Think of uncertainty as being on the edge of a cliff:
either you fall and die
or you just gain balance and live,
they're risk and comfort. Simple analogy.

Uncertainty is that feeling
that falls between fear and hope.

You're free of deciding;
everyone else is there to see you live or die;
yet you chose to be hanging between one and the other.

Sitting, a blank piece of paper stained with water
and the grease of my sweaty fingers;
knocking my desk, keeping up with my indecisiveness...

I come up with whatever I did years ago
that I'm still unable to get over with.
No matter how much I brag about being honest,
-I'm not-
I never stop ******* lying to myself.
Every way I look at it,
I'm right, but the other one's wrong. Why?
It's not that they're dumb and can't think;
they don't care, unlike me.

A mistake turns me into a coward
and it's my fault for lingering to it,
as if I could change anything,
as if I could put myself out of blame.
I always ***** out of wherever I am
whenever I finish arguing with someone,
blaming myself for everything like a ******* kid
or an ignorant, stupid, blind and abused wife.

I think she should be abused,
but I'm not brave enough to do it myself.
I don't want to teach her anything,
that'd mean I care about her.

Then it's my arms and my legs that start shaking.
If any of you saw me, you'd think I'd been *****
and I'm shaking because of how hard the thrusting was.

Can't pay attention to whatever's in front of me,
the sadness is unbearable,
nobody's fault but mine;
then, it becomes annoying and I start *******
about what I did wrong
and what she did wrong.
I'd think both ways, we were both to blame;
but she'd never stop thinking I believed I was always right.

Childish. To think that she loved being right
and would act so stupidly, bragging about it.
What a pathetic woman.

The poor.
They're either unaware
or stupidly proud of their misery,
and live a happy life
plagued by ignorance.

They're also *******:
unwilling to learn,
never wanting to progress;
they narrow their mind
slamming the door of logic shut.

It's pathetic
how their sorry state
mirrors their uselessness.

I see their faces:
*****, like their skin color;
their pupils,
the only pure and clean feature of theirs;
their teeth, rotting and falling to the ground
like their hopes of wealth are destroyed by reality,
by their failure. They're poor.

They're the first to be aware of their poverty;
they're also the first to lie to themselves:
Why are they criminals?
Why are they stupid?
Why are they mediocre?
Why are they poor?

They're always blaming everyone but themselves,
acting like a victim,
expecting someone to stretch their hand
and tell them everything's fine;
these people end up dead:
either by other's hand or their own.

Their misery is depressing;
it makes me want to demand for an apology
for having to look at such disgusting people.

How
satisfying
is having a hated one
become your victim;
a submissive, cowardly man;
an insecure, docile,
stubborn and stupid woman.

Cruelty turns you into a young, dumb teen again:
you're full of a need for attention,
you have an urge to let your feelings out,
a need to act like you're important
and an urge not to hear but be heard;
you're always looking for ways to stand out,
your brain has devolved.

Make yourself useful.
You wanted to dissect a frog you didn't hate at all,
why wouldn't you tear a despicable ****
or a hateful **** apart as well?
What's different?
That you'll feel bad and go to jail? Are you that cowardly?
No, you just think you're not dumb.

****** turns you into a younger, dumber little girl,
playing with her dolls.
Change, aw, change. How cute.
"Hair looks stupid. She has an ugly face, change it.
Legs are too long, you change them. Too short, give her new legs."
You're never satisfied.

Do it
in any way you can.
You can say something awful to him,
beat her up, get her fired,
manipulate her.
You can even be dumb enough to ****** or **** someone
if you are that desperate,
or use honesty to your advantage.
No one likes your mind.

Regret can exist.
But it doesn't mean you should let it do so.
Serve your self. A therapist does the same,
but nothing is as satisfying as when you get things done yourself.

Even if you do it wrong.
You'll be mature for once.

Future.
It is the child
of nothingness.

And time
is but a pregnant mother.

I stand alone.
I then jump forward;
towards future,
nothingness.

