Thank you for your look, your trip to the other around the world, and your heart so close. 
Friday, December 26, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Suicidal Perimenapausal
Ballad of the forgotten places
My most beautiful places
that adapt better to the last color of my soul are made
of all the other forgotten.
lonely places are excavated in the caress of the grass in a shade
wing, a song that goes,
regions whose boundaries rotate with
ghostly carriages carrying the mist at dawn
and whose skies are drawn names old words of love, vows
constellations burning like drunken fireflies.
Sometimes people spend earthy, raucous camp trains, oranges
prodigious board a couple on the edge of the sea, one relic
spreads throughout. They seem
illusions broken, torn photographs
cuts an album to guide the nostalgia,
but have deeper roots to soil that Hinde, fleeing
these doors, these walls are cleared.
are enchanted islands where only I can be the witch.
And who but those up the stairs to lofts in the clouds
where the light in the angry buzzing honey nap
reopen the cabinet housing the remains of an unforgiving history,
thousand times sacrificed nothing more than delusions, nothing but foam,
and test again
pieces like those costumes of the protagonists invincible
the circle of fire with the scorpion that dazzled the time?
Who cleans the glass with his breath and removes
sunset light in those rooms where the table was an altar of idolatry,
each chair, a landscape retreated after each trip,
and bedding, a shortcut to stormy the other side of dreams
deep chambers as nets suspended from the sky, like hugging
endless chases where I slipped up the feathers of death,
to reverse the laws of knowledge and the fall?
Who goes into the parks with golden puff every Christmas
and wash the foliage with a gray cloth was the handkerchief goodbyes, again
and garlands intertwined with a string of tears, repeating a fantastic
ritual between glasses smashed and absorbed diners savor
while in the twelve green grapes of redemption
-one for each month, one for each year, one for each century of empty indulgence
an acid taste less bite than the bread oblivion?
Why
who but I will change the water all the memories?
Who embed this as a cut between the projections of the past? Anyone
bartered my lamp antique lamps for their news?
My most beautiful shelters are lonely places that nobody goes to
and where there are only shadows that animate when I'm the witch.
My most beautiful places
that adapt better to the last color of my soul are made
of all the other forgotten.
lonely places are excavated in the caress of the grass in a shade
wing, a song that goes,
regions whose boundaries rotate with
ghostly carriages carrying the mist at dawn
and whose skies are drawn names old words of love, vows
constellations burning like drunken fireflies.
Sometimes people spend earthy, raucous camp trains, oranges
prodigious board a couple on the edge of the sea, one relic
spreads throughout. They seem
illusions broken, torn photographs
cuts an album to guide the nostalgia,
but have deeper roots to soil that Hinde, fleeing
these doors, these walls are cleared.
are enchanted islands where only I can be the witch.
And who but those up the stairs to lofts in the clouds
where the light in the angry buzzing honey nap
reopen the cabinet housing the remains of an unforgiving history,
thousand times sacrificed nothing more than delusions, nothing but foam,
and test again
pieces like those costumes of the protagonists invincible
the circle of fire with the scorpion that dazzled the time?
Who cleans the glass with his breath and removes
sunset light in those rooms where the table was an altar of idolatry,
each chair, a landscape retreated after each trip,
and bedding, a shortcut to stormy the other side of dreams
deep chambers as nets suspended from the sky, like hugging
endless chases where I slipped up the feathers of death,
to reverse the laws of knowledge and the fall?
Who goes into the parks with golden puff every Christmas
and wash the foliage with a gray cloth was the handkerchief goodbyes, again
and garlands intertwined with a string of tears, repeating a fantastic
ritual between glasses smashed and absorbed diners savor
while in the twelve green grapes of redemption
-one for each month, one for each year, one for each century of empty indulgence
an acid taste less bite than the bread oblivion?
Why
who but I will change the water all the memories?
Who embed this as a cut between the projections of the past? Anyone
bartered my lamp antique lamps for their news?
My most beautiful shelters are lonely places that nobody goes to
and where there are only shadows that animate when I'm the witch.
No. 10, the night drifting (1984)
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
How To Make Invaders Zim Gir Costume
With the smoke does not return
,
I swept with a broom you black, I turned
your footsteps for each step you away from me,
I made a single bonfire with all the entanglements in which nested
your shadow and I boarded up the house with a heated living stone in my hand.
I did not measure your strength against these inconsistent wrappings
woven only by the complicity of the glare and air.
not figured your scope of opening a tunnel rat from a winter den
to face the day,
was a growing hole in all windows.
camped away with your arsenal of dark pots, dead land fetishes and scissors, and that tribe invisible
fed rat hell
and began the siege, just like a foot that touches the borders of the foam
almost like a perfume or a song progresses, after you closed
the fence,
and why not to trocar sites, leaving me out? You were the invasive
whose eyes go through the glass of the night
the same as a diamond
self, blind guardian vigil absorbed in porcelain. Cornered
my soul, molding wax three times in dire:
one with the stigma of separation
bands that cross from the future to the past;
the second, with the inner cloud perpetuating detachment and the fall;
the third jet inlaid with those who call the obsessions and fear
and which do not dissolve in acid or custom or under the balm of any faith.
It is like swinging in a vacuum,
stained three times with the color of the other side.
Confundirse my steps tying the rope of fate
a cathedral burst into dust against the cliff, a boat
fleeing blinded by the sun of the islands, giddy,
walked to a tower that fell between quaking and heading for lightning.
And always, everywhere, your allies, these marauding
the docks waiting for the wreck,
the daughters of the serpent knocking my chair from the tree of temptation, the woman
tin crown desecrating the ruins.
Now where is the white house with the band overseas to drink
endless sky of the Mediterranean in a cup? Ground
devouring lime in your mortar.
Where children, each with its secret key, as a mysterious
constellation sliding on the grass? Cast
the seeds of my race in your pot of iron.
Where, where the blessed hours rolling up more than lap unscathed
a prism capable of repairing all the light of the innocent paradise?
that was the best in your black boiled pots.
lock with needles of ice my words, my only talisman in the darkness,
deep incisions and extracted with form and color
emptying their almonds and evaporating sense;
sometimes left between insoluble maze closed doors
always lead to a circular chamber of stagnant water where disputed
spoils the brilliance extinct, the echoes and wind.
Somewhere castles made of paper with my failures.
I loosen your dogs pack along with the unnamed who made a hole in my nights. Spawn
incubated in the kitchen coven underground vermin
arising from the "sleep of reason" in insomniacs bestiary, vermin
forged on the back of all the temptations of the saints,
tested my springs to the latest alerts harassed me
to the chirping of the protective gear that looks set
only here, only now, in this incomprehensible
machineries in the world.
the spell was broken.
It broke like an egg, like a dry twig, like a ring useless.
It may be little left:
unshakable faith, the insistent love, the ties with all the impossible
and is desperate to prove tedious habit of souls, words and death.
plan now, far away, the smoke does not return.
