"duende" poems
life is never fair;
why is it that
the good die young
& the bad live freely?
that's why people give up,
why people break down.
nothing they do is good enough,
why people end their life too soon.
the irony is
that the good
will continue to die young
because their whole life
they've been told
they aren't good enough
or worse,
they are 'too much'
too sensitive,
too quiet,
too observant,
too introverted,
too curious,
too independent,
too careful,
too blunt,
too caring,
too honest,
too, too much.
but really,
they are too little of everything you are too much of.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
Tales told to me by my grandmother of the Duende.
as the campfires danced . The black leopard
stood far back in the trees
A ghost in the machine as we describe it today.
Jettisoned by the sun gods
for knowledge of self one little elf.
Now Boogeyman
Hobgoblin.
Troll. A manifestation of all men fear.
To walkabout and scurry in the pale moonlight.
The Duende awaits the ship in the night sky
lift him up away to the
end of time.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 2:51 AM UTC
That earth spirit
black, dark, flame flickering at the end of the tunnel
i appreciate our ancestors who took care of the soles of their feet
that feet rooted to the earth
that spirit rooted within the body underneath the skin
the soul is not separate from the body
butoh cries out in the darkness for a dance
there is a silent scream
then a piercing sound, you see a Woman's body as she convulses on the ground
you notice the beautiful tendons and muscles in the back and thighs of this one male dancer
Ohno's hands are veiny and paper thin and utterly divine the way it ripples
butoh spirit to the ground and I find my journey for that way of life
starts with taking care of the soles of my feet
Duende and that color black
one step and you won't come back
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
The lunar eye looks straight at her
From which level of Dante's of hell does this allegorical figure ascend?
She sings perfectly. Not a chord off scale, not a single octave too high or too low, minors, majors, sevens and suses, yet the distance between performance and performer grows like canyons in continental plates. How does she sing so beautifully? But yet, something is missing. A sorrow, a fury, a hate that burns for miles, and a love that wants nothing in return; eyes that properly protrudes the profound passion of human horror.
So she throws herself savagely at the world, to seek out life's horrors in the hollow souls of every unholy ghost in purified form, profound suffering and endless sickness. Birth, death, disease, loss, love and life itself, knowing that everything else is expendable, because what does not make us itch beneath our feet or stir turmoil in our minds is of no relevance.
The Duende will find his way inside her marrows. He will fester on her cords and well up her eyes with ecstatic enlightened tears of exploding color, because life came caterwauling, yet here she stands.
She breaks into song once more
The Devil burns inside her now.
And the well of her wisdom boils with the Sound and Fury of Humanity.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
Sister of summer, sweet sighing duende
Why are you so sad and pale?
The dawn sings litanies of your graces that make
The high sun itself mourn and quell!
Flower of autumn, with your crown of fire
Heart-seized and enraptured your eyes do make me,
Flash skies of dark'ning thunder in them
And the stars that bestir the crystal-cold seas.
Daughter of snow and ice-kissed queen
Your name is a prayer unfit for my lips
The white rose of your face the only dream I would dream
When the sun's burnt the last of its wick.
Lady in the orchards, brave lady, your tears are ever pearls
For spring has come and dawn has come
But I will never be the one to lead them in.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 8:53 PM UTC
From a whisp
To menacing imp.
Jungle rot. Panic ****
See how they run.
Granny told me tales that they told her
That they heard from the griot.
The duende. Walks with feet turned back.
Conceal his intentions.. a stalking moon.
A loon ? Oh no. Real to the night.
Blood red eyes pierces the soul.
Duende. Spirit. Beast.
Sprang from the bowels of hell...the stifled dreams
Of the children. Cowed by the dark.
One left to fend. One
Found the ark.
Ta ta duende.
Know who he is ?