The air blows from up north;
antarctic,
like my skin.
And it blows me.

Its painful breath
collides with each corner of self,
every single one of my dark, lone walls,
echoing notes of one;
a looping Si,
an unheard No.

The air escapes my steaming bell jar
by piercing through the top,
the boiling bulb;
letting me see veins;
letting me see red.

It escapes, so do my innards.

The piercing needle,
a black dot on a white sheet of paper.
A sentenceless period;
an accidental ink splat
shot like a bullet
through the peering barrel
of a dry, old pen.

Then the splat fades and splits.

And goes dry.

And goes white.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Las espinas se disparan,
agujera, degolla
al mío
y al tuyo;
me oculto,
te ocultas,
se ocultan;
simple instinto: Supervivencia.

Incisiones, degollos
(prodigios médicos)
y partires.

Hongos
de ceniza,
de sombras,
de cadáveres,
de carcasas,
de humos,
de peste,
de ceguera,
de gusto,
de nuloporvenires,
de vida.

Tiernas guerras,
dulces bombas.
Pequeños Hiroshima,
pequeños Nagasaki;
¡Así es! Así se llaman;
        así se llaman
los pueblitos
pueblitos de azúcar,
de la entrepierna del cempasúchil,
de hueso bucal,
del pelo de la tierra
        hundidos
de nombre uno no,
todos menos Atlántida,
todo menos carnoso...

        ...agresivo.
Sierras y clavos
nos ensartan al globo
que no se poncha,
pues no es, pero es.

¡Nos crucifican!
¡Oh Dios! Nos habéis dividido,
pecado.
cómo no siento...

...cómo lo siento...

ay......

...termina esta trifulca,
destruye estas trincheras del humedecer,
desmonta las ametralladoras del ahogo,
bala espejo, lenta perecer,
muerte cruel;

estos rifles,
         sus disparos.
   Hongos.
           Tripas (se derrite el cuerpo).

caliente...

          duele...

                quema...

                        ay......

Besar a la tierra
me da un asco tremendo;
no me dejen dormir,
no paren de menear mi elegante recinto
con tal de hacerme abrir los ojos;
no insistan en aliviarme
ni alegrarme
ni vestirme
ni alabarme
entre la pureza de sus flores
y la hipocresía,
descaro y audacia
de sus plegarias de resurrección,
sus estorbosos berrinches insípidos;
dejadme entre los dedos de mi madre morena;
permitid el abrazo
de sus diminutas uñas blancas y cosquillosas
que masticarán mi elemento,
fructuoso, caníbal ritual;
dejadla manosearme
y atraparme entre sus uñas purablancas,
inmóvil;
siendo pura mugre,
suciedad,
tierra;
quitadme mi alta, arránquenmela;
soltadla,
dejadla caer, dejadla reventarse
en el rudo seno del pavimento
donde lo inútil, lo desechable y lo desvalido
reposa junto al amor de su vida,
durmiendo
juntando sus sucias, frías mejillas,
sonrojándose y quemando el gris labiopar
al arcoíris derrotado y pestilente,
marcando al animal
con su beso
soñando despiertos,
mirando hacia otros mundos
que nos esperan en globos de harto visto.

...derramen, derramen
háganme olvidar
háganme olvidar
que se fue,
se fue
se fue
se fueron...

Esta negrura, dueña de mi visión
y mi noción de conciencia;
esta tinta derredor mío,
escribiendo con pluma de llanto
la historia de mi muerte.

Sin nombre, principio ni final,
una historia de la que nunca se sabrá ni leerá,
pues será condenada a la edición cíclica
y a la tachadura del verdugo letrado de pluma
que consigue pensar en algo todavía más cruel;
me convierto en la víctima anónima, inmortal
de este interminable martirio.

Con la envoltura de mi cuerpo
están cubiertas las páginas de mi proeza,
de mi peste y mi estado desvalido;
mi tejido se estira hasta que queda
una línea más, un diálogo más
que conforma a la narrativa del tumulto
y de la reencarnación inconsciente
que condena a mi vida eternamente.

