My mouth excretes flowers on top of my mother's grave,
im still cold;
waiting for the vision of Carnero.

There are some hidden palaces
blooming their sa(n)dness
at the polluted delta
that caresses my soul.

And im letting go
the blue balloon
of your
surface.

Tomorrow at night
we will have our last dinner
with the poison spilling from red violent lips
to sacred concerto stunning fingers.

When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
When all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
As by a shining brainless beacon
Or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
When you are calm and joyful
And finally entirely alone
Then in a great new darkness
You will finally execute your special plan

One needs to have a plan someone said who was turned away into the shadows
And who I had believed was sleeping or dead
Imagine he said all the flesh that is eaten
The teeth tearing into it
The tongue tasting it's savour
And the hunger for that taste
Now take away that flesh he said
Take away the teeth and the tongue
The taste and the hunger
Take away everything as it is
That was my plan
My own special plan for this world
I listened to these words and yet I did not wonder
If this creature whom I had thought sleeping or dead would ever approach his vision
Even in his deepest dreams
Or his most lasting death
Because I had heard of such plans such visions
And I knew they did not see far enough
But what was demanded in a way of a plan
Needed to go beyond tongue and teeth and hunger and flesh
Beyond the bones and the very dust of bones and the wind that would come to blow the dust away
And so I began to envision a darkness that was long before the dark of night
And a strangely shining light
That owed nothing to the light of day

That day may seem like other days
Once more we feel the tiny legged trepidations
Once more we are mangled by a great grinding fear
But that day will have no others after
No more worlds like this will follow
Because I have a plan
A very special plan
No more worlds like this
No more days like that

There are but four ways to die a sardonic spirit might have said to me
There is dying that occurs relatively suddenly
There is dying that occurs relatively gradually
There is dying that occurs relatively painlessly
There is the death that is full of pain
Thus by various means they are combined
The sudden and the gradual
The painless and the painful
To yield but four ways to die
And there are no others
Even after the voice stopped speaking
I listened for it to speak again
After hours and day and years have passed
I listened for some further words
Yet all I heard were the faintest echoes reminding me
There are no others
There are no others
Was it then that I began to conceive for this world
A special plan?

There are no means for escaping this world
It penetrates even into your sleep
And is his substance
You are caught in your own dreaming
Where there is no space
And a hell forever where there is no time
You can't do nothing you aren't told to do
There is no hope for escape from this dream
That was never yours
The very words you speak are only it's very words
And you talk like a traitor
Under it's incessant torture

There are many who have designs upon this world
And dream of wild and vast reformations
I have heard them talking in their sleep
Of elegant mutations
And cunning annihilations
I have heard them whispering in the corners of crooked houses
And in the alleys and narrow back streets of this crooked creaking universe
Which they with their new designs were made straight and sound
But each of these new and I'll conceived designs
Is deranged in it's heart
For they see this world as if it were alone and original
And not as only one of count with others
Whose nightmares all precede
Like a hideous garden grown from a single seed
I have heard these dreamers talking in their sleep
And I stand waiting for them
As at the top of a darkened flight of stairs
They know nothing of me
And none of the secrets of my special plan
While I know every crooked creaking step of theirs

It was the voice of someone who was waiting in the shadows
Who was looking at the moon and waiting for me to turn the corner
And enter a narrow street
And stand with him in the dull glaze of moonlight
Then he said to me
He whispered
That my plan was misconceived
That my special plan for this world was a terrible mistake
Because, he said, there is nothing to do and there is no where to go
There is nothing to be and there is no one to know
Your plan is a mistake, he repeated
This world is a mistake, I replied

The children always followed him
When they saw him hopping by
A funny walk
A funny man
A funny, funny, funny man
He made them laugh sometimes
He made them laugh oh yes he did
He did he did he did he did
Oh how he made them roll
One day he took them to a place
He knew a special place
And told them things about this world
This funny, funny, funny world
Which made them laugh sometimes
He made them laugh oh yes he did
He did he did he did he did
Oh how he made them roll
Then the funny man who made them laugh
Sometimes he did
Revealed to them his special plan
His very special funny plan
Knowing they would understand
And maybe laugh sometimes
He made them laugh
Oh yes he did
He did he did he did he did
Their eyes grew wide beneath there lids
And how he made them roll