Seen from your side that is victory black bird with your wings and fly.
.
,
I swept with a broom you black, I turned
your footsteps for each step you away from me,
I made a single bonfire with all the entanglements in which nested
your shadow and I boarded up the house with a heated living stone in my hand.
I did not measure your strength against these inconsistent wrappings
woven only by the complicity of the glare and air.
not figured your scope of opening a tunnel rat from a winter den
to face the day,
was a growing hole in all windows.
camped away with your arsenal of dark pots, dead land fetishes and scissors, and that tribe invisible
fed rat hell
and began the siege, just like a foot that touches the borders of the foam
almost like a perfume or a song progresses, after you closed
the fence,
and why not to trocar sites, leaving me out? You were the invasive
whose eyes go through the glass of the night
the same as a diamond
self, blind guardian vigil absorbed in porcelain. Cornered
my soul, molding wax three times in dire:
one with the stigma of separation
bands that cross from the future to the past;
the second, with the inner cloud perpetuating detachment and the fall;
the third jet inlaid with those who call the obsessions and fear
and which do not dissolve in acid or custom or under the balm of any faith.
It is like swinging in a vacuum,
stained three times with the color of the other side.
Confundirse my steps tying the rope of fate
a cathedral burst into dust against the cliff, a boat
fleeing blinded by the sun of the islands, giddy,
walked to a tower that fell between quaking and heading for lightning.
And always, everywhere, your allies, these marauding
the docks waiting for the wreck,
the daughters of the serpent knocking my chair from the tree of temptation, the woman
tin crown desecrating the ruins.
Now where is the white house with the band overseas to drink
endless sky of the Mediterranean in a cup? Ground
devouring lime in your mortar.
Where children, each with its secret key, as a mysterious
constellation sliding on the grass? Cast
the seeds of my race in your pot of iron.
Where, where the blessed hours rolling up more than lap unscathed
a prism capable of repairing all the light of the innocent paradise?
that was the best in your black boiled pots.
lock with needles of ice my words, my only talisman in the darkness,
deep incisions and extracted with form and color
emptying their almonds and evaporating sense;
sometimes left between insoluble maze closed doors
always lead to a circular chamber of stagnant water where disputed
spoils the brilliance extinct, the echoes and wind.
Somewhere castles made of paper with my failures.
I loosen your dogs pack along with the unnamed who made a hole in my nights. Spawn
incubated in the kitchen coven underground vermin
arising from the "sleep of reason" in insomniacs bestiary, vermin
forged on the back of all the temptations of the saints,
tested my springs to the latest alerts harassed me
to the chirping of the protective gear that looks set
only here, only now, in this incomprehensible
machineries in the world.
the spell was broken.
It broke like an egg, like a dry twig, like a ring useless.
It may be little left:
unshakable faith, the insistent love, the ties with all the impossible
and is desperate to prove tedious habit of souls, words and death.
plan now, far away, the smoke does not return.
Seen from your side that is victory black bird with your wings and fly.
.
. Num
9, the night drifting (1984)
9, the night drifting (1984)
Monday, November 17, 2008
Well It Aint No Surprise
To this day trip
recognize this time.
is that it usually came disguised in the folds of other times;
which suddenly began to emerge as a dark angel the mist behind
pushing back my enchanted forests, rituals
my love, my party in indolence,
to draw only a sign in the silence,
by simply cutting the air with his hand. That
the flight looking like a crow and ghostly footsteps,
who came from afar with its mantle of travel and frosted cheeks,
and went down head back that far
I sought in vain carriage trail in the past. Time
disembodied, color
amnesia as drawn in the vacuum of mercury, like a translucent
figure sent from an altarpiece from oblivion.
What was his herald,
the background that looks to the surface of the glass,
announcing the shadows to give birth?
decipher the prophecy did not know,
that whisper of standing water that sometimes distill the twilight, I could not understand
whirlwind of gray feathers that I aspired
from clear yesterday to a vague amphitheater lit by rains and moons
there among the glaciers of unrecognizable future;
here, where now install, solid as Demon advent
its place of honor in the midst of the assembly of other times, pale, transparent,
and tells me that my woods are lights extinguished and stuffed birds,
that my love was wrong, like a mirror that provided in another mirror,
that my party is a heaven replicated in the shroud of my dead.
And will this time, without lowering his head.
recognize this time.
is that it usually came disguised in the folds of other times;
which suddenly began to emerge as a dark angel the mist behind
pushing back my enchanted forests, rituals
my love, my party in indolence,
to draw only a sign in the silence,
by simply cutting the air with his hand. That
the flight looking like a crow and ghostly footsteps,
who came from afar with its mantle of travel and frosted cheeks,
and went down head back that far
I sought in vain carriage trail in the past. Time
disembodied, color
amnesia as drawn in the vacuum of mercury, like a translucent
figure sent from an altarpiece from oblivion.
What was his herald,
the background that looks to the surface of the glass,
announcing the shadows to give birth?
decipher the prophecy did not know,
that whisper of standing water that sometimes distill the twilight, I could not understand
whirlwind of gray feathers that I aspired
from clear yesterday to a vague amphitheater lit by rains and moons
there among the glaciers of unrecognizable future;
here, where now install, solid as Demon advent
its place of honor in the midst of the assembly of other times, pale, transparent,
and tells me that my woods are lights extinguished and stuffed birds,
that my love was wrong, like a mirror that provided in another mirror,
that my party is a heaven replicated in the shroud of my dead.
And will this time, without lowering his head.
No. 8 in the evening to drift (1984)
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Fotos De Jumbos De Portivos
Party Pick up your pieces
As someone who has lost in the woods and it is late and is cold, no matter
leaves a promise to each scintillation enchanted grotto,
the whispers of the evening were the laughter of the missing
the birds change color just in time to no longer be the same, "
ever want to watch the fire within four walls.
not say that the journey was imaginable time overtones incesantemíente
designed in memory of oblivion,
but was rather see stories paraded during phosphorescent water,
always the threat of a paw on the verge of erasing it,
outcomes always dark in which I lay no hand
or am in a scene in which death has starred in all the papers.
There were prodigies.
Every trip includes nature reserves in the museums that haunt us.
I can talk, for example, human
it is transmuted into a cloud when he calls the distance, and it may be
who claim the same for each ear half the world, or that
propagating images of love, as a repetition of the echo, and perhaps
is the same in whose shadow grass grows only lost paradise. Each
burst your game undecided
each night without turning on your back, in its orbit uncertain.
There was also the message of the rain that fell at the same time [two places
and black butterflies simultaneous appearances on all windows and sunsets
contagious and spread by the tenacious pest in the landscape.
wonders and I could cite other errors not captured la crónica,
rarezas y ejemplares nunca domesticados por pregones de feria,
pero no quiero contemplar dos veces lo que vuelve del polvo o es rehén de otro reino.
