Seized by the fear,
The justice transforms paradoxically
into perspectives.
Perspective of people
who only float
and do not question
their fragile concept of existence.
Lying to themselves,
they decided from their comfort zone
to speak of “justice” to the world; yet
as long as you don’t understand truly
the truth about your chains, you’ll keep on
defending the empire.
You will never truly understand the pain of others,
you will never be able to truly feel the justice
because you fear dying,
and also paradoxically,
although I am giving you the answer,
you also fear loving.
And without love there will never be true justice.

————

Apoderados por el miedo,
la justicia se transforma paradójicamente
en perspectivas.
Perspectiva de personas
que solo flotan y no cuestionan
su frágil concepto de existencia.
Engañándose
decidieron desde su comodidad
hablar sobre “justicia” para el mundo; pero
mientras que no comprendan verdaderamente
la verdad sobre sus cadenas, seguirán protegiendo al imperio.
Jamás entenderán el dolor de otros,
jamás podrán verdaderamente sentir la justicia
porque temen morir,
y paradójicamente también,
aún que les den la respuesta,
también temen amar,
y sin amor jamás habrá verdadera justicia.

I reflect with a projection,
when hearing
melodies of rhythm or
stronger
lower basses like guttural
voice chords, especially
in the dark or being on a waiting room
of a car ride,
whenever I want it or not
/
an endless dance or some
semi-tangible
image that twirls into
hot
red
rose
petals
even though
there’s no dress to whizz,
feet strong like Carmen Amaya’s
had no mercy for Iberian taverns’
dance floors of flamenco
/
watching that spectacle
always
from discarded collage views
/
of that accounting
and how no
voice is needed to direct
the melody a vector,
only let it be sung-thrung
through the heat rising
and orchestra listened to
completely, sharp motions in
the eyes of the crowd
or those who had ever considered
pondering on me like a philosophy...

Maybe such styles and asphyxiations
of rapid ragged jerkings of too sharp
notes in the air cutting
the atmosphere like a blunt knife
have got to me a long time ago,
stay ever more as visions to moves
audacious, and have been
chosen beforehand my vessel
without its decision to be turned
into something greater
in the collaboration with my own other dishes
to fit Passion.

Then - then - I always imagine - then
in all that how
any certain entity
would be looking at that,
taking it in from the outside
and what that painting of me
partly
will be made as
in their sculpted no flesh
eyes.

/
Thank you
Ladies, Gentlemen, Whoever Further
for attending
/

Though another day passes,
once having arrived,
cinnamon sunny
with a misguided preaching
from a catholic church,

I recall our gorgeous
misty evening
right by the waves
from yesterday
and its one peculiar
moment:
my dad pointed to
a far away regatta
sailing in
a distance
whilst standing to my
right and asked
me not quoting

“Do you know why
I wanted to go
to the sea?
The vastness of that body,
no endings in infinity,
no one to tell me
what to do,
and once you sailed away
from the harbour
it was just
it
living.

Whilst I was on my night shift
at the very front
of the ship
on my ever first voyage
by sea,
heading to
England from Gdynia,
I felt as if I
was the very first
man to discover the oncoming
land,
like Cristopher Columbus
with his dear Santa María
breaking the waves”.

Yes, Dad.
I would add,
settled in my question

“Why do I long somehow
in smaller
or bigger
ways too at
times for that
aforementioned harbour
and otherness with so many
sounds, details,
lights and
dancing dangerous like
knives in a tavern
thrown?
For so similar
yet
so privately schemed
departures I paint?”,

I would answer
without Brain,
even if it would be solely
in perfect, dreamy way
sketched:

“Because there is
some greater and
truer breath
of mine held out
by a foreign hand
or by standing lonely
from the other mirror’s side
in front of some tremendous
waves of Kanagawa,
hugging itself small
yet with fearless Child’s
patience, like
the Young Verter
on his painting.
Some more abstract
and
breathtaking
with charisma image
of me there
stands, flowing
instead of walking,
through called aisles.
Beige coat into the
blue falling.