I first learned the facts from a lunatic
In a dark and quiet room that smelled of stale time and space
There are no people
Nothing at all like that
The human phenomenon is but the sum of densely coiled layers of illusion
Each of which winds itself upon the supreme insanity
But there are persons of any kind
When all that can be is mindless mirrors
Laughing and screaming as they parade about
In an endless dream
But when I asked the lunatic what it was
It swore itself within these mirrors
As they marched endlessly in stale time and space
He only looked and smiled
Then he laughed and screamed
And in his black and empty eyes
I saw for a moment as in a mirror
A form the shade of divinity
In flight from it's stale infinity
Of time and space and the worst of all
Of this world dreams
My special plan for the laughter
And the screams

We went to see some little show
That was staged in an old she'd
Past the edge of town
And in it's beginnings all seemed well
The miniature curtain stage glowed in the darkness
While those dolls bounced along on their strings before our eyes
And in it's beginnings all seemed well
But then there came a suttle turning point which some have noticed
And I was one
Who quietly left the show
No I did not
Because I could see where things were going
As the antics of those dolls grew strange
And the fragile strings grew taut
With their tiny pullings, tiny limbs
The others around me became appalled
And turned away and abandoned the show
That was staged in an old she'd
Past the edge of town
But I wanted to witness what could never be
I wanted to see what could not be seen
But the moment of consummate disaster
My puppets turned to face the puppet master

It was twilight and I stood in a greyish haze of the vast empty building
When the silence was enriched by a reverberant voice
All the things of this world it said
Are of but one essence
For which there are no words
This is the greater part which has no beginning or end
And the one essence of this world for which there can be no words
Is that all the things of this world
This is the lesser part which had a beginning and shall have an end
And for which words were conceived solely to speak of
The tiny broken beings of this world it said
The beginnings and endings of this world it said
For which words were conceived solely to speak of
Now remove these words and what remains it asks me
As I stood in the twilight of that vast empty building
But I did not answer
The question echoed over and over
But I remained silent until the echoes died
And as twilight passed into the evening I felt my
Special plan for which there are no words
Moving towards a greater darkness

There are some who have no voices
Or none that will ever speak
Because of the things they know about this world
And the things they feel about this world
Because the thoughts that fill a brain
That is a damaged brain
Because the pain that fills a body
That is a damaged body
Exists in other worlds
Countless other worlds
Each of which stands alone in an infinite empty blackness
For which no words are being conceived
And where no voices are able to speak
When a brain is filled only with damaged thoughts
When a damaged body is filled only with pain
And stands alone in a world surrounded by infinite empty blackness
And exists in a world for which there is no special plan

When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
When all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
As by a shining brainless beacon
Or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
When you are calm and joyful
And finally entirely alone
Then in a great new darkness
You will finally execute your special plan

This is an immortal battered moon
bleeding
the sacred nectar
of time.

Snapdragon expel
unpleasant perfumes of my
**** old tenderness...

The poem bleeds
from the ancient city of emperors
and pours his saliva
about geniuses
on mothers *****
in small wooden churches ;
the poem bleeds,
coloring with mystery
the tasteless past
of the sorrows of the world.

Hide your scars
away from my lips
and maybe
illness will save us from past

Hide your lips
from my fire mouth
and maybe
we'll meet in the entrance of love

Hide your legs
from my one-thousand-eyes
and maybe
the end will take us
to the awakeness
or the misery
of being
two
sparks
of
divinity.

Hide your shame
into my chest
and i promise my love
i'll keep it safe
and clear
and pure

Hide anything
but
your
soul.