Nightmare amalgam
Sum of all fears. Grandma ... scared dog **** outa me.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
So, here's the cache:
Make sure
**all & any & every
single move you make
you won’t regret***
in years or even days
keeping you at 3am
in the bath wide awake*
***So
as a preventive
bound tight to this vow, I stay***
**say what you mean
& mean what you say**
*Like champange with *******
you'll have been overcame with duende
for this phrase*
*& it’ll keep your subconscious feeling clean
while you continue to slay away
at just your normal hygiene for today
or maybe a few disarrayed prey
it'll even help trick it when you actually are totally aware
you’re instigating & quite quietly steering
some rather nasty foul play*
*but besides the fact the move’s today
and still, I attempt to cajole
and I’m now regretting not only an action
but a whole section
an entire chunk of my life spun out and
became some mangled & ******** black hole*
*& the worst part is, its long past,
I mean it's looooong since slipped outta my control
& it's long past me being the one looked to for decisions
& its long past when I sorta lost
all & any & every
bit of possibly existing trust*
*& long past, I just now noticed it all
mid-through one of countless attempts to self-console*
because when I went crazy, everyone still called me Superman
***Because when Superman bumps his head,
who’s gonna get past the*** Super ***in Superman
and ****** pick him up and put him back on solid ground?***
Because that’d really **** if Superman wound up dead
Because no one thought the dude that shut down the Ku Klux ****
Could be uncrowned &
end up all bled out & drowned
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
Un cielo de oro y de brasas
Un río de plata fina
Y Fray Bentos de esperanza,
Crece que crece en la orilla.
La paz jovial es su rosa
De Jericó, en la cintura.
Cantan antiguos bambúes
Bajo sus claros de luna.
Y canta el viento costeño
Coplas de islas y peces
Mientras el río jocundo
Deshila azules y verdes.
En la fragua de su ocaso
La noche se purifica
Tan leve y tan silenciosa
Como un racimo de lilas.
Fray Bentos lleno de duende
¡Qué buena para mi alma
Tu dulce vida perfecta!
¡Qué buena que en tí ha de ser
La riqueza de una casa
Y de un jardín de rosales
Hasta la orilla del agua!
Un crepúsculo me diste
En añiles y agapantos
Como yo nunca había visto
Si no en gladiolos y cardos.
Quizá Blanes lo soñaba
Y Cúneo tal vez un día,
Lo vea y ponga en sus cielos
De lunas y Tres Marías.
Guárdame, ciudad de gracia.
Un hueco para mi sueño,
En tu playa de bambúes
En tu placita de encuentros.
Un día yo iré a pedirte
Un vaso de agua una tarde
de magnolias y duraznos
De cielo en oro y jades.
¡No tengo más que un romance
Para tu arcángel del aire!
¡Fray Bentos: tómamelo
Como si fuera un diamante!
1k
Pinta cielo tordillo,
nube china,
campo llano y callado y compañero,
con blanco mazamorra,
gris camino,
ocre parva
o celeste lejanía;
en silla petizona
-pelo bayo-,
el mate corazón
-¿nido de hornero?-,
en las ramas, de tala,
de su mano
y un pedazo de cuerno
hecho boquilla
en perpetuo delirio
de humareda;
mientras pinta
y se escarba la memoria
-como quien traza cruces sobre el suelo
con pinceles que doman lo pasado;
claros patios de voz azul aljibe,
beata falda,
o entierro jaranero,
mancarrón insolado,
duende perro,
porque sabe rastrear el tiempo muerto,
las huellas ya perdidas
del recuerdo,
y le gustan los talles de frutera,
el olor a zorrino,
a terciopelo,
los fogones de pavas tartamudas,
los mugientes crepúsculos tranquilos
y los gatos con muchas relaciones,
que pinta,
rememora y recupera,
con rojo federal,
azul encinta,
amarillo rastrojo,
rosa rancho,
al revivir saraos encorsetados,
velorios de angelito
caramelo,
tertulias palo a pique,
perifollos,
viejos gauchos enjutos de quebracho,
que describe
con limpia pincelada,
puro candor
y tábano mirada;
para luego tutearse con carretas
o chismosos postigos
de ancha siesta,
o rebaños jadeantes de tormenta;
que pinta y aquerencia en sus cartones
-para algo comió choclo,
entre pañales,
de ingenua chala rubia,
bien fajada
y acarició caderas de potrancas
o de roncas guitarras pendencieras,
en boliches lunares,
ya difuntos-;
mientras mezcla el granate matadura
con el ***** catinga candombero
y aflora su sonrisa de padrillo
-un poco amarillenta,
un poco verde-,
ante tanta visión
reflorecida
-con perenne fervor y gesto macho-,
por la criolla paleta socarrona
donde exprime su lírica memoria.
