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.

No. 16, reality Mutations (1979)

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.
.
.

No. 15, reality Mutations (1979)