¡Tela, invaluable tela!
Seda de oro infinito valor,
placa de honor, testimonio de mi alta,
de mi cuerpo presente en momento,
continuo necio, resonante, ecos;
toca la pica, herida blanca en la roca queda
y costra blanda, viscosa y brillante,
legible;
no es sino un borrador,
tinta que mata,
piedra que rompe,
mina penetra
que da paso al perdón, clemencia conseguida
entre la presión de los dedos y la pluma.

Muestras de historia,
de vida y mente
mas nunca muerte,
pero no es inmortal;
acero de oro blanco, joya de fue
preserva sino el minar, la extracción,
el sonido de mis pisadas
y mi picar, mis tarareos;
mi presencia;
mi pasar;
mis normas;
mi validez.

Your red’err’, flaymeeng’h’air
that God’ve’abo’tehd,
had’e’realize wha’a’stawnt ye’ve was;
ye crown’d, massive **** ye’ve protestehd,
weeth’th’glohree of Eye’lan, the spring’s in the air,
an’th’lownlay of thou legs tha’eye cahnt but stær,
though the grunt was all ove’an’ then wer’ be wær.

O’er the handsome aykay bullet
the eenglisc downy dohs rest.
T’was the queerest, and sooee’est, most gross thing ye saw,
and the Eyerisc drun’ di’wen’oo Dooblen,
fel’and destroyed he his keraw.

O’ the longest the bridge and plessure closely more eet ees,
line of tat, a cross and nouw pa’ted he did put tou hees bahg,
Queer and greatly th’our chayld wee’ness ye saw,
charged dam’heygh fees and would th’dam’brat brag.

I'll elaborate, short by minuscule and small,
by tiny features'll done be with them all.

Dry, deserted, thirst-inducing abovefrom wasteland.
No more green roads and paths flourish from yer any ***.

Frail and begotten;
O' lad, yer sighing's as worthless and gross as a mother's kiss,
ye'r 'airles, ye worth time of mine is not,
for yer being's every trace's bayn relentlessly torne!
Won't comb nor feel a dread of pulling a single strand off;
not one twirl and loop make a cringe,
nor does one two-finger pull draw any curve at all.

Girlbornlack.

Heartdriven dame, longed for mayl's lifelung...
...long not it was nor took
for the heartnearing to be deemed devolved:
Rosed, delicate, brutally impetuous thrusts
of lips went on, hard as stone,
hit her lovely brown face
and finished her with a kick;
a crashing kiss, that's what it was.
T'was cute; long and warm, tongue involved.
T'was thick and drooling, her bright-red lipstick.

Vehement despise
of a gender's con;
victorious claim
of a mother's life.

The chant of a ******
echoes and flies;
of a holy's con,
a behemoth of a sin.

Then a cowardly raven,
its wings fly up high;
tumultuously, slowly
its downfall takes place.

Its beak stings and goes
through a mother's skull;
her children don't cry
but parade and admire.

In the pits of desire
the children's grief lies;
of a whoreridden father
and a mother who groped.

Learn to fly, never did
for their wings feathers hadn't;
in fact, grown up still haven't
and parents they haven't.

Their cores turn to pulp
and their nerves to black clots;
of sensations they were,
of a dull, bereft life.

One should not spill their tears,
for letting out a part of the soul
leaves one ever more empty.

Our jars are never full;
our child always has to take the top,
the creamy, silky top.

We have to let it smear
and take a bite out of our bodies;
its gums squeeze and pull,
striving for a chew of our skin.

We can't deny it anything at all,
for it throws a temper tantrum,
a testament to its uselessness.

We can't avenge nor claim
what's so rightfully, truthfully ours;
we can't stop it from wanting,
nor can we stop it from ******* us dry.

Jump! Her brain says...
...it says, but think does not
of the fall
and the thrill
of ungluing her shoes off the edge of the bridge
for she wants to jump,
not to see the top of people's heads
that'll stare in pity at her pavement-kissing corpse;
not to see her shadow, growing ever larger, ever darker
and ever more, ever more
akin to the likes of her:
not to look at her "Dear Lucy", her only friend,
face to face
one last time
in hopes of a final Goodbye Kiss.

I saw the shamrock fall,
I saw the shamrock mourn and rot
for Ireland's children, noble beings,
succumbed to England's scorn.

The mother's arms are open,
her children run from her breast
for the English started hanging us
for the wearing of the green.

O' Ireland, your tears have spilled
and reddened your pretty Celtic eyes,
you're full of forlorn and pain
for the Ires die away.

The English rag arises,
the cross barefacedly waved;
the ****** red, left-right strokes
have been drawn on Ireland's chest.

She was stripped of a family,
all bleeding and alone;
now she's fallen to the ground
where her children also fell
when they broke their necks
or when their air was gone;
now all that's left is the wonderful grass
where us fallen lay beneath;
our loving mother is back,
protecting us wearers
the wearers of the green!

As her feet roar louder,
my hatred for the *****
paints itself in my eyes,
crying a lament
of nothingness;
a black, ever-tall wall,
growing bigger and closer to squeeze me
and smear my innards,
lightning fast.

The **** now arrives,
a repulsive, saggy beast;
her leprous, sun-burnt hands,
her thick, drooling fat,
her cartoony, rotten denture,
her malformed, cubical toes,
her clinging, raisin ****;
and her *****, wretched womb
from where my being
has sadly come from.

The ***** now leaves
with a thing in her hand;
it is not her costly, ridiculous, slutty clothing
nor is it her shiny, annoying, stupid fake jewelry;
it is the abortion that failed,
the inevitable omen
of teenager idiocy;
it is I whom she is holding,
her impious creation,
her trophy of defeat,
of the loss of a prosperous life,
of unwanted, fist-ridden coitus.

A flag
waved and boasted
by its monochrome patriots,
darkness and light. Night.

A country
where everyone swims in air;
endless, smooth,
swinging dynamism. They fly.

You can tell how wealthy they were
by peeking through their windows;
y'either see stupid jewels
or pestilent, dirt-ridden bare feet.

Left, right, right, left swing.
Choreographic death,
symphonic screeching
composed by man
and played by God.

Both of you are me but I am not you but both of you
but you are both me and I am both of you but I am not you
is that why I love you two so much yes it is I see you in me and me in you and me in you not you and you one's gone and I'm torn for death of you two kills me while I live on

But they say there are fates worse that death yes there are
Please die later do not die before I do die do not die as I die
before yes but you two will be hurt I don't want to hurt you no
telling myself I'd do no I won't say what I've said I want to say for a while I wanted to say what I want to say right now but I haven't said it until now that I think it is time to tell told truth been told
I love you two I am.

feeling better and satisfied love you of my commitment to love you love you and love you whenever love you you feel like turning your own love necks you.

Friends.
Don't lie before my feet;
not beneath six of them.

They grow thicker,
longer, stronger;
they grow leaves,
birds come and lay on the tips,
each chanting a melody, different in taste;
the wind helps to record
the whistling of the morning;
of the dawnings, a grail
for a realize and beckon
take hold of the branches,
holding you hostage.

The birds come and go,
a fuzzy, warm chirping;
the crickets start screaming,
the chirpers have vanished;
they've turned into dark
and unknown, stabbing beaks.

At the center of it all,
an alarming red bulge
pumps the sun's golden blood
into our every root;
the apple's pride shines
with every dawn that goes by.

Nature, it grows old too.
Time runs and looks nowhere,
the chants are now logical:
a pentagram whose notes
drew long gone smiles;
tall and short figures, virtuous voices
sung a screeching, echoing tune of old.

The apple rots,
the branch is weakened,
numb.
The apple falls.
Holed, bitten.
Begotten, frail and forgotten.
A black worm infests it
like a pungent, stabbing dagger.
Its wound whistles a cold cry of pain,
a farewell whine;
a final goodbye.