1k
What is this diminutive?
This quiddity of how we live,
This good and bad,
And right from wrong,
This insane concinnity,
We’ve followed for so pitifully long.
We need learn and ruse our minds,
To understand all types of kinds,
For man is not salubrious,
And all we seek is dubious,
We need to come to understand,
We all are good but all still bad,
We all are docile but maleficent,
Average and Magnificent,
We choose to be one or the other,
One or another,
Some skilled to beguile,
Others only know how to be difficile,
We all are weakened by indigence,
And we all are to this world exiguous,
So what is this surquedry of whose good and bad,
just because some may be of duende,
And others temerity mad,
No matter what you may do or say,
Your actions my apodictic opinion will not sway,
We will always be of human nature,
What is this good and bad nomenclature?
We are human and not irrefragable,
And the definition of unstable,
So be thee good or bad,
Be thee happy,
Be thee sad,
Be thee sane and be the mad,
We all can be good but we still stay with some bad.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
smoke plumes from my core,
morphing in the daytime gray
that is synonymous with
unpleasant thought and being.
burning from the center out,
laying down, letting the fire
rage from the dark to the light,
the soul to the physical world.
a rotten stench flies from me
which alerts those around
to the dying person
that lays in front of them
still, with nostrils flared,
they stop, say “Hi”,
follow with a smile and a wave,
continue trotting along.
Apr 18, 2011
Apr 18, 2011 at 6:56 PM UTC
Hay un tropel de potros sobre la pampa inmensa.
¿Es Pan que se incorpora? No: es un hombre que piensa,
es un hombre que tiene una lira en la mano:
él viene del azul, del sol, del Océano.
Trae encendida en vida su palabra potente
y concreta el decir de todo un continente...
Tal vez es desigual... (¡El Pegaso da saltos!)
Tal vez es tempestuoso... (¡Los Andes son tan altos!...)
Pero hay en este verso tan vigoroso y terso
una sangre que apenas veréis en otro verso;
una sangre que cuando en la estrofa circula,
como la luz penetra y como la onda ondula...
Pegaso está contento, Pegaso piafa y brinca,
porque Pegaso pace en los prados del inca.
Y este fuerte poeta de alma tan ardorosa
sabe bien lo que cuentan los labios de la rosa,
comprende las dulzuras del panel y comprende
lo que dice la abeja del secreto del duende...
Pero su brazo es para levantar la trompeta
hacia donde se anuncia la aurora del Profeta;
es hecho para dar a la virtud del viento
la expresión del terrible clarín del pensamiento.
Él sabe de Amazonas, Chimborazos y Andes.
Siempre blande su verso para las cosas grandes.
Va como Don Quijote en ideal campaña,
vive de amor de América y de pasión de España;
y envuelto en armonía y en melodía y canto,
tiene rasgos de héroe y actitudes de santo.
«¿Me permites, Chocano, que como amigo fiel,
te ponga en el ojal esta hoja de laurel?»
Tal dije cuando don J. Santos Chocano,
último de los incas, se tornó castellano.
819
Delinquiría
de leso corazón
si no anegara con mi idolatría,
en lacrimosa ablución,
la imagen de la párvula sombría.
Retrato para quien mi llanto mana
a la una de la mañana,
reflejando en su sal, que va sin brida,
la minúscula frente desmedida...
Cejas, andamio
del alcázar del rostro , en las que ondula
mi tragedia mimosa, sin la bula
para un posible epitalamio...
La niña del retrato
se puso seria, y se veló su frente,
y endureció los dos ojos profundos,
como una migajita de otros mundos
que caída en brumoso interinato,
toda la angustia sublunar presiente.
Fiereza desvalida, hecha a mirar
el mar...
Boca en bisel, como un espejo afable
que no hable...
Medias de almo color; para que vaya
por la cernida arena de la playa...
Las deleznables manos,
que cavan pozos enanos,
son carceleras de los océanos...
Linda congoja de la frente linda,
la que inerme y tiránica se brinda
por modelo de copa y de coyunda
y de lira rotunda...
Retrato de iniciales sinfonías:
tus cinco años son cinco bujías
a cuya luz el alma llora;
por eso a ti me abro
como a la honestidad versicolora
de un diminutivo candelabro.