Que repose intocado con su bautismo de insoluble sal sobre la frente.
¿Y para qué despertar uno por uno los accidentes del camino?
Quedaron señalados con un sello indeleble en los relevamientos del subsuelo,
como si fuera útil ¿para quién? el ejemplo o necesaria ¿para qué? la advertencia,
como si yo pudiera ser la misma aunque no cambie el río.
Entre suelos que corren y límites que se sumergen o que vuelan
las pruebas fueron tantas que no acerté los tiempos;
confundí las people, inputs and outputs, customs and tattoos;
with the demolition of the years built mazes instead of bus stops;
fell asleep and woke indoor harassed by hunting dogs.
At one time I paid my lights to the foolish virgins:
left me dark, I ransacked the sparrows.
do not think, no, it was all stalking, or bite, or ambush. Guardo
somewhere day and night as huge pieces of the party
and only should be deployed, brighten faces,
try and repeat episodes gestures,
as if someone had chosen to be characters in a dream.
While it may be best preserved
folded with the cuts frustrated
beautiful excursions and port plans and cities in which there is no one to host the dawn
and map the planet with its flora and fauna were stained
melancholy and unapproachable horizon tape.
Now I'm sitting on the grass and do my count insomniac.
Should I not have gone to the weather? Or change the path? Any step backwards
can reverse suddenly the prospect of a tale. All
glance over the shoulder may adulterate the innocent scenarios.
It's late and cold beneath the stars that still shine, it's never current, but
perhaps there faded away.
I'll go into the house. Someone is awake
squeezing the shadows, having the logs.
Is ignoble peace? Is sedentary fire?
As someone who has lost in the woods and it is late and is cold, no matter
leaves a promise to each scintillation enchanted grotto,
the whispers of the evening were the laughter of the missing
the birds change color just in time to no longer be the same, "
ever want to watch the fire within four walls.
not say that the journey was imaginable time overtones incesantemíente
designed in memory of oblivion,
but was rather see stories paraded during phosphorescent water,
always the threat of a paw on the verge of erasing it,
outcomes always dark in which I lay no hand
or am in a scene in which death has starred in all the papers.
There were prodigies.
Every trip includes nature reserves in the museums that haunt us.
I can talk, for example, human
it is transmuted into a cloud when he calls the distance, and it may be
who claim the same for each ear half the world, or that
propagating images of love, as a repetition of the echo, and perhaps
is the same in whose shadow grass grows only lost paradise. Each
burst your game undecided
each night without turning on your back, in its orbit uncertain.
There was also the message of the rain that fell at the same time [two places
and black butterflies simultaneous appearances on all windows and sunsets
contagious and spread by the tenacious pest in the landscape.
wonders and I could cite other errors not captured la crónica,
rarezas y ejemplares nunca domesticados por pregones de feria,
pero no quiero contemplar dos veces lo que vuelve del polvo o es rehén de otro reino.
Que repose intocado con su bautismo de insoluble sal sobre la frente.
¿Y para qué despertar uno por uno los accidentes del camino?
Quedaron señalados con un sello indeleble en los relevamientos del subsuelo,
como si fuera útil ¿para quién? el ejemplo o necesaria ¿para qué? la advertencia,
como si yo pudiera ser la misma aunque no cambie el río.
Entre suelos que corren y límites que se sumergen o que vuelan
las pruebas fueron tantas que no acerté los tiempos;
confundí las people, inputs and outputs, customs and tattoos;
with the demolition of the years built mazes instead of bus stops;
fell asleep and woke indoor harassed by hunting dogs.
At one time I paid my lights to the foolish virgins:
left me dark, I ransacked the sparrows.
do not think, no, it was all stalking, or bite, or ambush. Guardo
somewhere day and night as huge pieces of the party
and only should be deployed, brighten faces,
try and repeat episodes gestures,
as if someone had chosen to be characters in a dream.
While it may be best preserved
folded with the cuts frustrated
beautiful excursions and port plans and cities in which there is no one to host the dawn
and map the planet with its flora and fauna were stained
melancholy and unapproachable horizon tape.
Now I'm sitting on the grass and do my count insomniac.
Should I not have gone to the weather? Or change the path? Any step backwards
can reverse suddenly the prospect of a tale. All
glance over the shoulder may adulterate the innocent scenarios.
It's late and cold beneath the stars that still shine, it's never current, but
perhaps there faded away.
I'll go into the house. Someone is awake
squeezing the shadows, having the logs.
Is ignoble peace? Is sedentary fire?
No. 7, the night drifting (1984)
Monday, October 13, 2008
30 Day Free Trial Ilife
Susy
No, do not cry for you
already dropping the evening and the morning on the last day and ever ";
cry for the little girl of two old white portraits
that of the future and you were wrong, this
denied twice in the dark side:
" Olga, which was not. "
Standing detained you step off the pyrotechnics of light
what prevented you get to the swing that ranges from the clouds?,
who cross your path with a black braided rope for dogs of hell?
who bears what is now tearing unbearable?
In front and in profile, the helpless smile of wonder to be born, begin your wicked
handbook of inclement
his arms dangling and one hand resting lightly on the velvet leaves, the sweetness
fleeing. What
then looked so lost
unknown faunas referred to as a clumsy drawing unreadable? Maybe you saw
projected on the wall of dizzying shapes Destination:
flights tracing the mother fools ever more distant circles,
a growing shadow-like monsters tamed by the father,
the collusion of mirrors where the sisters are always hidden, and the final
love, maze blind confuses everything
the handful of dust shining between his fingers,
punished with the whip, the fire and the knife.
still do not know. Even
were a brilliant band behind the comet unattainable
the little girl who spins like a sun among acacias, crowned with yellow rain;
the interpreter of the fox, the stone and the ant, the guest of honor
rabbits, that the bread crumbs with his laughter
which bewildered looks up into the night and shakes incomprehensible
between the sheets when he hears the voice of an unknown god threatening lightning.
I have seen this creature of dread
peek at your face like grim resurface from the depths to the surface waters to spy
again between the slats of a scene unprecedented carriage;
see it yet again to shake off your sobs, slip in your tears,
atrocious hand while rushing down the slope without end against the cliff.
Where were the sleepless angels? Where, the diligent providence?
Pick up the pieces.
I'll lend you my grandmother, that they wanted and walk
and so busy for all hospitals in the heavens.
join the fragments will know your seams invisible, with saintly patience.
And let me in your two-stroke lead to you were not, wherever
certainly merge models
intense desire to draft the frustrations and fulfillment.
Then, on any given day, if you remember, when you want, you can stamp your
single face in a glass that faces the world,
even an instant
even a moment that I can read on the back of the highest tag:
"A Olga, I already am. "
No. 6 of the night drifting (1984)
Saturday, October 4, 2008
What To Mix With Eucalyptus
No access
between my hand and the object that comes to meet with difficulty, the needle
the haystack, the key in the current prodigious,
the pearl shines as an appearance in the tremor of the dune-
other hand that always arises is ahead of the game in my hand,
that fits like a fierce cast these miraculous condensation
desire and takes away from a blow my fragile withdraw membership
like earning a bet with my docile unknown destination.
