#barcelona
On my pillow in broken English
And black ink.
A Fitzgerald quote dances in the breeze of the half-cracked window.
The clothes outside dangle
Hot and crisp from the City’s sun.
This city has its own sun
That beats down hard
Against the pavement.
Hearts beating hard
against the pavement
Of our souls and ribs.
If Fitzgerald was right
Then“they slipped briskly
into an intimacy
from which they never
recovered.”
Slipped and
fell.
Scars stain our hearts
And knees burn
Like the sun beats down
On the pavement
Of our memories.
But then again,
Perhaps it was Keats that had it right-
BOLD lover-
“Heard melodies are sweet
But those unheard are sweeter.”
Like you in my sweater.
Ode in a Spanish email
Plays on repeat,
Trapped in my head.
It’s that song that keeps be writing
About you
In this little book
Trapped in this little book
Like the etchings Keats admired
Trapped in the moment before
Their first kiss.
Forever trapped,
Lingering in their longing.
I’ll lick the wounds
Of paper cuts
From quickly turned pages
The sour blood of this longing
Tormented by time
“Heard melodies are sweet
But those unheard are sweeter”
Like a nagging child
Taunting-
Thumbs in ears,
Tongue out.
I wish my skin was sewn together
With the threads of that sweater
So you could wear me
Again
and
again.
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 10:13 AM UTC
in the
pit I'll
visit tonight
with her
said the
yellow *******
of cordial
and skylight
in Monserrat
she ought
to treasure
my Abacab
with séance
with her
quilt of
resilience that
she'll muddle
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 11:21 AM UTC
two tickets to barcelona sants
I told you I missed my flight
my bus broke down halfway into London and tonight
i'm crashing on someone's boyfriend's couch
it's a quarter to three and all I hear is
arctic monkeys inside a funeral hall
where I wore black lace like an unburnt witch
and resurrection like a diamond ring
and I feasted on the thought of how close I was to being whole again
because you thought I'd die without you
but life is more than just a memory of you
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 3:43 PM UTC
I.
In the land far away,
where the feared knight
still roams night and day,
forgetful of his steed and might,
I lay in forgotten stones.
In this ancient coffin, my abode,
I listen to whispered tones,
from ages and times, about
to lose their pale.
The scratched tapestries unveil.
II.
When this tragedy is tangled no more,
I will sleep my rest,
closed eyes with sore,
and a hounding pest
at my feet that plucks me apart.
If without a scream I shall lose,
my sense of being, my heart ****
with the anguish of my dearest Muse.
The chivalrous soul of mine,
would disappear in time.
III.
A fatal blow would prove to be,
the sorrows of my people, my love,
for they hold out candles out for me
when sways in wind a pale dove.
Without this lighthouse,
just like a corsair without his men,
- my fires ***** and douse
quick as they darken -
Foreigner of the people that once were.
Stranger of his neighbors, fellow pair.
IV.
All this I uncover in our misty
and dying chronicles,
that seep from the attic, a dusty
worm-filled hole with obstacles
thrown all around.
Somehow, the sulfuric hand
guided and bound
me to this newfound land.
Now, I leave my diary to rot
with the rest of this abysmal lot
V.
and see for my self I will,
through the eyes
of great delight, that still
thank the Lord for the rise
of my homeland, my dear Spain.
So speak to me, not through whispers,
but thunderous march. In vain,
I've called out to you, disperse
my puny efforts and become real
or my crust, my shell you'll peel.
VI.
Forever, for forever engravings
shall burn with lushness,
the tint and stings
on my canvas. Redness
eaten away by heroic equals.
Forever, for forever I wear
this cloak unwrapped. Rumples
or smiles come up. I spare
them of their rugged hatred.
Here I come, my love, forever sacred.
VII.
While birds have sung
their heart's quaver,
from threads, I hung
not to waver.
The one leading, guiding,
and scheming my escape,
the one who brought me to the brink
of death, as Zeus tried to ****
Europa so did Mother Nature.
Her vivid corpse cold as a glacier
VIII.
I've kissed countless times.
She brought the beast back to life,
like a beggar awarded with dimes.
Now I've caught up to the strife,
the woe that plagues me I've seduced
with frisky moments, and pedant
efforts to capture the spruced
scene that grows around. Hesitant,
my chimera has become.
I await the return of the lost one.
IX.
En Plein air, that's how they call
my unhinged creations,
when behind the marble wall
a mess of colors invokes sensation.
While my dreams still lure
me to believe far voices,
some have caught here for sure
and my attention poses
openly to these claims.
So I have taken a few new names.
X.
Heat shines
among the littered bricks,
that shape these cheerful chimes
and clouds puff and huff. Cheeks
of young and fertile women
reflect the solar flare
that forecasts a prosperous omen
about to arrive and meet my stare.