Eternal Schumann:
Your head was born
Between the shadow
Of your  ghost
Daffodil and echo
Always running around
into the wrong guideline
Of your love for Brahms
I think of you in the madhouse
Skinned by demons
And raised by the angels
You remind me of the gloomy manifestation
Of pure love
And every note
From the concert in La
Gloriously dragging
All that energy and ceiling,
All that contained love
Haunting your holy peace
Snatching the muse
Of the sublime and vertical fabric
From the truth ground to sticks.
It's a heartbreaking era
And the corpse of Schumann the terrible
Has been resting for a century
In dizzying memory
Of the human
Already impoverished
For the departure of God
And abandoned
To their fate
To the last cadence
That you did not write
In the first delirium
From schizophrenia




R.

Some strange poison
consumes my heart.
Im shining
my pretty face,
my lips all red,
my naked body
my hands.

Some stranger water
gets dark
inside my heart

It is not about saying good bye
It is about
the prolonged pain
that sleeps
betwen
a beauty
pair
of
legs.

This flower is crying mama...

the last chance that i take about flowers was nectar
and now:

just blooming


i want your precious faceless flower
just for fun
and may be we will get to the graveyard
of my purity

You all are shadows
and lies
so
keep me on
my
plane(t)

El temblor ebefrenetico fue presagio
del arcoiris y las despedidas.
Los relámpagos circundantes anunciaban así
Al silencio y las
Mareas
Y el fuego fractal del norte
Y el fuego circular del sur
Y el fuego espiral del este
Y el fuego paralelo del oeste
formaron un coro de artificios modulantes
A extrañas tonalidades y estrellas
Y deshechos en su abandono desesperado al viento
Cuyo soplo aviva
Cuatro puntos cardinales y un quinto
Amanecer florido
De símbolo invisible en los anaqueles
Y apartado de cartas muertas, letras muertas
Apañado a un espacio diminuto en las memorias
De las serendipias y cronopios
Que copulan libres
En los bosques de mi anhelo:

Infinita tú,
Sombra etérea y sol
De mi voraz día.

Taciturna luz
Santa, piadosa y vil:
Devórame hoy.

A ti Diosa mar
Cuyo coral de fuego
Me rompe en dos.

Los bellos cantos
Las dulces odas y más
En la noche gris.

Íntimo pulso
Que nace entre pausa
Y caricia.

Adiós: musa,
Que para el invierno
Es tantísimo.

Mood: Miss Kittin & the Hacker-1000 dreams
Date: 2:09 a.m

At the end, he Smiles at me;
for a strange(r) reason
Mr.Slummber
was a
love
poe-m
with a happy
end.

To Shortie

There Is something
unique
Behind those eyes
Like a Sun explotion.

Right there happens
A thousand kisses deep
& all the others
Love songs thats makes you
Cry

But, afterwords:
Neither you save me
& neither i fly
So the only thing thats remains
Is this funny smell
Of a memorie on your hips

Give me some clear water
That one thats spill into the rain
and seductively brings life
and life eventually gets
one degree higher
till the sun rises
and you can see
the desert flowers blooming,
and the wind,
colored gorgeous and chanting wind
takes away
my deep dream
about a pair of beautyful
eyes
cause thats belong
to eternity and God
and they are so sacred
as your bellybottom
and my wish

This is called
how to
go deep into sea
with harpoon
and spores of magic
mushrooms
for getting nothing
back  home.

Yes, because we are
vegetarians
and the turtles
and jellyfishes
belongs each other
as my typo
and
i.

Here, now:
looking at the bright star of your deity bodyless.

You have grown colder
as the music use to say,
and i have grown deeper into a trance
that encompasses my void.

Let me see your fragile weakness soul
and play spells
incomprehensible magic mantra
becoming shadow
indulging wounds
praying the secret poem
to a homeless paria.

Let me take the easy way
to death.

One day we will become
into flowers
and our smells
will write
the cantata of mature fruit
and our song
will reveal the sadstone
that burns
within.