Among my hand and object to it, without searching and without penalty,
-table like a beast on the prowl, the chair with his hidden intention of flight, the lamp
sanctified by their aura of home-
popess always arise another table, one lamp, one chair, wrapped in color from elsewhere;
adulterated visions deposits loss and forgetfulness, a parade
unreal to me like a curtain prevented from reaching the end of each trip.
between my hand and the object trapped after an arduous battle
-the glass at the bottom of the flower opens the shores impossible
the pebble that beats like a bird, the cockroach that I stopped by the foot-
arise Always wrap a thick glass or ice, transparent distances
interposing its lightness like a dream insurmountable
and reject my last dive in the secret heart of things.
between my hand and another hand that is coming to stay or goodbye
divisions there are only illusions, mirages of the verb in each name,
destinations that are only fragments in the custody of the heavens burst
struggling to reintegrate interchangeable and the substance only of God but arise
slogans like tombstones, bones, bodies dug in solitary
bonfires and glaciers that draw borders and show me my place.
And there is no access, no
permeable surface under the glove of stupor
attached to this hand gliding, others, against the walled hardness of the planet.
between my hand and the object that comes to meet with difficulty, the needle
the haystack, the key in the current prodigious,
the pearl shines as an appearance in the tremor of the dune-
other hand that always arises is ahead of the game in my hand,
that fits like a fierce cast these miraculous condensation
desire and takes away from a blow my fragile withdraw membership
like earning a bet with my docile unknown destination.
Among my hand and object to it, without searching and without penalty,
-table like a beast on the prowl, the chair with his hidden intention of flight, the lamp
sanctified by their aura of home-
popess always arise another table, one lamp, one chair, wrapped in color from elsewhere;
adulterated visions deposits loss and forgetfulness, a parade
unreal to me like a curtain prevented from reaching the end of each trip.
between my hand and the object trapped after an arduous battle
-the glass at the bottom of the flower opens the shores impossible
the pebble that beats like a bird, the cockroach that I stopped by the foot-
arise Always wrap a thick glass or ice, transparent distances
interposing its lightness like a dream insurmountable
and reject my last dive in the secret heart of things.
between my hand and another hand that is coming to stay or goodbye
divisions there are only illusions, mirages of the verb in each name,
destinations that are only fragments in the custody of the heavens burst
struggling to reintegrate interchangeable and the substance only of God but arise
slogans like tombstones, bones, bodies dug in solitary
bonfires and glaciers that draw borders and show me my place.
And there is no access, no
permeable surface under the glove of stupor
attached to this hand gliding, others, against the walled hardness of the planet.
No. 5 of the night drifting (1984)
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Dresses Inburnt Orange
arise from the walls
Masked for days by the tides of light, sometimes
suddenly emerges from the bottom of a wall that realm either
lurking shadow that comes and goes with me.
So
like memory overflowed,
as if they were part of a tapestry that was rebuilt and filled indefinitely
images appear unfinished, vague flashes,
paintings that resemble a cloud
sample or set of figures wait in the drawing of foliage where hides
Prince, where do you hide the ogre?,
and what is on track to reach or to escape?
opens for a moment the smoke-woven fabric and the brightness of the abyss.
arrive faces were always and never in the highest waves of love, unquenchable
cities where the weather was a bird on fire, which hit streets
walls of the world, holiday apartments
as the radiant heart of a star,
tattooed stones to remember. However
errors and the thicket closed.
But the winds changed.
A hand moves the contours
ignorant or a trail of alcohol eating ignites havens promised
and a face is another face, a city
leper approaches involved in the rags of exile,
the roads are closed to air raiders of gardens,
the interiors are dark cloths of profanity,
each heaven is a fallen angel in the corner. However
a lamp flawed in the bush.
To transform this vision,
to sink back into the wall to the cast of oblivion. Now
their way unspeakable geometries, construction debris
unprecedented as an apocalypse, fragments of shipwrecks dark
erected in a Babel of iron,
enigmas as white desert waiting for a word is embedded.
Where was the castle?, Where the witch's house?
It is as if they had mixed up mosaics excavated
faults, mistakes multiplied.
I do not see the model to find the key to complete the meaning of my life
-perhaps a ladder in a vacuum, perhaps a talisman to be lost.
Ah, if I could separate again light and darkness,
continue until the end the invisible threads as children's puzzles,
maybe get two perfect designs, two beautiful mazes. So once
Lorenzetti painted two frescoes on two walls of Siena
inks "The good and bad government. "
One fire burned in his bleak.
remains intact which absorbed the light until God meets
and the walls are open and times
not speak.
.
.
Masked for days by the tides of light, sometimes
suddenly emerges from the bottom of a wall that realm either
lurking shadow that comes and goes with me.
So
like memory overflowed,
as if they were part of a tapestry that was rebuilt and filled indefinitely
images appear unfinished, vague flashes,
paintings that resemble a cloud
sample or set of figures wait in the drawing of foliage where hides
Prince, where do you hide the ogre?,
and what is on track to reach or to escape?
opens for a moment the smoke-woven fabric and the brightness of the abyss.
arrive faces were always and never in the highest waves of love, unquenchable
cities where the weather was a bird on fire, which hit streets
walls of the world, holiday apartments
as the radiant heart of a star,
tattooed stones to remember. However
errors and the thicket closed.
But the winds changed.
A hand moves the contours
ignorant or a trail of alcohol eating ignites havens promised
and a face is another face, a city
leper approaches involved in the rags of exile,
the roads are closed to air raiders of gardens,
the interiors are dark cloths of profanity,
each heaven is a fallen angel in the corner. However
a lamp flawed in the bush.
To transform this vision,
to sink back into the wall to the cast of oblivion. Now
their way unspeakable geometries, construction debris
unprecedented as an apocalypse, fragments of shipwrecks dark
erected in a Babel of iron,
enigmas as white desert waiting for a word is embedded.
Where was the castle?, Where the witch's house?
It is as if they had mixed up mosaics excavated
faults, mistakes multiplied.
I do not see the model to find the key to complete the meaning of my life
-perhaps a ladder in a vacuum, perhaps a talisman to be lost.
Ah, if I could separate again light and darkness,
continue until the end the invisible threads as children's puzzles,
maybe get two perfect designs, two beautiful mazes. So once
Lorenzetti painted two frescoes on two walls of Siena
inks "The good and bad government. "
One fire burned in his bleak.
remains intact which absorbed the light until God meets
and the walls are open and times
not speak.
.
.
No. 4 of the night drifting (1984)
Friday, September 12, 2008
I Have Something On The Side Of My Butt
Safe Place stubs
Wherever they are split into two sleep hive, exposing
city
giant honeycomb made by bees insane
is not difficult to recognize my cell from other cells.