Beautiful, sweet, and sunny. See
them exit my breast free.
XI.
Smite me almost did Saint Peter
when into his otherworldly
palace naive and eager
I walked boldly
on thin ice for a silhouette,
****** Mary, I thought at first
I saw. Godly choral, a duet,
with a phantom throat, full of thirst,
I couldn't quench
and closed shut, the hinge
XII.
wouldn't move.
Truth be told, I was in heaven.
Bliss and sooth
fell on my shoulders. Raven
of doubt, nowhere near.
This is it, come here, my angel.
A single tear
drowned in a bust stable
with years. But the second
briskly happened.
XIII.
No more could I look at her
with these sinful hopes.
Bind her figure and tear
that coal habit. Robes
of pure essence
defend from ***** folk.
They shine of transcendence
that God willed to stalk
their highness.
Look could I look no more, no less.
XIV.
Steps turned to miles
from wings, I stole.
Once church's tiles
now are a single pole.
Like a chess piece
without the restrains
of playful dynasties.
Still, it pains
me when I escaped
and the way I paved.
XV.
Here I notice
your toppled towers.
Giants left this
as a reminder. Showers
of needles deep in your skin
I enter and cry.
Where did it begin?
I ask while I sigh.
My lips against yours
where attack did sores.
XVI.
Final light
shines through your veins
as I uncover what's right
while stains
of buckets of blood
collide with my
own sacrifice. Flood
hardens my tie
to you, dear Barcelona.
I become one with your persona.
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 1:51 AM UTC
It had been interrupting us all night
That electricity between us that we tried to reach by sitting closer, letting our eyes whisper and our thighs caress longing words to each other, making sure we were always together
Our laughter mixed and our hands clasped in our knees
I swear, that night we could have caught fire
And all those feelings we had craved so greedily finally threatened to explode upon us right where we stood,
drunk and inches away from each other, packed on a trash can, trying to reach the sky from the roof
and I knew that if I just looked up,
we would fall into each other and never come back up
So I didn't
I didn't allow us to scream all that we had felt during the night
Instead, I stared down, hiding from your gaze full of dreams, tucking it all far away in my heart,
stashing it so my boyfriend would never find it
Nov 21, 2019
Nov 21, 2019 at 6:27 AM UTC
Leaves crumble under unwashed trainers; silence
He walks along the avenue with hands in pockets,
As street lamps pave the way along the lonely avenue
A Hen Party is sighted; their noisy presence noticed
Out of nowhere a taxi rolls up, a casualty is claimed
He gazes at the midnight stars and smiles
Like a fantasy; a big bubble that hasn’t yet burst
Conversing and gentle laughter picks up at the street corner,
Whilst crowds of hipsters and young people dance and discuss
As Friday nights go; rules are meant to be broken
As this quaint little place provides an escape from it all
With its neon signs and hippy vibes,
Its bonsai trees and chandeliers
Bikes hang from the walls and flower pots roam free
He is greeted by an Ola! and a welcoming smile
A piano sounds from within, a cold breeze chills his neck
He rolls up his collar and enters; silence
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 9:33 AM UTC
a deck
now with
Bedouin high
there dream
her red
quotient in
Catalonia with
Montserrat qua
mountain deem
hindmost their
trials to
independence back
to innermost
Barcelona as
watershed lariat
begun this
year Ole
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
I've been taught that there isn't a place more beautiful than barcelona
The streets are placed with purpose and thought
People mill about with only smile lines gracing their face
The air tastes like citrus, honey, and sea breeze
A paradise I've never known
Sometimes I fear the paradise within it is one I've created
Far from real
And is the product of my own desperation
Sometimes
I fear the love in your eyes is barcelona
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
Can we dig a path to France,
Here in the woods of Washington?
I want to take you to Barcelona,
Dance on the green hills of Ireland.
Can we set a course to the heart of joy?
Let me take you around the world.
Grab my hand and I'll grab yours,
Let us walk and live in love.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
a tongue with cheek lampoon
that shout Barca, save
Barcelona when blazing jack (of spades)
into the net with goal of The King's Cup
if Estelada retort his court
these embattled cries of democracy in Spain
why land ** as Mariano Rajoy
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC
A tale of dawn where
my genius at play for her beads
if thunder hie will quicken quinine
why Doeville surely nigh and on route yon
that bare a drove her handkerchief spar
in field with hills to make her rich still clad in negligee
and between her steps arose Carthage in antiquity
a lore of ages to unfold Spain today
with a guitar strumming this spicy song of quest so inane
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC
I don’t remember my life in London
anymore
Barcelona -
tagliata da flussi di suoni come boulevard*
Stella is gone away on acid.
I trust her, what else?
