamic whistle.

...Sweating I fall down
                   And let the clouds lift me up.

End of april break of may
Music humming in mind scratching
My stomach, lightly yet
Enough to send burning adrenaline, hormone which makes me
Whistle.

Coffee well taken on a wooden table
With friends laughing generously
Silly jokes make the air more breathable,
Back to lunch
Writing this poem on the cafeteria
Thinking of you and your broken smile.

My life is a blank
I cannot get myself out of bed I'm frightened.
I feel terrorized by my potential and possibilities;

My life is bending
Backwards and I cannot help it I'm embarassed.
I feel my limbs in pain for sleeping too much;

My head is getting empty
I'm a farce, an unintelligent man one more for the crowd.
I lost the ability to be.

Burning minds,
Brilliant minds
Different minds...

All of them writing the same old stuff,
Bowing themselves to the ancient knowledge,
Going to waste.

All of them stuck inside four walls,
25 of them:
Learning that passion and dreams are money!
Learning that power is freedom!
Thinking that peace is no war...

How fleeting their brilliance,
How wasted their genius,
How happy they are...ignorant,
How they despise madness and true humor,
How they accept the concrete walls!
How they feel one with the smoke and tar!
How they laugh at gibberish and lead
Sober, boring, small lives...
How they look at big cities
Instead of trees,
How they learn that beauty is a monstruous exuberance
Instead of passion, freedom and the simplicity of oneself
In the middle of every day circus.

Eyes of a flaming bird, red face and thick gorilla eyebrows,

He got off his truck, closed the door with vigor
I could see his amused yet direct gaze staring at the shop window,
                         A perfect combination of fine art and unentangled wisdom in relaxation,
                                            Sure, authentic, upbeating.
A transparent window among a crowd of mirrors.

I'm really sick of law
of telling me what to do
of telling me where to go;

Sick of time, of counting time
Sick of all the adventures I could have
but stay home take care
Same little same bed
It isn't big enough;
A large boulder would suffice better as a bed
In a desert or a plain I don't care.

I want get new fluids up and down my body law doesn't cope
I want excessive alcohol, excessive hugs, excessive moolight
I want it so excessively I want to ***** it
Spread it
Swallow it
And **** it all again
At once!
All at the same time!
I want starvation drunkness under the moon
I want sweating under the sun on the desert plains
I want not bathing and howling on the dirt
Animals would be ashamed
And so be it
I want beat this world and the other and be beaten by it.

Send me some *******' postcards of your places

I wanna visit them all!

Dark skinned face the whitest beard
Hobo style fishing hat and brown scarf
Full jacket on,
'My legs aren't what they were.' he realizes
As he drops off the bus smiling
His eyes gazing somewhere
Sometime beyond present.
Plastic bag on his hand
Hands straining but relaxed,
End of poem.