My house is the one that never comes.
behind the walls leaving behind the open;
approaching walls then a scene where the storms howl
inscribed with burning hazards that are like torches in the dark,
with black silhouettes that are tested on the faces of terror and absence:
trophies collected at random from the heady night trips .
And now this setting sun, as bright as one that returns
, incomparable, Aurol my dead?
This house has no roots or ties, and suddenly
walk, walk like a sleepwalker
from the sand to the sea ch
echoing his chilling laughter tumbling pebbles,
or brushing against a sudden trembling winter, or
whispering incomprehensible formulas against the evils of the moon
that soon passed from side to side.
you not see how tearing slips between two scaffolding flanks ghost? There is also no cohesion or
certainties. Where there was a blind
wall opens a door to the red
as an irresistible invitation into the chambers of torture high.
windows overlooking a bright December
groping slide to frame the marauding gray surround me with their faces
hole left in the glass and its insistent signal
too pushy.
Not to mention a spot where you can sleep with the herb alone.
It lifts the roof and falls on me that debris curtain that closes the sky
or me sucking huge yawn of a foreign night.
runners sink into the rooms of looting arms and platforms
and escape with their load of bales that go beyond.
cracks often arise for which I contemplate my invisible witness spend
and foreign chambers next to my bed with their people, their dogs, their chores
like statues carved in the current runaway.
The soil is a beast that awaits me with open mouths.
And always, everywhere, the rustle of wings
planning around my head, trot
this vermin in flight to nowhere, flapping rags
this agitated by the breath relentless death. Ordeal
appealed as a tribunal of stars,
tests that someone deigns to grant an intimate place in this world.
I, with the shadow to the neck.
Wherever they are split into two sleep hive, exposing
city
giant honeycomb made by bees insane
is not difficult to recognize my cell from other cells.
My house is the one that never comes.
behind the walls leaving behind the open;
approaching walls then a scene where the storms howl
inscribed with burning hazards that are like torches in the dark,
with black silhouettes that are tested on the faces of terror and absence:
trophies collected at random from the heady night trips .
And now this setting sun, as bright as one that returns
, incomparable, Aurol my dead?
This house has no roots or ties, and suddenly
walk, walk like a sleepwalker
from the sand to the sea ch
echoing his chilling laughter tumbling pebbles,
or brushing against a sudden trembling winter, or
whispering incomprehensible formulas against the evils of the moon
that soon passed from side to side.
you not see how tearing slips between two scaffolding flanks ghost? There is also no cohesion or
certainties. Where there was a blind
wall opens a door to the red
as an irresistible invitation into the chambers of torture high.
windows overlooking a bright December
groping slide to frame the marauding gray surround me with their faces
hole left in the glass and its insistent signal
too pushy.
Not to mention a spot where you can sleep with the herb alone.
It lifts the roof and falls on me that debris curtain that closes the sky
or me sucking huge yawn of a foreign night.
runners sink into the rooms of looting arms and platforms
and escape with their load of bales that go beyond.
cracks often arise for which I contemplate my invisible witness spend
and foreign chambers next to my bed with their people, their dogs, their chores
like statues carved in the current runaway.
The soil is a beast that awaits me with open mouths.
And always, everywhere, the rustle of wings
planning around my head, trot
this vermin in flight to nowhere, flapping rags
this agitated by the breath relentless death. Ordeal
appealed as a tribunal of stars,
tests that someone deigns to grant an intimate place in this world.
I, with the shadow to the neck.
No. 3 of the night drifting (1984)
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Get Pokemon For Ti-84
. Perhaps
as clouds,
perhaps as a reflection that always slips through the sand,
I grope in my shadows block sculpture,
exact match with the image that imposes the model.
is a relentless master snatches the breath and press my shell. Watch
from my shoulders every step and not support deflections
trails or other Eden, or the flight of the saints, nor the flight of Elijah. Our covenant is
rock tyrannical
in rock must be stamped copy of the law, and my substance
is docile but uncertain,
more wrong than a bird brought by the glass at night, awakening
a dream in the middle of another dream.
collapses and stands in ghostly swirls as I go;
filters down to the ground chasing a misleading impression on the tapestry;
dazzled throws against a harsh light beam on a spray head.
sometimes perverse idols condenses into white or other statutory age.
Sometimes it's a bowl
nothing more than a humble and desolate bowl in the rain, waiting
of precipitating the vision or bury the beam.
When I can one hand, I lose a foot;
when I reach the edge the rest dissolves into empty terrain.
not like them never from my heart to my lips, less felicitous
Adam,
or pebbles that perpetuate certain memorable scenes along the beaches,
or players in a dark fable dictated by the mouth of the oracle.
I come to think that my model is impossible and cruel,
shifting shape and color when they grazed just a gesture,
barely a trace.
But I continue to obey to end his inhuman mandate
I, the little mirror, mist
accumulated in the doorway, the question
misses never to reveal the Sphinx and the response. Perhaps my destiny is
as irreversible seal qu leave nostalgia:
unmet footprint,
the fate of being about something I'm not.
.
.
No. 2 of the night drifting (1984)
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Gaston County Tax Value
against a model pupil in your great Variations on time
.
recognize me, night,
I feel, I count,
but not as greedy as a false blind
or as someone who never knows who is shipwrecked and who lay.
I have chosen to grope for statue of your allegories,
only by custom to plunge the world where you just lose your head
and in every cloud and every step the ground beneath your feet.
And does your stepdaughter was not always preferred
that coming on without hesitation into the trap concocted by your hand,
the bites the poison apple or mirror copy of your beauty traitor?
forgot to tie the mast of the house when you were spending
to keep me out every time after your flute Thief delighted children,
and was at the expense of the day I mistook in your bag and the white snow, wolves and shadows.
now too late to go back and correct the hours under the sun.
Now I have checked with your alphabet black.
belong to the tribe of staying in radiant darkness
of which look better with closed eyes and lie down on the side and rear of Abyss and never return flight
when Tom throws open the doors of the apparent noon . You
covers your Thebaid in the unseen. You not give evidence. Your event, secret, numberless, without asking,
as turned inward contemplation,
where each signal is the trembling of a bird in a huge room and every rise
a leap into the void from bleachers and absences. You watch me Tdesde
everywhere
curtains drew back, piercing the walls bales of darkness peering;
find me and me with the look of the hunter and the control, while
discover in the middle of your high weeds the splendor of a lost city,
or look in vain for traces of the future in your crossroads.
You are going who knows where, following the variations of temptation unattainable ends
trying on the faces of horror, of extreme beauty,
the impossible distance from others, touch from hell,
visions that crowd as far as you reach the darkness that I have, as far
death start to roll down with carriages, with stones and dogs.
But I'm not asking you or veils parted exhumed lamps.
Do not claim a lesson in light
how not claim to water by the flame or waking from sleep.