Los invisibles hombros, cual quimera
en que un genio marítimo retoza,
no columbran siquiera
la adoración venidera
que los ha de rozar, como se roza
el codo de una estricta compañera.
Párvula del retrato;
seriedad prematura;
linda congoja de un juego nonato
que enfrente del fotógrafo se apura;
pelo de enigma, como los edenes
enigmáticos desde donde vienes;
víspera bella que cantas
en la Octava de mi más negra hora:
hoy hice un alto por mojar tus plantas
con sangre de mis ojos, y miré
que salías del óvalo de bruma,
como punto final que se incorpora
y como duende de relojería,
a dar en los relojes de mi fe
la campanada de la dicha suma.
Niña, venusto manual:
yo te leía al borde de una estrella,
leyéndote mortífera y vital;
y absorto en el primor de la lectura
pisé el vacío...
Y voy en la centella
de una nihilista locura.
846
Yo también...
¡Sí! Yo tengo
-¿por qué no confesarlo?-
un pequeño fantasma,
un duende de familia.
No vaya a suponerse que mi pequeño duende
sea un fantasma hierático,
espectral,
de castillo;
uno de esos fantasmas que arrastran el espanto
entre viejas panoplias
y gritos coagulados,
o delatan incestos
dentro de una armadura.
cuando el silencio calza las funerarias mallas
con que a Hamlet le place pasearse entre las tumbas.
Mi fantasma es doméstico,
recatado,
apacible.
Jamás le he sorprendido actitudes de almena,
ni lo he visto hospedarse
en la caja de un péndulo,
para que sus entrañas se pueblen de latidos.
Cotidiano,
tranquilo,
modesto,
de bolsillo,
mi pequeño fantasma
no ahuyenta los retratos,
ni adopta almas de piedra
o heráldicas posturas.
Tal cual es,
sin embargo,
engalana mis noches
y es el único lujo de mis horas vacías.
Ya sé que con frecuencia revuelve mis papeles,
esconde alguna carta,
empaña mis anteojos,
me humilla al obligarme
a buscar los gemelos debajo de la cómoda,
me esconde la boquilla;
pero es él quien mitiga la fiebre del insomnio,
quien impide que pierdan el compás las canillas,
quien oprime las llagas de las puertas pintadas
y conforta el silencio,
la soledad,
el frío,
al pasear por los cuartos
su incorpórea presencia de fantasma benigno,
de duende que vigila
las sombras
y los ruidos.
808
In a faraway place and faraway time
stood square a cabin rotted pine and bramble flue.
Once haven for old crones craven - their skins thin-skinned slivers of brine;
now nary a soot line marked a witches' brew.
In the dark, swirling silver stark and creatures would quiver
held over pot-stew thither, along hymns of damning chanted.
Waggled tongues with an evil glaze would slither,
cursing in eye, toe, and liver the bubbling broth decanted.
Oh a malkin giggled and a paddock piggled;
sniggled in a mirth-marked cauldron's rubble double bubble.
With a whoosh and a swish a bony finger had wiggled,
as papery skin withered the drubble swuddle brubble.
On those blackest of nights, when wolves would fear the moon,
howls held loomed, choked on down the throat of dusk.
Hatred uttered its sleepy breath, pitch-entombed
and justice marooned under a tar most brusque.
Shadows danced incantation
for an occultish creation, oh the devil's bidding be done!
Flamed carnation, neither here nor there god-fearing,
cackling a primrose coronation; the stirring spoon spun!
Death-catcher chimes hung close upon the entry;
a dust since turn of century marred bone;
witches’ wart-encrusted noses crinkled at gentry;
chenille voices sung with celerity a hellish praise: Divinum Occultum.
A little duende ran down the cauldron,
gloom chanting a chant come out with a hurl.
