She pulls me out of town with a bouquet of lilies
holding me tight, but soft, she talks about valleys of freedom.
She begs me to visit a country full of angel statues.
She's so confusing but sweet somehow.

The way she talks about revolution makes you want to burn bridges
and you know you would do it if She let your hand.
You would have fight bats and demons
but she just couldn't stop keeping you in touch.

She's talking and talking and talking,
you're not tired.
You're trying to compliment her through your laugh.
She doesn't let you speak.

Then she speaks out about how good you are,
how proud your children will be.
You can't help but dream of a life with her.
She looks in the sky and smile.

She stops in front of a river.
The water is so clean.
Birds are dancing above it
making love to your dreams.

Now it's the time to tell her how you love it when she sleeps,
how you're drowning for a kiss,
how you would do anything to make her yours to be.
She sees deep into your eyes.

She gets so quiet.
You're about to hug her
tell her you're not comfortable with her silence;
she left your hand.

Whispering, she tells you she's dying.
Her calm tone doesn't change a bit.
You, you realize that the sun burns.
She monologues that it was burning for so long.

I'm standing here looking for the joke.
She begs me to take care of her dog.
You're afraid to tell the little one, that mama's not coming home.

She demands only lilies in her grave,
white lilies of hope,
the opposite
of her black soul.

The river is so ***** and dull.
The storm that came within killed the nightingales,
destroyed nature's melodies,
rocks and branches like spears bloked the flow of the water
demanding for pure blood.

Wolves stand all around the river
crying their lives out,
the trees in the area scream and shout.
Someone could said they're enjoying the chaos.

The lilies fell from her tiny hands.
Silence.

Catacombs are full of bones
snuggling in the disgrace of others.
Hipbones piled on top of skulls,
the absence of lower jaws
denying the departed a smile,
the eternal existential joke
of insulting the living
with the knowledge
of their ultimate end.

Femur, skull, femur skull
is the monotonous pattern
of the Paris catacombs.
Two hundred six reduced
to two, an afterthought,
ossein denied an ossuary,
even the unity of skeleton.

The Capuchin Crypts at least
grant a molecular dignity.  
The entrance mummies
are part of a gruesome holy décor
draped in the faux pas of passé styles,
yielding room after nauseating room
to the essential two of Paris,
femurs/skulls clustered
in paisley amoeba patterns
projecting snaking vertebrae
of dendrites, of life replicated
with the cross on the wall as
the ultimate center and end.

Did their former owners
know that death would
be the end of ****** control?
That for a ghastly and sacred art
they could be united forever
in indiscriminate unity
with their enemy or lover?
Would they have opted
for the grave knowing
that their ashes could
easily be blown into
the breeze that survives them?

I love the silent hour of night,
For blissful dreams may then arise,
Revealing to my charmed sight
What may not bless my waking eyes!

And then a voice may meet my ear
That death has silenced long ago;
And hope and rapture may appear
Instead of solitude and woe.

Cold in grave for years has lain
The form it was my bliss to see,
And only dreams can bring again
The darling of my heart to me

It is this day,
                                 today,
                       that we lose. We lose the skies
                  and everything goes.
                     We go to the clouds. Nothing
                                       matters there.
            We are like the man laying in the ditch
                      ***** in his hands. Cold, wrinkled
                                              fingers.
 ­  The woman, arms wrapped,
                                        tightly,
       ­                              around the toilet bowl
                                           Now limp
                        in her grave.
                                                         We, collectively, lie
    looking to the skies. That's where we'll be...
                                                           ­               soon.
                                            ­                   The air,
                                                       full of smog
                                                            ­           will
                                                            ­                  clear.
                                        ­              That is not a hope
                                                            ­                      it's a
                                                                ­              Promise.

Breathed in the breath of the saviour,
To richen the soul of the poor.
I puffed out a portal to the cloud kingdom.
Holding onto the scales of a dragon.
The earth beneath my feet begun to shrink,
And the sky above my head started to sink.
I caught a glimpse of what was behind the cloud,
And was dropped from a million feet high down to the ground.

I met an angel with a kick,
Wanted by the government.
Eyes as wide as rabbit holes,
As bright as a solar moon.
Black stars in between white spaces,
Generating a reluctant mold.
There’s golden flakes in its hair,
Its string chokes my throat.
I thought it was my angel,
Turns out it was fool’s gold.

When the fog sets,
And everything fades away;
I turn off my car headlights,
And stear into the grey.
I like to hide in the clouds,
They make me so happy;
But when I come back down,
They make me so sad.

Digging in my grave to find heaven,
Inhaling the smoke of another dragon.

I think I might have found my God.
I’m melting in his eternal sunshine.
Smoked the crumbled image of his face,
It turned my tears into wine.
The earth's my grave,
The sky's my cradle.
Unearthing my new low,
To find the highest place one can go.

ink swimming in circles
inclined in trusting your shore
perhaps a little dip won't hurt
devouring sand as it waves

your mind is suspended
a hanging cave beneath the clouds
let the deep touch you, at least
and i'll be willing to surrender

the rain has thousands of drops left
but the clock will run out soon
would you come down and reach
and satisfy these killer whales

You’ve left me
as empty as that pit,

why not
fill both up at once?

Efficient both in life
and death,

Mother's Day
Mother sways
Over the grave
Of the child who misbehaved
Daddy lost his mind
For what had happened he was blind