Or would rely less on you than on the hard, suspicious stars?
We have seen many insoluble mysteries with its white glare, even in bright sunlight!
Just take me by the hand and through a forest carpeted
night, creeping night,
learn what I mean, what the wind whispers,
and could finally read to the bottom of my little great night in your pupil.
.
.
.
recognize me, night,
I feel, I count,
but not as greedy as a false blind
or as someone who never knows who is shipwrecked and who lay.
I have chosen to grope for statue of your allegories,
only by custom to plunge the world where you just lose your head
and in every cloud and every step the ground beneath your feet.
And does your stepdaughter was not always preferred
that coming on without hesitation into the trap concocted by your hand,
the bites the poison apple or mirror copy of your beauty traitor?
forgot to tie the mast of the house when you were spending
to keep me out every time after your flute Thief delighted children,
and was at the expense of the day I mistook in your bag and the white snow, wolves and shadows.
now too late to go back and correct the hours under the sun.
Now I have checked with your alphabet black.
belong to the tribe of staying in radiant darkness
of which look better with closed eyes and lie down on the side and rear of Abyss and never return flight
when Tom throws open the doors of the apparent noon . You
covers your Thebaid in the unseen. You not give evidence. Your event, secret, numberless, without asking,
as turned inward contemplation,
where each signal is the trembling of a bird in a huge room and every rise
a leap into the void from bleachers and absences. You watch me Tdesde
everywhere
curtains drew back, piercing the walls bales of darkness peering;
find me and me with the look of the hunter and the control, while
discover in the middle of your high weeds the splendor of a lost city,
or look in vain for traces of the future in your crossroads.
You are going who knows where, following the variations of temptation unattainable ends
trying on the faces of horror, of extreme beauty,
the impossible distance from others, touch from hell,
visions that crowd as far as you reach the darkness that I have, as far
death start to roll down with carriages, with stones and dogs.
But I'm not asking you or veils parted exhumed lamps.
Do not claim a lesson in light
how not claim to water by the flame or waking from sleep.
Or would rely less on you than on the hard, suspicious stars?
We have seen many insoluble mysteries with its white glare, even in bright sunlight!
Just take me by the hand and through a forest carpeted
night, creeping night,
learn what I mean, what the wind whispers,
and could finally read to the bottom of my little great night in your pupil.
.
.
No. 1 of the night drifting (1984)
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Im In Love With Quotes
Regalia and ceremonial
.
Time:
you're dressed in the skin rotting the last prophet
you spent the face to the extreme pallor
you wearing a crown made of broken mirrors, wet rags, and chanting
now babbling of the future with the unearthed ancient melodies,
vague shadows while your hungry heap, like kings mad.
nothing I do not care all your ravings of unfinished ghost, miserable
host.
can gnaw the bones of the great promises in their rickety catafalques
or taste the bitter potion oozing beheadings.
And still will not be enough, until you devour
your court Goya finish grinding.
rhythmic never crossed our path in these labyrinths.
not even the beginning,
when you drove me by the hand through the Haunted Forest
and forced me to run out of breath after that tower
unattainable or find always the same with her dark almond flavor of fear and innocence.
Ah, your blue plumage shining through the branches!
embalsamarte not got I could not draw your heart like a golden apple. Too
pressing
the whip went after the driver imperial
incites been enrolled between the legs of his horses. Paying Too
,
condemned me to be the hostage ignored, the victim
buried to the shoulders from centuries of sand.
We sometimes fought hand to hand.
We played like beasts every bit of love,
every agreement signed with the ink in one instant forges eternity
each face sculpted on the fickleness of the sailing clouds,
every house built in the stream does not return.
succeeded in taking one by one those shredded pieces of my temples.
not empty the bag.
not display your trophies.
not retell your shameful deeds of gladiator in the galleries excessive echo. Neither do I
granted a truce.
I broke your laws. Forcé
your locks and went to the barn they call the future. I
one fire with all your ages.
I turned upside down like a curse that has broken, or mix your premises
as an anagram whose lyrics barter order and change the meaning. You
condensed to the point of a stationary bubble,
opaque, glassy cielos.Estiré prisoner in my dry skin leagues memory
until gradually the pierced holes of oblivion pale. One throw of the dice
made you hesitate on the immense gap between two times.
We have come far in the game awful, cornered the soul.
I know that there will be no break, and not
tempt me not with me invade the peaceful shade of ancient plants,
worth me nothing but be on guard, but ultimately
're standing around, getting your wages, petty bribery
the coin in your honor the hoarse machinery of death, mercenary. And do not write
then white borders "never again" with your hand
ignorant
like you're some god of God, a former guardian, the master of yourself in another you that broke the darkness.
Maybe you're just cheating the shadow of one of their dogs.
.
.
.
Time:
you're dressed in the skin rotting the last prophet
you spent the face to the extreme pallor
you wearing a crown made of broken mirrors, wet rags, and chanting
now babbling of the future with the unearthed ancient melodies,
vague shadows while your hungry heap, like kings mad.
nothing I do not care all your ravings of unfinished ghost, miserable
host.
can gnaw the bones of the great promises in their rickety catafalques
or taste the bitter potion oozing beheadings.
And still will not be enough, until you devour
your court Goya finish grinding.
rhythmic never crossed our path in these labyrinths.
not even the beginning,
when you drove me by the hand through the Haunted Forest
and forced me to run out of breath after that tower
unattainable or find always the same with her dark almond flavor of fear and innocence.
Ah, your blue plumage shining through the branches!
embalsamarte not got I could not draw your heart like a golden apple. Too
pressing
the whip went after the driver imperial
incites been enrolled between the legs of his horses. Paying Too
,
condemned me to be the hostage ignored, the victim
buried to the shoulders from centuries of sand.
We sometimes fought hand to hand.
We played like beasts every bit of love,
every agreement signed with the ink in one instant forges eternity
each face sculpted on the fickleness of the sailing clouds,
every house built in the stream does not return.
succeeded in taking one by one those shredded pieces of my temples.
not empty the bag.
not display your trophies.
not retell your shameful deeds of gladiator in the galleries excessive echo. Neither do I
granted a truce.
I broke your laws. Forcé
your locks and went to the barn they call the future. I
one fire with all your ages.
I turned upside down like a curse that has broken, or mix your premises
as an anagram whose lyrics barter order and change the meaning. You
condensed to the point of a stationary bubble,
opaque, glassy cielos.Estiré prisoner in my dry skin leagues memory
until gradually the pierced holes of oblivion pale. One throw of the dice
made you hesitate on the immense gap between two times.
We have come far in the game awful, cornered the soul.
I know that there will be no break, and not
tempt me not with me invade the peaceful shade of ancient plants,
worth me nothing but be on guard, but ultimately
're standing around, getting your wages, petty bribery
the coin in your honor the hoarse machinery of death, mercenary. And do not write
then white borders "never again" with your hand
ignorant
like you're some god of God, a former guardian, the master of yourself in another you that broke the darkness.