The No Man’s Skies
and Lands
(or yet
Of Some Men)
to be felt with all
the body and
upraising in all hues
and minute sacrifices
in speechless
wonders,
like lagoon’s turquoise
water that would shine
in a cave’s dark
with krill dancing.”

Some upholdings,
some blind images
and all rest
fresh,
windy,
dark
and light with grey
whose voicing
I cannot make,
not just to keep
it in immaculation
to stay non-maimed.

Tss
Ouch.
The Missing.

El,
ese,
acantilado.

Él,
Que se lo cruza, que se lo llama,
del mar que viene pero él
que se queda,
y forma todas las playas
de verdades, turbulencias,
¡que sólo los barcos de dignidad
alcáncenlo, ellas!

Yes, surely I am deplored by
the beauty of destructions’ marking, holding dear
what’s longingly perverted
through the lost.
Ravens’ repulsing cries
are the needed on the shores,
not just on the autumn,
the rotting of the sea tales
their voices hold,
the selection of exquisite
that my preference twisted wants.
And so much else I daze over,
that overlay of the Emerald Land’s
waves and beats that
my distant to the south shore pleads,
that jade,
that shock,
that valiancy of the Scots
which in our sands
and crashing skies
should be,
lusts
to be.

The awaiting
for that dripping glory
in a mellowed casing of a wrecking ship,
it’s in a waiting room
made from a lone standing rock
that carries myths and ventures
to fulfill,
the Young Verter’s
everlasting,
tinting
moment.

Show up on our silver days
at the bays,
El Acantilado,
del Norte, caro,
The Cliff, The Cliff,
Ese Acantilado!

Bury all my entrails.

Y otros deshielos,
Sin ningún cubrimiento
Literal o no,
Sin tumba de piedra
Ni flores ya matados
Para mi indulgencia.

En un bosque.

Tenero e silenzioso,
Ma della grandezza
Dell’Allah creato,

Al lado de un árbol
Que me elegirá
Por debajo de la tierra.

No coffin,
Priests,
City
Nor money.

Planter pépins
Et autres
Futures vies
Dans ma tombe pour que
Mon corps puisse alimenter
Ces pousses du sol.

Pour que les racines
Me donnent bienvenue
Chez ma Maison enfin
Et qu’elles
M’embrassent.

Spread into the world
All the tears & blades
Of my guilts & glories,
Publish one way or another
My mission/
Legacy/
Work to them
With due dedication
Said.

Don’t recall my intelligence
Or talent,
Rather all beauties I was
& gave life to,
My Passion in my
Chosen things,
My love,
Heraldry,
Striving for beating the measlyness
Of this world out of
Or in me,
My wisdom.

How I placed my eyes,
Poems and efforts upon you
And on this state of things’ world,
How Language, Literature,
Words, Dreams,
Tears and Art celebrated my
Days alongside me as true
People indeed.

How I fought shame and death,
Longed to make you feel
My gaze’s intensity on
(Or not) you,
How I kept facing lies
Of useless withering
Despite ingenuity of mine.

I shall finally embrace
Eywa/Allah/God/The Moon
And see if I was worth it all
In the end.
I will probably finally meet
My Lover dearest
To see if they were there after all
And kiss them with the greatest
Fervor I can muster.
I will become all those things
Lingering in the air
And coming to your gut
Knittances
When you sense
And as much suddenly
Can’t explain.

No more will I have to eat,
Sleep,
Be clothed (in muzzle)
Or wear shoes.
No more will anyone make me
Care about how my vessel
Looks like.

Join my departure,
All you
To whom I’ve ever mattered
More than casual,
Join my freedom.
Live, strive,
Breath at last,
Poetise,
Think, love, wonder/wander,
Feel, read, touch,
And literally kiss the
Trees, sky
And all sacralities you are in/on.