Nat is Polish
but I thought she’d be Spanish
And Richard.
Young - and a monkey.
Deepty will marry an Indian engineer.
Wide hips, same problems.
******* Italians in El Born
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC
Anything All of the Everything
Events of Summer quickly ensue, it takes hold of you quickly, while the police drive thru. You cannot find it half-way into the night, you could hold up on a park bench or lay your blanket on the slough. Perhaps when your dreams kick, your asterisks will come, build a map of your defense and then head for the sun. Some foe outwit the wounds of life, furry blister-like faces, when they take up the star dust diamonds, the trail guides take after hurrying up paces.
The festivities of fear are living oaths inside of marbled starve rocks, they harvest shoots and ladders, and keep tabs on wild beasts and livestock. There's no match throughout the campgrounds. There's no matchbook light to find us. If you're quick enough with your 70s, then perhaps you'll follow the nightness that's arrived us.
In aide of her lift-gate, shredding pensive miens and speeding mimes, taking ward of one thousand fathomed depths, assumes courageous anti-hate isms. She can come quickly with a syzygy, her van packed with fresh woes of Sunday, then around Monday humbly hides her stuff in the small hems of her bed linens. You can't outwit the governess who preys on handicapped children's thrift finds. She makes clothes and keeps her hands to bed. She bares new graves for time's new roman epithets and moving pictures. She unplugs her bleeding tongues under some new sone for her monarchic archetypical audiophile party.
While the umberphiles sleep, nyctophiliacs stalk grizzlies. Mosquitos quaff at human blood, while their offspring keep drinking. The idle bugs throes, misanthropic and useless, teach electric lusters' mouths to grow into fiery hoops with which to slip past all the clueless. The arachnids might dance, the haunting verbs they might fray. The Egyptians at first glance, try to hide their heroine pyramids away.
So hush little violet dormant flowers, fake your fertility and keep your skeptic drink. Keep each one you might meet, within one hundred feet of where you sleep. Keep your arms length's supine, your supplies out of reach, practice wrapping yourself up inside boxes where the souls can sleep.
If you only once catch a fool, avoid the plague-speak certain lips might tell. Each uttered word commanded with too much ******** across the bandwidth. Mortal courses can't be taught, human voices can't keep the draught, ferocious abstract engineered humanity has escaped this truant absence and immorality. You, you catch a fool, she could preach hurts and djinns, it could dot the I's of when, and unfurl the sighs of men. Berthed earthlings that the **** ascribes, hurts the worthless and sours true purpose widths of curfews and its curses, all these biomes perfervidly reserve the fury for their furtive perversity, elements to obscure the telemetry that has coddled such a dark conflagration of immensity, it's the cluelessness of these transgressors that forces the abhorrence towards all-white-everything professors.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 1:43 AM UTC
Valencia Oranges
A yellow coated dream
Mustard-colored-tiles-are-much-colder-than-they-seem
Swimming in a sweatshirt
Watery-eyed and rosy cheeked
Music playing faintly
Curiosity is peaked
I imagine waking up
To humidity and cream
In my coffee, jingle my loft key
As I walk my way upstream
Sunglasses tint
All the oranges red
Valencia enters my veins
Rouged and widespread
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
The busy streets flowing like water.
The friendly smiles walk past.
All of it works in unison.
stores, heat, clockwork.
The whole city itself works like a bee hive.
I wish i could live there forever.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
in the centre of the cathedral
the square of a little town
where those in the know tell of an invisible cathedral.
a massive guest
the outside light
there is such purity in the pigeons’ feathers
superfine flour falls from the sky
on buildings on trees on people’s shoulders.
small bones rattle echoing in the coffin of a small guitar
while the world can no longer contain happiness.
there at the wall
two lovers wind into an 8.
late. in their shade
a blind horse
is crying sweat from its neck.
Ion Mircea, from My Cup of Light
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 3:09 AM UTC
I live in a ****** appartment, in a ****** and dangerous" neighbourhood, in the city that stole my heart.
And guess what?
I love going to that ****** place, because that place became my home.
And it doesn't matter that I don't even have place to do a pirouette, because this city gives me so much joy and I am gratefull to be living in a place like this.
I love how people randomly smile at each other and say hi, I love how easy it is to make friends, and I'm gratefull that this city accepted me the way I am, when I had a hard time accepting myself.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
She kissed your cheek and smiled widely,
the corners of her mouth almost touching her
impeccably tattooed eyebrows.
She was not what you had pictured
from the back and forth email conversations
on quotes and designs and sizes.
She asked you to take a seat as she went to
smoke a cigarette outside the shop with a coworker;
Anna was her name...with two jack russel terriers -
one of them is like a honey badger apparently.