Maybe you're just cheating the shadow of one of their dogs.
.
.
No. 19 of Mutations of reality (1979)
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Queens Marriage License
The suit smoke and cobwebs broken allowing
-ever cross but never free-
these half open cracks in the walls those whose exile is the other side;
nettles hat for insomniacs force of dreams to nightmare,
or the other, like a swarm furious, calling the sparks of madness and fever;
gloves bark and open wound who get everything rub
and better palpated the bed coals where it incubates the future;
feathered blast layer to rotate faster at the wheel of metamorphosis and be
hope for those regions where vacuum I
is lost and not hit bottom in another shelter and mixes the output;
and shoes, grass, needles, ants,
made to explore all the realms and breach borders. What workshop
unprecedented
my head! What costume
fable in the dressing rooms of the high voltages! How fragile
packaging is a wicked game of temptation and the challenge! I tried
dizziness, delusions, asphyxia,
agonies liturgical ceremonies adaptation as Purgatory
embroidered robes spells as holy;
wrapped me in visions unfinished
disturbing in light to blind guardian the fatuous reason;
covered with so many veils of absence my memory that barely woke up in my skin;
exile rehearsed cruises to other lost souls in the forest was
be others, to erase the seams of separations
-yes, a single tissue where all that exists were enrolled, an infinite canvas
Veronica transudate for God's blood.
sometimes picked up some tiny trophies
glassy sediment as frost flowers that dissolve under the tongue, foams
evaporate like spectral dust between the fingers,
flashes of light that would warn anyone in the sun,
reliquaries finally,
like those stones away from the sea to forget their brilliance.
urge got the answers from the shadows to the babble and collapse.
I overpowered the night I leaked out between his teeth;
adopted me as their usual food.
No more testing and scans networks golden legend.
No costumes to cover their retreat and evade the slogans.
Only the poor, naked seamless coat that sticks to my bones,
soon turns me inside out and drag me in,
step after step by step ending definitely blind.
I'm done with the same substance in the gulf and
craft against all my fall in the still darkness.
No. 17, reality Mutations (1979)
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Paintinf Car With Brightsides
The reverse of the frame
difficulty,
as an amphibious animal tries to adapt to all the vagaries of the world, with my bread
absorb the masked distress insoluble food.
my skin is hardly suitable for the Sphinx excessive wear I live.
My head is narrow, but keep
capades venues to host cities in their fragile attic. My hands do not get
capture the visions that passed through my eyes or my feet
hit bottom in the boiling pool of my heart.
And what fierce rift between my tongue and any labyrinth of language!
Almost my whole being is invisible
a blade fold,
up to his limo in the immeasurable littleness.
The bulk of San Pedro shining in the keyhole;
Byzantium on a tear.
Daughter of confusion and darkness,
barely advanced to my letter of buildings and shipwrecks:
Caryatid carrying his Olympus senseless in the inner cloud, losing each grave
its tiny self as a stone of the great frieze,
a tiny fragment of eternity that rolls up to the limits of the world and collected
blindly, without hitting your site and your destination. Same
I welcome you to your imbalance and your disorder,
incredible existence
like you set exactly to fit my body and weight of my voice. Same
you Forsaken me in my challenge,
absurd life in shadows, like a child
intruder in this realm,
when interrogated in vain your face impenetrable, made of iron and wall.
You turn against me, you
stands as guardian of a shrine to move away from my feet,
captivate me in a black hurricane where tables are broken the law,
and leave me in suspense, hanging on the edge of the orphans and disaster,
when it crashed, displaying nothing in their curtains,
scenes and territories detached from the back of my plot.
Everything is possible, then,
all, except me.
as an amphibious animal tries to adapt to all the vagaries of the world, with my bread
absorb the masked distress insoluble food.
my skin is hardly suitable for the Sphinx excessive wear I live.
My head is narrow, but keep
capades venues to host cities in their fragile attic. My hands do not get
capture the visions that passed through my eyes or my feet
hit bottom in the boiling pool of my heart.
And what fierce rift between my tongue and any labyrinth of language!
Almost my whole being is invisible
a blade fold,
up to his limo in the immeasurable littleness.
The bulk of San Pedro shining in the keyhole;
Byzantium on a tear.
Daughter of confusion and darkness,
barely advanced to my letter of buildings and shipwrecks:
Caryatid carrying his Olympus senseless in the inner cloud, losing each grave
its tiny self as a stone of the great frieze,
a tiny fragment of eternity that rolls up to the limits of the world and collected
blindly, without hitting your site and your destination. Same
I welcome you to your imbalance and your disorder,
incredible existence
like you set exactly to fit my body and weight of my voice. Same
you Forsaken me in my challenge,
absurd life in shadows, like a child
intruder in this realm,
when interrogated in vain your face impenetrable, made of iron and wall.
You turn against me, you
stands as guardian of a shrine to move away from my feet,
captivate me in a black hurricane where tables are broken the law,
and leave me in suspense, hanging on the edge of the orphans and disaster,
when it crashed, displaying nothing in their curtains,
scenes and territories detached from the back of my plot.
Everything is possible, then,
all, except me.
No. 16, reality Mutations (1979)
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Carbonation Digestion
Pavane for a dead princess
A Pizarnik .
. Small
sentinel
fall once again into the slot on the night armed with nothing
eyes open and terror against invaders
insoluble in the paper.
They were legion. Legion
fierce was his name and multiplied as you until you unraveled the last basting
arrinconándote against predatory webs of nowhere.
He who closes his eyes became home of the whole universe.
The fact that trace the borders open and remains in the open.
who treads the line is no place. Insomnia
as tunnels to test the inconsistency of all reality;
night after night pierced by a single bullet that you embed in the dark,
and recognize the same test to awaken the memory of death:
this perverse temptation
that angel adorable pig snout. Who spoke
spell to counteract the injury of birth itself?
Who said anything about bribes Envoys for the own future?
only had a garden at the bottom of everything there is a
garden where you see the blue flower of Novalis sleep. Flor
cruel, flower vampire
more treacherous than the trap hidden in the wall plush
and never reached while the head or the rest of the blood in the doorway.
But as you lean to cut where you did not walk,
depths inward.
were trying to barter for the hungry creature you uninhabited.
devouring small castles erected in his honor;
you dressed in feathers shed from the bonfire of all possible paradise
tame animals to gnaw hazardous bridges of salvation;
you got lost like the beggar in the delirium of wolves I tested
languages \u200b\u200bsuch as acids, like tentacles,
as ties in the hands of the choke. Ah
the ravages of poetry cortándote wrists with the edge of dawn, those bloodless lips
and sipping the poisons of the inanity of the word!
And then no more.
bottles were broken.
lights are splintered and pencils.
is degarró Tear the paper that you slip into another maze.
All doors are to exit.