I see a whale in the horizon
and it´s the ethereal of wisdom
the final day
soon it will come
all over the place
to spread the last
silence
the last bleed
another scar
before to leave
another rose
frost heave
another tear
backflows
and then
the leap

The only one good thing
was that i never had you,
instead
you bring
flower to my graveyards
and ligth to this empty
painfull
void
full of nothing
but angst
and silence
Where ******* and Mr Fishes
was dancing
with his bloodstained
fingers
tearing
my
golden
hearts.
And if you want to know
it
really
hurts.
But this sea, and this stranger birds
diving the deep of ****** force
of the vulcano
& the rose
seeking a call (a cause)
are now
beautiful
reflections
of you
and
this
sad
fly

Ti-jean leaves his poems
at the entrance to the cemetery
and the insane
misers of love
they try to strip
to letters and notes
of all silence
And it is that silence is the resolution
of our sevenths of decrease
and sensitive.
Ti-jean leaves his heart
right in the gate
that you open with your poetry;
that to elaborate
difficult tongue twisters
about the freedom to love each other.
The pouring rain
In my face
it's just
an echo
of you
and
your shadow:
Ti-jean.

A loop in the middle
of the line-track
of life

gathering the final dreams
but yawning
infinite abyss of sorrow
eternal man-dness
desire
extasis
pale
golden
dream
that's bringing
the knowledge
and dusk
from an era to new dawn
golden as well the fishes
and Sun and mirror
and stars
and fire
thats burning
inside the chest

Oh! You and my multiple hearts
hidding yourself to the public,
full of old and pernicious wishes
ready to die in each single moment

pausa

30 seconds later we'll watch
where the night deposit
a scumbag inside a box
and a box inside a bag
as and old, and pernicious too
tendentious joke.

There is a light
in the end of abyss
and its shining
like a bioluminescent
jelly-dream.

And this is somethig to think about:
the bottom of the ocean
is like
a plastic
fake
tree
because its
invisible for normal eye.

One time, i saw
in the deep of silence
a lot of strange animals
traveling far-away
from home.

Love is:
Mr Fishes going all the way/down
to the lonely concerto.
Love is:
Mr Fishes slummbering the dream
of mad desire for the moon.
Love is:
Cold coffe on a warm chat room.
love is Mr Fishes naked
rolling the blunt
of my
wish.

I'm going to tell you an story:

At first
There was only
Fractals
And mysterious forces
That they wove them
On the delicate canvas
From the void.

Galactic Star Beings
Whose fingers and limbs
They danced in a swing
Dictated by the music of heaven

And there, in the middle of the fire of creation
Cosmic little seed, sigh
Hidden in the subsequent emulsion
From the juices of god
Spilling over
Free humanity
That barely light
Runs
Perpetual
Between the shelves of time
Drawing footsteps of all sizes
In all hemispheres,
distributed
Through latitudes, sown at the tip of Oz and the sword
Of a complex zoology
That of the human animal
Fire thief
Polyphonic heron of storms
Seabird that augurs stars

Because we are built
With feathers
That threw the phoenix and the albatross
On the holy land.

And bloom right in the middle
At the beginning of the war
When everything succumbs
And the ruin falls to pieces.

Little rainbow seed, your serpent tongue
Invoke the circular prayer of your abdomen
A sacred energy

Possessed in the word
You undress
Oracle of ******
Emitting a little moan
Barely cat

And overshadowed the man in his misery
Contemplate gods that understand nothing
Rejoice in tumultuous ecstasy
Of his exacerbated human games
Oh for the being of creation
The whole cosmos!

Sanctus and lux aeternam, in paradisum
No requiem bears your name, no bullet
Plus all my poems
No grave my epitaph
And i have died
More than a thousand times

Shake is to infinite prison of bones
The sacred words of the alseid
And the naiad of moisture
How jubilant
He gave his most beautiful flower to Priapus

And you who did not want to lose yourself
In the labyrinth of the Minotaur
When you offer
Your blood on lotus leaves
Worshiping Polyphemus, the lotus eaters
And to the cyclops in the same way
And me sitting in the middle of the odyssey
With headphones on
And the lost look
Thinking
When will the war happen?
When will the war happen?
When will the war happen?

R.