Burnt feet chasing away all ghosts ‘n goblins,
unfurling like whisper from the concoction:
Doom upon all the world.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 6:26 AM UTC
a melody of the song floats threw your mind
and whispers honey in your ears,
warmth ascends through your heart,
skin ***** with the sound of music.
the canvas crimson leaves drift in the autumn wind,
passing two souls in a park, a boy is gazes at
a girl holding an orange balloon, though time is still, you catch yourself whispering, "hold her hand."
the scene is a slamming door that echoes mistakes,
a mom bends down to pick up the their broken glass,
a child with her doll weeps silently in her room, you cry
with her on your couch as the screen turns black.
precious words scribbled on a page, or beautiful little words typed on a screen. you read the page, mind agape.
you begin prepared, but you end the last word in awe.
speechless you think, what am I feeling? what's going on?
Duende.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
Can you feel it when you synch up.
The words just come easy and things just make sense
Flow. Yeah it could be flow. Write this stuff for awhile and you may might just know.
Glide. Yeah a word coaster ride. Man just. Go up slow. And the whoop di doo comes rushing up at you almost like a high.
Stride. Sometimes I can do a forty or a 400 sprint. Then I just drop in to the runners high. Can't stop won't. Stop. Won't even try.
Mojo. Maybe.
Duende.
Spiritual.
Gotta pull back and stop now. Or it's going to be shuffle and glide
Till I drop now.
Man is it me or am I really flying.
You the reader look up and see if you see me.
Passing slow overhead turning and burning.
Out of body.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
Hace año y medio que pienso en lo mismo.
La mirada y los pasos los siento cansados, los hombros me pesan, y no sé si es la mochila o mi pasado. Estoy sobrepuesta, soy una pintura que colgaron para tapar un hoyo en la pared.
Hay días buenos, no tan buenos y los malos, pero aunque me sienta alegre siempre en el trasfondo hay un pequeño duende apagando el interruptor, que le gusta estar a oscuras, y que el silencio lo aturde. Por eso mantiene mi voz activa desde atrás de mi cabeza. Y le gusta oír el latido de mi corazón agitado.
Cómo quisiera estar de nuevo en el techo de Camilo, y mirar las luces de la ciudad en lugar de las estrellas. Vaciarme. Estoy como una casa abandonada, llena de cosas inservibles.
De sueños que no son míos, de cansancio por cargar penas ajenas, y mis ojos lo único que quieren es cerrarse.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
El cadalso y carlota corday los alinearon
en la habitual arruga de la historia
pero danton robespierre marat
no se miran ni se dirigen la palabra
la muerte esa inasible
que fuera su cofrade y su enemiga
los recorre con dulce escalofrío
en tanto que la fama los satura
de himnos desafueros y retórica
matarifes o mártires
pródigos o inclementes
jacobinos o nada
entrañables o impíos
bonne nouvelle o fetiches
patronos de la luz o del terror
blandieron la justicia como fiebre
el amor cual relámpago
la excepción como regla
y la revolución ese eterno entrevero
como última acrobacia inevitable
no obstante hace dos siglos
bregaron deliraron murieron con urgencia
no sin antes mostrar al resto de los tiempos
lo frágiles que eran la cerviz los poderes
y sin embargo esos
huéspedes o anfitriones del peligro
marat danton y robespierre
no se hablaban ni se miraban o al menos
no se hablaron ni se miraron hasta
que de las nuevas arrugas de la historia
emergieron artigas y martí y sandino
y el che y otros abuelos
y bisabuelos cándidos
y al abrazarlos sin hacer distingos
de a poquito los fueron persuadiendo
de que todos lucharon por el hombre
el pobrecito duende de este mundo
496
Second flop first fold, ***** face, benign.
Stale mist drips from the above air vent
Thump. Snap. Thump. Snap. Almost in time.
Acute tremble, double bluff, card corners bent.
Big blind, little deaf. Eyes on the road.
Tortoise to rabbit, calm calculation.
Slow motion bullet drop, auto reload.
Don't... let... the penny... drop.
Tilt back from your desk, indebted, subdued,
Four legs on the floor was always too safe,
Kick back, relax... tip ninety degrees
Clarity comes after a fall.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 6:48 AM UTC
When we smile at each other every day.
I remember it happened in the month of may.
It all started with our loveable duende.
I can only imagine geting to know you today.
Love is near, but we know its far away.
Our charms we're like a lukewarm alarm.
We we're both alert by the loud sound.
We knew by chatting that love will be found.
We we're both alert.
In the past we were both hurt.
The colour of red is not dead.
It gave us a chance to hear the extrinsic music.
Like a repeatable sound of hope and determination.