Now everything is the reverse of the mirrors. Small passenger
,
alone with your piggy and visions
same unbearable helplessness underfoot:
're certainly claiming to spend with your voices drowned
certainly stops you your own huge shadow that hovers over you still looking for another, or tremble
against an insect covered with membrane all the chaos,
or frightens you the sea that can be on your side in this tear.
But again I say, silence
now that envelops you twice in its wings like a cloak:
at the bottom of every garden is a garden.
There's your garden,
Talita Cumi.
.
.
A Pizarnik
. Small
sentinel
fall once again into the slot on the night armed with nothing
eyes open and terror against invaders
insoluble in the paper.
They were legion. Legion
fierce was his name and multiplied as you until you unraveled the last basting
arrinconándote against predatory webs of nowhere.
He who closes his eyes became home of the whole universe.
The fact that trace the borders open and remains in the open.
who treads the line is no place. Insomnia
as tunnels to test the inconsistency of all reality;
night after night pierced by a single bullet that you embed in the dark,
and recognize the same test to awaken the memory of death:
this perverse temptation
that angel adorable pig snout. Who spoke
spell to counteract the injury of birth itself?
Who said anything about bribes Envoys for the own future?
only had a garden at the bottom of everything there is a
garden where you see the blue flower of Novalis sleep. Flor
cruel, flower vampire
more treacherous than the trap hidden in the wall plush
and never reached while the head or the rest of the blood in the doorway.
But as you lean to cut where you did not walk,
depths inward.
were trying to barter for the hungry creature you uninhabited.
devouring small castles erected in his honor;
you dressed in feathers shed from the bonfire of all possible paradise
tame animals to gnaw hazardous bridges of salvation;
you got lost like the beggar in the delirium of wolves I tested
languages \u200b\u200bsuch as acids, like tentacles,
as ties in the hands of the choke. Ah
the ravages of poetry cortándote wrists with the edge of dawn, those bloodless lips
and sipping the poisons of the inanity of the word!
And then no more.
bottles were broken.
lights are splintered and pencils.
is degarró Tear the paper that you slip into another maze.
All doors are to exit.
Now everything is the reverse of the mirrors. Small passenger
,
alone with your piggy and visions
same unbearable helplessness underfoot:
're certainly claiming to spend with your voices drowned
certainly stops you your own huge shadow that hovers over you still looking for another, or tremble
against an insect covered with membrane all the chaos,
or frightens you the sea that can be on your side in this tear.
But again I say, silence
now that envelops you twice in its wings like a cloak:
at the bottom of every garden is a garden.
There's your garden,
Talita Cumi.
.
.
No. 15, reality Mutations (1979)
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Jenna Jameson Fireplace
Objects vampire lurking
Where wolves hide the danger its yellow?
There is not even a fold in the lining of the stationary current day
not a fleeting blow against the gentle reverie of things. No bite
;
nothing to open a gap in these areas who claim their place in the world: my domain
immune
sure my little daily against the invasions of the dark.
Yet the threat comes as an evil glare, as a strident
or suffocated;
perhaps as a beat to break the fragile shell of appearances.
the unholy rebellion has spread to my home tribe
used before the ritual of my hands and the look is not.
objects acquire a secret intention at this time that the gap portends a bright Exhale
utensils made for the alienation and loss,
hold their breath for the attack indecipherable
transform their offices in this exasperated, unhealthy geometry of suspense.
gargoyles are now.
alerts are idols dumb question my power uncertain.
law has been changed:
my possessions I witness.
creeds have been moved: the beautiful
compliance under the sun dies of suspicion. And no word
things return unharmed to their humble places. And no catechism
retract this strange assembly that haunts me, this cruel court
me out again an unrecognizable paradise regained
half each day.
.
.
Where wolves hide the danger its yellow?
There is not even a fold in the lining of the stationary current day
not a fleeting blow against the gentle reverie of things. No bite
;
nothing to open a gap in these areas who claim their place in the world: my domain
immune
sure my little daily against the invasions of the dark.
Yet the threat comes as an evil glare, as a strident
or suffocated;
perhaps as a beat to break the fragile shell of appearances.
the unholy rebellion has spread to my home tribe
used before the ritual of my hands and the look is not.
objects acquire a secret intention at this time that the gap portends a bright Exhale
utensils made for the alienation and loss,
hold their breath for the attack indecipherable
transform their offices in this exasperated, unhealthy geometry of suspense.
gargoyles are now.
alerts are idols dumb question my power uncertain.
law has been changed:
my possessions I witness.
creeds have been moved: the beautiful
compliance under the sun dies of suspicion. And no word
things return unharmed to their humble places. And no catechism
retract this strange assembly that haunts me, this cruel court
me out again an unrecognizable paradise regained
half each day.
.
.
No. 14, reality Mutations (1979)
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Level Pack Cube Runner Ii
I managed not to foot the footsteps of my guardian angel.
I, who had such beautiful eyes in my early season, I have not heard
avoid the cliff of conigo walking destination,
who dresses as a light at the expense of my nakedness and his duels
and extending his kingdom by dint of encroachments and depredations.
It's like a pit up
the lookout for a step into the void,
a mouth that absorb these few drops of liquor dispensing gods
a bloody arena in which the wind sucks the future of heroin
and throws it to his gold-
lions echoing the fall, grade to grade, with sound death count
sounds like the opposite of all grace.
Stuck on my heels,
attached to my days as a cancer to the time warp,
as faithful as the home country or sediment blind my heritage, not only
hold of my most earnest, inseparable possessions
but fast forward with his shadow on the fly from my hand
and even crashed into the blue glass that reflects the beginning of a wish.
A veces, muchas veces,
me acorrala contra el fondo de la noche cerrada, inapelable,
y despliega su cola, su abanico fastuoso como el rayo de un faro,
y exhibe uno por uno sus tesoros
-pedrerías hirientes a la luz de mis lágrimas-:
la casa dibujada con una tiza blanca en todos los paraísos prometidos;
los duendes con sombreros de paja disipando la niebla en el jardín;
pedazos de inocencia para armar algún día su radiante cadáver;
mi abuela y Berenice en los altos desvanes de las aventuras infantiles;
mis padres, mis amigos, mis hermanos, brillando como lámparas en el túnel de las alamedad;
vitrales de los grandes amores arrancados the cathedral of hope
garb of that bent to the chest again bottomless;
decks of playing cards culled from victory marked;
and prodigious stones, bright prints and cities like fireflies in the forest,
all all on a network of red cobwebs
that are actually paths that cut across the veins.
I'm not talking here of gains and losses,
wins and losses incidental.
I have not come to mourn with tears of agony my sorrow, my balance
dust,
but to affirm the denial Headquarters:
this old quarry of greed, this immense glacier
vampire who dresses lights my mourning.
And I like a pirate ship bow, wearing a ragged peninsula
continent of looting.
No. 13, reality Mutations (1979)
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