The letters have faded;
only leaving behind your tongue on my mouth.

And when I close my eyes,
I see carnal stars in the night,
yelling at my hands.

I can see them tickling the savage vice,
that your phallus has become,
to cause the heartbeat of the universe,
right directly among my legs.

And then,
the fury boils in my blood,
because I can hear cellos and violins on the silence;
when I think of you.

I turn my self into an extint quetzal,
and the rainforest cries,
because I don't have you,
since nothing of this is real,


and I'm still thinking of you,

then I look trough the window,
to the sky,
and I see clouds,

then I imagine that we are making love,
and we fall asleep,
and we dream of I don't know what random things;

suddenly I come back to reality,
when I see two hummingbirds trough the same window,

and everything turns out to be stridentist,

like a rattle of my heart when your tongue relish my right earlobe,

and I think of you,

and my hands are the color of your voice,
so deep...

And nothing matters now,

because, fiercely, you endure, ungraspable
like an aria in the opus of my mind,



and now, you have become real...

The dilemma.
The Internment.
The freedom.
Freedom? Which?
Because the more you try to keep your physical freedom,
the more you are close to loose the freedom in your mind,
little by little.
I’m drowning without water.
Into my own voice.

"Sonorous Voice"

Is what it's called by my shrink, which, according to her, its completely normal in the human being.

Is it normal that your own mind tries to sabotage you?

Its called Borderline, baby.

That is why you are able to write such beautiful poems;

to love so profoundly,

or defend your posture and your ideals before a judge.

But when you are alone,
by yourself,
there is no one to argue with, but your own silent voice.

And that’s when the verbiage comes.

And the dilemma,

should I intern my self in the mad house, so I can get my right meds?

Or should I just keep writing until the madness goes away?

In the mean time,
I will keep making love to life,
like if there was no tomorrow…

Words,
being shouted silently.

Sounds,
colors,
becoming oil,
sliding slowly over the back of my neck.

A quill, on fire,
pouring out letters,
-ashes-
melting poetry onto my lower back.

My body, has now become ethereal;
there is no pain within my mind.

And I can finally breath again.

The light bird has open,
wide,
its wings,
taking advantage of the wind,
that,
awkwardly,
has risen in its density;
if the bird does not fly right now,
at this precise moment,
it will die, vanish,

among all the screams,
that a very dark forest is conducting…

I am that bird,
pushing hard to open up my wings,
and fly away, harder,
and get to you.

Because you are the warm breeze that my wings need;
to become tangible,
free.

I must fly to you,
sanity,
so I don’t lose myself into the ashes where I come from.

Fly through the sea,
that threatens my trip with its deep vastness.

I must fly into your eyes,
for they are my darkest secret,
my desert;
the desert where I want to lay,
lay on its soft dunes, like a wounded dove,
and, calmly, peaceful, fall in its quick sands.

The desert its redemption.

The sea dangerous.

The sea is deep, and full of creatures,
such as the one that has its own voice,
that lives inside my mind.

The desert it’s plane.
Lonely,
but beautiful, silent,
with only a few redeemed beings living on it;
having survived one of the gruesome deaths:
losing themselves in their own madness.

You are my desert.

I want to lay naked on the oasis of your body,
exhausted,
but thirsty still,
thirsty of your skin.
I will quench my desire with your saliva,
and  be fed by each one of your fingers.

I need to push my wings harder,
so I can take a final flight,
and I may reborn.
And be finally free,
flight without my wings.

Amok-Insanity in a murderous frenzy*

My pith transcends to an encounter with your skin, amok.
Transcends to each single word been said, to any plaint been moan by a ******.
My skin it’s only a vignette of the universe, a tattooed moon in God’s scapula.
Endures to the bites of the madness, transcends to the existence itself.
My pith has wings, and it’s like the smoke of the cigarrete I’m smoking with you.
Free.

Time,
realm that holds everything,
eon’s mobile picture.

In the Time, there are no shapes of human souls.
Only the one from the gear between states of life.

The Universe;
the Been;
and the Time:
Delitescent, ethereal, infinite.

The Time its sited on a bench of the Existence’s Park,
waiting  for the life or death passes by,
while reading the Book of Life.

The Time is recumbent, listening to the Destiny,
while this, calmly sings to him.