It's funny how the mind remembers certain things...
the way the smoke on her tongue smelled as she leaned in
adding ink to her needle,
or the song she kept humming while you
bit your tongue and stared at the decorated ceiling.
But the pain of the needle depositing the
ink
into your skin was welcome...
It was nothing compared to the internal turmoil you were
experiencing the past seven days.
It almost felt good...
Not adrenaline good, but like good that you were capable of
feeling
something besides sadness and anger.
In the Barcelona airport two days earlier, you made your appointment.
One on your hip, one on your foot
100 pound deposit. No problem.
You needed something to occupy your
mind
from the pain it endured over your "holiday."
So much for a holiday...
Surprise! Your friend is a backstabbing *****
who "secretly" hates you and tried to
ditch you repeatedly.
The needle grazes your hipbone and you wince.
"You okay?" Tota coos in her Italian accent.
You nod, but you know you're not really okay...
You never were...probably never will be OKAY.
Your mind wanders...wishing you were home
and not in London, three thousand miles away from
the only people who seem to care.
"Done!" Tota exclaims.
You examine her work, smiling.
The first time you have smiled in days.
"Get ready...this one is gona hurt!" she says, half excited.
You don't care...nothing can hurt more than your heart...
Too bad that can't be tattooed...
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
La Ratita Presumida
“... y sentia muy feliz. Pero al terminar, el gato se lanzo sobre ella para comer se la. La Ratita lorgo escaper y aprendio a no fiarse de la aparencias”
Generally speaking, the most romantic matters take place beneath the moonlight. It shone down on the city of Barcelona that night with a certain intention, a mysterious plan. She went out for a cigarette, or a “thought” as she liked to think of it, her soul already marinating in a bottle of cheap, red wine. She let the moonlight pour its possibilities upon her skin as she exhaled into the night.
It was this recipe:
¾ bottle of red wine,
1 pack of Marlboro Lights,
a pinch of red lipstick and
a dash of moony-mist
on the dimly lit terrace that started it all.
Just then, a tall, blondish, smart looking guy walked into the room. She felt as though she could see the weight of his brain sitting in his head. Almost visible were the synapses firing within.
He spoke so smoothly, in a comforting, southern accent.
His words cast visions of sunsets,
surrounding her
in an unfamiliar, yet soothing
warmth.
She drew closer.
His southern spark lit her cigarette and
with that flick of the match,
an immediate magic ignited between them.
They spoke of Matthew Macconaughy, death and anxiety... death by anxiety, art and music and love and lust.
lovelustlovelustlovelustlostlove
“Just come with me,” he said, “I’m not expecting anything... we’ll get brunch!” , he said. Ooooooh that’s a mighty word there, “BRUNCH”.
“Brunch”,
A word capable of bringing this girl,
to her knees
~the birds and the bees~
she left with him.
...
“You had me at ‘brunch’.”
They took a cab to his shoebox-sized flat in Gracia, “the best neighbourhood of Barcelona by far”. They linked lips, caressed, clutched each other’s flesh and faded into one as the sun began to rise.
...
The sun came beating through the dungeon –like windows of the shoebox-shaped room. The laundry hanging outside-as it must in this city- cast shadows across their naked skin. It appeared to be dancing quite joyfully, despite the intensely hung-over state of the two strangers that lay entangled amongst the sheets.
As promised, BRUNCH ensued. They chatted, and laughed and flirted. They shared secrets that no one else knew.
“I like your brain”, he said.
...
In the weeks to come they spent every waking moment of each weekend in each other’s company. The rest of the time was spent as the charismatic protagonist in the day dreams of the other one’s mind.
Hospital General, Sant Cugat Del Valles, Valldoreix, La Floresta, Las Planes, Baixador de Vallvidrera, Peu del Funicular, Reina Elisenda, Sarria, Les Tres Torres, La Bonanova, Muntaner, Sant Gervasi, Gracia, Provenca, Passeig de Gracia, Placa Catalunya.
The Trains chugged on
And on
And just remember it’s hard to stop a train...
Gracia -the best neighbourhood in Barcelona- sang like a bird in her ear and a sore thumb pressing its weight into her aching heart.
*Take me Spanish Caravan, yes I know you can...
...I know where treasure is waiting for me
Silver and gold in the mountains in Spain
I have to see you again and again.
Take me Spanish Caravan, yes I know you can.*
...
That dreaded, dreary morning, the rain beat down. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plane -Or all over, really.
She helped him stuff his damp laundry
into his star-spangled suitcase,
himself into her...
He came,
she left, and so did he.
*I'd like to see you again
and again.*
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
I deleted your number for the last time
on the sand at Barceloneta beach.
there is something in the word
Catalunya
that makes me want to wear colors
and forget you.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
I swam in the mediterranean
and you mattered more.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC