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Eyen F Dec 2019
Gira la flor
-¡Tenue, exquisita flor!-
al son del pasar, de lo próximo y lo incierto,
al tacto del rincón eterno del ojo de Cronos
tu vestido nochebuena;
sus sangrientos espirales,
bombeando la vaporosa y gris arquitectura de tu ****,
marcando el límite -territorio-
señalando y ordenándome
sentir sino punzante y pedregosa impotencia;
ahogados en fuego llanto
gritamos yo y mi alma en silencio:
-Detente tu girar y date vuelta;
haz dos de tus girares, corazón;
dime, dime una vez más, con tu danzar;
recuérdame cual viejo frío y senil
el cómo te empecé yo a amar.

Y, delimitada mi clemencia, mi suspirar y mi poder
repetiste, con ignorancia, mi razón de lujo amar;
diste el bucle enamorado
recordando el ser de tus frías venas
recostándose en su verde esplendor;
tus contemplaciones, líneas de leer
del parentesco tuyo al griego guerrero
cuya espada y formidable escudo dorado
respondían con insolente vehemencia
a las plegarias del desdichado Héctor;
es tu intrigante idioglosia
tu secreto idioma tambaleante y curvilíneo;
la respuesta onírica, anhelada
bajo tu impetuoso y salvaje vestir nochebuena.

Códigos causantes
bañando el camisón de barroco secreto
de tu sucio y ominoso deseo;
poderíos inexistentes redactados con iris
en el más humano idioma;
la táctil y clara erección de tu registro
lubricado en el sadista idioma tuyo;
el tortuoso y cíclico tremor
de tu vestido nochebuena.
Eyen F Dec 2019
Life is no contest;
it is not its must
to mock us for living.
It is not its must
to honor us for dying.

Life is no story;
one writes one,
it erases both.
Eyen F Dec 2019
I kick the dirt with my clicking shoes
to a tick-tacking racket;
spreading brown specs,
twelve, sixty there are.

Cherries begin to wrinkle,
they fall and look up to me,
charring, spitting pupils
and uneven irises of nothingness.

I counted each click
t'were three-hundred-and-sixty;
it took me a day
to jump and switch sides.

I saw long and thin lines,
odd and utterly mirroring drawings;
t'was today's midday
that someone had finally died.
Eyen F Dec 2019
I lay
decayed, flayed
amidst Satan's long gone glory;
deafened
by chants of orphaned, molested children;
I am surrounded by the farthest, bloodiest land
any man has ever stepped on
engulfed in unbearable, reeking evil
and The Fallen One's omnipotence.

The fallen winged warriors of Jesus Christ
fall head-first
into a sea of rot;
their innards melt and mix with the water,
a mixture of excrements, **** and *****-shat *****,
rotting.

Impious, impulsive;
ever farther away from God.

A minuscule spec of light
-a signal from the heavens-
falls and burns to death before your ever taciturn eyes,
a projection of your failure;
t'was the last showing of hope.
It is the end of the world.

Swarms of flaming, ***** wasps
object your soulless carcass to the most aggressive ******;
burning, ****** stingers.
Their grunting and moaning
is but mocking and berating,
you're a useless ******* husk.
Their continuous, brutal thrusts, however,
they invoke eternal drool and warm.
They invoke eternal pleasure.
Eyen F Dec 2019
Forlorn bells
of a christless church;
dangling children
of Mary's scorn.

The Raven's crying,
lustful tears of longing;
a longing of thriving,
of presence and life.

Hanging, ghastly brown little men;
in wait of her Mother, offering a hug.
She must be smart, for she cannot decide
which of her children should she leave behind.

The Raven's wings,
filled with missing and hope,
spread and offer, like those little men beneath it,
a motherly tribute
to care and protection.

The Mother, however,
of her many children knows she not;
she, then, indifferently leaves
onward to paradise,
a six-feet paradise!
Eyen F Dec 2019
Orquestas,
la sacra nota;
conductor,
un asesino;
trazos, tajadas
que disciplinan, oprimen
al testarudo, al niño;
profundizan, ennegrecen
la guarra costra de abuso virtuoso,
de cordófono, flamenco doler.
Eyen F Dec 2019
I
La pálida flor;
un pétalo se hunde,
nada en neblina.

II
Durazno antaño;
se pudre y cae al suelo,
a Madre Tierra.

III
El pino baja;
su aroma, su resplandor,
un testamento.

IV
La luna llena;
¡Ah! El iris de plata,
brilla el ánima.

V
Llora una gota
derrotada en batalla;
cesó la lluvia.
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