I was a worm and I closed in on myself.
In the grave that I was I forged my wings.
Love called me, raised me to his grace.
He scorched my hermit face.
Your love was a light, which urged me to flight.
It was a burning, sharp light.
It was a star to crash my shadow.
It was a sliver of light, it was a flame.
I was dazzled in my crypt: I entered your halo,
I put my verse on the edge of your sword,
I put myself in your center: it was of fire:
I used to settle in the fire house.
In the fire
I saw myself a worm, a butterfly, a passion, a spark with wings ...
I did not know if I was burning
nor if it was all the light your flare.
I haven't seen myself since.
I have not come to myself. I am so two
that I get confused: when you call me I call you,
when you call me you flare your own flank.
Your love was of light: it is a sore, a wounded sun,
an autophagous fire in my bed.
I have consumed myself in you, in you it has been consumed
my volatile course towards nothingness.

A gentle shadow emerges
from the horizon’s edge—
God,
unfolding in infinite
obscurations.

Above the swamp,
Isis Trismegistus gazes,
where poetry is born
in the quiet glow of revelation.

Golden radiance fastened to the table,
fate shimmering before the divine.
Curled in stillness,
the cosmos unveils itself—
awe before the mystery,
quantum possibilities cascading
in spectral waves
from the mermaids’ tails.

A water-laden womb
sings in harmony,
rising and swaying
to the Sun’s
unfathomable whims.

Time bends,
a spiral of echoes and forgotten tenses,
where longing dissolves
into the trembling silence
of a dream.

I always let the ego speak,
its voice of shattered mirrors
and lips that never quiet.
But the poem is something else:
a refuge of monsters,
where the flesh of fear
learns to pronounce its name.

The light scorches,
oblong and pure,
tearing apart the shadow I thought was mine.
It is the truth:
a burning blade that does not console,
a justice that asks for no permission,
but burns,
but aches,
until it leaves me blank.

And in that maskless void,
who speaks now?

Flesh and moonlight.
Flesh and moonlight.
Hands rise like silver branches,
eyes bloom in rivers of glass.
Here, the skin is not a boundary—
it hums, it shivers, it ascends.

Mouths in the walls whisper my name
The blood on the walls is a map of the heavens,
a hymn to silence,
a door made of sound.

Flesh and moonlight.
Flesh and moonlight.
The sky is a wound where the stars spill through,
a thousand burning voices in a spiral of dawn.
In every corner, an eye awakens.
In every shadow, a wing unfolds.

Your bones are constellations,
your veins, rivers of silver.
There is no door to close,
no hand to stop the wind.

Flesh and moonlight.
Flesh and moonlight.
Offer yourself to the watchers.
Offer yourself to the flame.
Rise.
Rise.
Rise.

Time is a burning wheel,
flesh bends, shifts, ascends.
There is no end. There is no end.
There is no end. There is no end.

Flesh and moonlight.
Flesh and moonlight.
Flesh and moonlight.

Inevitably, something has fractured
and I renounce:

I renounce beer, captive lover of sublime moments.
I renounced my children, defiled in the womb by shadowed adulteresses.
I renounced my mother's love,
who flung herself into the gaping jaws of empire.

I renounce Zurita and Vallejo,
I renounce Rimbaud and Lorca.
I renounce the revolution—
a slaughterhouse of lambs bathed in epitaph sauce.

I renounce the symbolic burning of the body
because I renounce the body.
I renounce the beauty of being surrounded by lotuses
because for me, blood and bones.
Because for the disinherited, the roads
are mapped in filth.

I renounce your fingers tracing my spine
because I renounce my spine.
I renounce the madness of your ***
and the trampling that follows.

I renounce poetry,
for she renounces my wanton kiss.
I renounce metaphysics and catharsis.
I renounce the ceaseless spilling of ink.

I renounce eclipses.
I renounce dimming my eyes with tears
that do not belong to me,
that are not even mine.

I renounce returning,
for the path moves only forward.
I renounce leaving,
for I will sit beneath this vine—
and I will not eat its grapes,
and I will not drink its wine.

And when, a thousand years from now,
a monk arrives
and lays the three masks of the universe
before my bones,

I will renounce my bones—
and the universe
with its three masks.

