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)

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.
.
.

No. 14, reality Mutations (1979)

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)