And if I hadn’t completed
My mission yet,
I’ll do what I can
To be back
And linger
To
Make
It.

Thank you.

At a governmental or another fancy door
Asked again who I am to call,
For my name, affiliation through and fro,
Who am I worth enough to stand at all.

As I bask in my glance and walking tall,
Asked for ID I tear it all,
With the shoes thrown off
And Mind elegantly deformed
I ravish how they eyes are stupefied, so lost

Well, seeming Madam/Sir,
No letter or phone shall make me up,
No telling shall ever be enough
to push all the liquids of senses, acts
from before my eyes
to your lips’ or ears’ sight,
Yet to have it done already
I’ll try to muster an answer
of that measly form,
So on a silent yet like jazz smooth
rampage I go:

I, am,
Immortal Poetry,
Of greater feverishness than a human kiss,
That even I can’t deprive myself of.
I have no restricted name,
Age or body & its ***.

I am eternal pilgrim on that soil,
With my place in My Lover high above,
With no human maternal language.
A Dreamweaver,
Novel,
Sensation in a melody,
Howling Nighty-Starry Wind.

All the gazes & chases I made in my books,
All longings & katharsi of mine.
Un Alma Perdida de ojos y pelo dorados
Que extraña su justo hogar entre versos,
Hierba y estrellas.

A prologue and an epilogue,
C-major on a private, broken guitar string,
Haze, blur in your mind.
The stars I barely see,
My ****** of skin,
And stern eyes of love-arousing passing-by
among the beasts of your kin.

I. Am. I.
For now so much to add,
Now, seeming Sir/Madam,
I’ll let myself pass by

A gun came up along the way.
Marrying you with the grave prematurely.
However, all that was needless,
As your father had already engaged you two before,
You’d been dead inside for oh so long.

Todd was right about that all along,
More perceptive than the rest.

How ironic and grotesque:
a fire burning so truly and strongly was put out
with a single blow,
How the greatest few hours of your life were made gradually
into your worst and, eventually, your end.

And how is that fair?

The curtains have been drawn,
The audience is long gone,
Yet your act won’t be in vain,
Not if I have something to say.
No, most certainly not!

You’ve become the greatest proof for all those fools
Of the power of the living word,
Of the power of a rebelled voice,
Of the immortal art of a being of poetry,
who’s the true soul of the universe.
Keating’s work became fulfilled in your choices,
The very fruit of his teachings.
You showed those mortals, that no matter
what they claim, do or inflict on you,
they could never **** you.
Neither rules, nor words nor the trigger.
You’re the champion, you’re the winner.

Altogether, we became Poetry ourselves.
No quills, paper or audience were needed,
just the world around us, our voices and passion in our eyes.
We gained the upper hand in the process of the withering,
Weaving ourselves into the tether of all the matters.
Now, no grave or unwritten memories shall restrict us or make us perish.
Never more, as art has no rules.

With all due respect, I give you back
your rightful laurel wreath.
With all your greatness you deserved that prize,
of meaning greater than just a crown of an actor;
The victory over others’ power,
Over fear to speak,
Over fear to sing,
Over fear to be.

You were a misunderstood artist, though not like those, that are many of them.
Your amalgamation of all that you were,
Though so harshly interrupted on that fateful night,
made the authorities and that cold academy see,
That it is them who let you down, not you,
That they can never quench
the call of the Life,
the truth whispered up there
among the trees,
A soul’s thriving beauty, in all the madness of the existence

The curtain’s fallen,
The audience is long gone,
But I shall commemorate you forevermore,
As a poet and artist of the Life owes it
to another of their kin.
With all the pride, honour and bitterness,
You are more than welcome,
as a true member,
in the Dead Poets Society.
- - -
As I let quote myself
in this gender observation,
based on the B. Sáenz work:
“Por eso lloramos,
Por eso reímos,
Por eso se alborota
nuestro corazón,
Y por eso vivimos”