I am the fiery bird, the dancing flame,
the burning spiral, embered in the dark,
the star that pulses at the night’s deep core,
the dynamo that drives the endless age,
the breath exhaled by one extinguished sun,
the bat-black wings in heaven’s music box.

I am the shadow climbing hell’s high walls,
the gaze within Tiranux Rex’s eye,
the tremor tearing down the bounds of truth,
the vortex swallowing the cosmic edge,
the echo cast from beating wings to quake.

I am the breath of magma, trapped in stone,
the voice of Echo, caught in cursed loops,
the first and last reveal, the final word.
I am the bloom that bursts from rotting roots,
the deadly sprout emerging from the dust,
the equinox reborn in astral waltz,
the sharpened blade that carves the yawning void.

I am the glitch that ruptures every beat,
the broken loop in techno’s throbbing pulse,
the four on floor, mechanics bound in sin.
I am the birth and end of every cry,
the void that lingers after ****** fades,
the lonely path that leads to Xanax dreams,
the thirst unquenched, the hunger of the beast,
the burning flesh, the pupil wide with dark.

I am the silence after lightning’s strike,
the breath that lingers when the storm has passed,
the fleeting shadow that the dawn consumes,
the pulse that beats within the stillness found.

I am the moment where time falls away,
the flame that flickers in the heart of night,
the echo of a voice long left unheard,
the endless dance, the never-ending flight.

And when the last star fades, I will remain,
the fire reborn, the circle made complete.
For I am all, the void, the end, the start,
the endless rhythm of the soul’s heartbeat.

Today I awoke from the slumber
with the clear vision of madness.
The ink of ancient antiquarians
takes agogic form,
the texture of coral
lit by aureate petals.

My fleeting trails of vapor
pale beside the passing dusks—
capricious canvases of divine pastels
melting with grace.

Meanwhile, the ravenous rats
ravage the primordial seats of control,
lurking in shadowed corners,
pestilent.

And the infamous droppers
of poetry
demand the meter
of free verse,
free,
free...

Today I awoke from the swollen chimera,
believing myself Don Juan,
emperor of all the realms of the world.
Reclining upon the image of dream,
I remember:

Volatile shadows slip
between pallid smiles
and dim the sincere hatching
of great feathered reptiles
who once again awaken
to the comfort
of gunfire.

No one shall spark the revolution
without first hurling themselves into the fire.

With steady feet,
anchoring the colored wake,
precise work,
the constancy of the pulse,
the sacrifice of fire,
the final dance,
the culmination of ******
in mediocre divine rejoicings,
with spontaneous illuminations
that reflect the utter absence
of meaning.

They pale in ego
before the sordid gaze
of the automatons of rebellion.

They writhe,
agonized, in sharp pains,
revive briefly,
bare their gums,
twitch their fingers,
spread their wings,
close their eyes...
Close their eyes
and try to hear:

the silence that spills
from every sonic vibration
expelled from the center—
an eruptive blaze
from the inner fire of madness,
the uncertain shadow of onomatopoeia,
of rhetoric, of contradiction,
of the cube exploding within each subtle body,
expanding
at speeds that outpace
the longest of abysses,
piercing the very center
of the universal web,
telepathic, morphogenetic, hyperluminous.

With thunder and melodic lightning
wreaking immediate havoc
on the malevolent fabric
of illusion—
that ensnares me,
that hurls me
to the offense.

We have died a thousand and one million times.
We have returned in the body of the eagle, the crow,
all recognizable wings—
and the unrecognizable:
those that paint the cosmic asphalt
with tapestries of red giants,
blue hypergiants,
white dwarfs.

I have died a million times—
and a thousand more.
I have returned in many forms
and with many deaths.

We have been crows of eagles,
ocelots, asphaltic heartbeats
that blanket the cosmic sky
with tapirs, quetzals,
monkeys of redundant faces,
violent mirrors—
violent mirrors—
violent mirrors
that greet us with fists
and reveal
the broken wings of the interrupted song,
the song that does not fit,
the cacophonic diminished,
the senselessness,
the swift *****
of a vertiginous welcome
that flings itself once more
onto the path
of the many forms of death.