The creation is ingrained in our minds.
When we write and speak.
Our empty hearts we're refueled by a leak.
We we're stuck oil, but we toiled.
Our love is unbind from the trap.
Our love and future will intertwine one day.
We understand the repeatable beeping.
We want to bandage the bleeding.
We hold our hands to cover up the wounds.
We will recover, and we will see each other soon.
Our ears are listenting.
Our hearts are beating.
Our minds are thinking.
Our hands and our mouths are speaking.
Even if we're far.
Even if we're a mess.
Even if we're busy.
This is the true message the alarm conveys to you, and me.
The sound of the alarm can be good and wrong.
It's on everyday like our favourite song.
Like a beautiful siren singing to me.
The love we can feel it even overseas.
I want us to be together in the future, always and forever.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC
Con cresta
o candor niño
o envión varón habría que osar izar un yo flamante en gozo
o autoengendrar hundido en el propio ego pozo
un nimio virgo vicio
un semi tic o trauma o trac o toc novicios
un novococo inédito por poco
un mero medio huevo al menos de algo nuevo
e inmerso en el subyo intimísimo
volver a ver reverdecer la fe de ser
y creer en crear
y croar y croar
ante todo ende o duende visiblemente real o inexistente
o hacer hacer
dentro de un nido umbrío y tibio
un hijo mito
mixto de silbo ido y de hipo divo de ídolo
o en rancia última instancia del cotidiano entreasco
a escoplo y soplo mago
remodelar habría los orificios psíquicos y físicos corrientes
de tanto espectro diario que desnutre la mecha
o un lazariento anhelo que todavía se yerga
como si pudiera
y darle con la proa de la lengua
y darle con las olas de la lengua
y furias y reflujos y mareas
al todo cráter cosmos
sin cráter
de la nada
413
Bestia celeste, sol que el ojo aduerme
frente a mi casa de boscosa espalda;
laxas están las manos en mi falda
y la cabeza contra el hombro inerme.
S obre el azur el toro de oro duerme
y aun chispea su ojo de esmeralda,
para la mar que la neblina encalda
y el duende que propicio suele serme.
Queda un rayo de luz en sus pupilas,
menudas, más menudas que las lilas.
Mi soledad en él se regocija
pues lo ama mi amor porque es pequeño
y suele ir a la mansión del sueño
a traerme un ensueño en su vasija.
394
I, maim’d with your wholesomeness, with your heavenly mien.
Long the soiree of fallen touches, can not a single palm suffice to feel
It comes to mind, the time after the first, we’ve met again.
With your smile, your warmest gaze,
Had I thought you to be beyond my visage.
There you were, touches away.
Upon your moon, the loveliest garb of them all,
‘The array of a thousand rubies’
And patently I could not ignore the art varnished over your feet.
I knew it too well,
The ‘Platinum Guild Stiletto’...by the known Stuart Weitzman
A fair woman in her element, who can contest..?
I approached, with the slim’st valor I had hoped to fade...
If not now, what chance is there after…
This now could not have ever been soothsaid.
Just a night, a man, and a woman.
What may win me this love shall win me eternity…
From this farthest gape to the eyes of span, to caress or so graze your lovest parts
To touch you Evictus, have I unraveled the origin of touch
To taste you Evictus, have I not made one the savour and the desire, the lusciousness and the duende
My love , my sweet’st potion of desire
This love shan't ever fold for I knowst it true. As this great span held by wonder.
Let us pour our lusted parts into the rivers of outness dreams
And see without scope the collateral beauty within ourselves
I can nevermore gamble your precious heart for mere jewels and riches
If ever, I could not bear for our limbs to never interwove in the midst of our coitus
Whenas day is born it'll be still, we will be still- in romance and forth in the tombs of ecstasy
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
This is just me looking for the smoke and by that I mean the ability to do words like I did years ago when the Muse came unannounced. I'm not looking for rhythm or rhyme or even sense of it. I was able to travel once to keep my perspective then it was gone.
I'm not sure if it was small insanity or me reaching for gravity but that was magical. I left my body and wrote for hours day in and day out. Right now I'm just taking notes. To be continued. The Duende.
Sep 16, 2023
Sep 16, 2023 at 4:38 PM UTC