Josh Hutcherson From Underpants

Thank you for your look, your trip to the other around the world, and your heart so close.

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.

No. 10, the night drifting (1984)

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.
.

. Num
9, the night drifting (1984)