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EOEO Mar 2011
The drunk is hanging still
from his father’s old shoelace
and the gentlemen are inside
below the starry billabong
hunching and flinching
and forgetting their prayers.

Cattle of darken faces stare at me
and all I see are diamonds
a dim reflection
of those sweet dreams
that belched a fire on a squall.

Her dark green eyes reminded me
of those few days the midnight shone
a moon clinging from her *******
and the leafed body that she wore
She told me to disappear
behind the prairie we both built
and then burned her luscious look
across the lamp lit afternoon.

A thrush died cowardly
and the soldier broke the rotten gun
well, no timber man could hold still
as the drunken old man drew on the wall
the memories of those born to kneel
before a pair of dark green eyes.

The blatant look stood astride me
but I could never felt a thing
so I dreamt of paradise
welling from the blazing riverside
And as the wind swelled cold
all I saw were her dark green eyes
–they dwindle swiftly to the night –.
I felt a dire shot
as the shoal of words I’d forgot
kindle the last midnight moon
and all I could do is sleep away
leave the pledging river to shine out
just before the aurora from her crown
shut down those dark green eyes.
EOEO Feb 2011
I want to *******,
I want to rip your clothes off
and get all over you.
I want it, I need it
I crave for it.
I crave your body,
I crave for your breast
and your *******
and your ***.
I want to be below you,
and above you,
and inside you.
I need it more than I need wine
or some god
or Van Gogh
or Bukowski.
But I need you
more than I need your ***
because you’re a good woman
and I’m not so bad myself
when I’m with you.
EOEO Feb 2011
I watch as you undress
you above me
above everything else
I look the cruel eyes
the *******, the sweet breath
I feel your warmth
your legs, your ***,
you say something that I don’t understand
and I love you
you above me
above everything else.
EOEO Feb 2011
Siempre estabas a punto de partir,
siempre en otra parte, detrás del mar,
más allá de Madrid o Sri Lanka.
Te morías por volver,
nos moríamos debajo de las piedras
y las nubes y los Borges, en el fondo de las botellas.
¡Qué nostalgia tan cruda!

Y yo que nunca terminé de encontrarte,
de destilar los lejanos paraísos
que alguna vez consumimos,
entre besos y cigarros.
Y yo, que nunca aprendí con que ojos verte,
algún día, entre mañana y nunca,
ya no volví.
EOEO Feb 2011
I eat bread
I drink wine
I get drunk
because you’re not here
and I need to eat you,
I need to drink you
and be drunk of you.
Everything seems disgusting
when you’re so far away
and I cannot do
all the things I wished to do,
and say all the things I wished to say.
So I’m here
in my small room,
all alone
waiting for some other thing to arrive
to eat,
to drink
or to get drunk with,
all because you are not here
or I am not there
and that makes me feel so miserable
I don’t even want to look at my *****.
EOEO Feb 2011
I love you when you’re angry
because you resemble
to a passing storm
or a raging wind
and something in me
wants you to start
throwing all the plates
and all the glasses,
it just waits for you
to start shouting and cursing
and I want you to hate me sometimes
because that makes you feel more real
and I love real women.

I love you when you’re angry
because you resemble
a bit to me
when I don’t have you.

— The End —