Friday, October 22
muscular crepuscular she
Muscular
Crepuscular
The sun
You
Writing
Poetry
I knew a girl
A poet girl
A poem of a girl
A warning of a girl
Beware of a she poet
For she can bite your soul
She goes me me me me me me
And me
But not me
She talks with herself
Beautiful
Brilliant
She is in love
With herself
No room for someone else
No room for others worlds and words
Crespuscular
Ocular
Maybe bi-nocular
Poetry
Is nothing
This poem
It´s not suppose to be
A poem
Poetry is dead
Dead
Is
Poetry
Muscular
As
One heart
As
ONE hell
Of
An
Ass
Cute
She thinks she listens
But she doesn´t
I am
Between the lines
I am
Between
The beginning
And the end
Of myself
Autumn
Leaves falling
Pieces of sun falling down
Me
Leave
Im
living
myself
not
leaving
not
yet
I
Pass
I
Deconstruct
Language
Myself
Find
She says
fine
If that´s what you want
No one will understand
No one
Ever
Me me me me me
You
Poetry
Muscular
Crepuscular
I see my son
Dying in front of my soul
Poetry
Crepuscular
Crepuscular
She
She
She
me
me
me
Tuesday, October 12
Dis Cover Me
Dis Cover me
they say I am yours
Now
What´s the meaning of the color?
What´s the meaning of colors?
I thought it was my protector
from the sun
you see
I love you with thunders of love
Oh love
Oh love
You are different
completly different
from me
Why?
Why not?
What´s the color of love?
Red
It is really red?
Have you seen it?
People in advertising say it is
red
red and with a fat angel carrying a heart
a heart that doesn´t resemble a real heart
My love
I want to be black
I want to be black with you
like you
Today
I am blue
Dis Cover Me
Dis Cover Me
love
they say im yours now
they say im your slave
love
dis Cover Me
I want to be free
like you
Do you really love me?
Set me free
Friday, October 8
Yes ter night and morrows
"You know: a landscape is what you never know"-Joseph Brodsky
Yesternight
I was you
I dressed like you
yesternight and morrows
throwing
arrows
I followed the silence of the streets
and look for the eyes that watched me
engrossed
I was what I really wanted to
What you wanted me to be
yesternight and morrows
throwing
sorrows
I´ve had it all
I do as I want
Yestermorrow
I will become
myself
yes ter night and
morrows
Sunday, October 3
Transit
"The language marches in step with the executioners./ Therefore we must get a new language" Tomas Tranströmer
"I am transparent
and writing becomes visible
inside me" Tomas Tranströmer
I am the transit
I am transit and transitorial
cars floating on mirrors of rain
little lights inside them
little people perhaps
but no souls
no souls on the road
no souls
words in our mind
do not appear in letters
types of letters
you don´t write letters anymore
you write me mails
I write a blog
the new letters
letters appear in front of me
as I pronounced them
because I want to
not because it has to be
nothing has to be
and yet
we dwell inside our lonely cars
in search
of that being
we are what we are
are we what we are
we are language
language created everything
if God Is
is language
Transit
red lights you can ignore
john coltrane music
floates
I am transit
I hope Trans poetry wins
I hope we recreate hope
with means
and actions
not only words
this time
poetry has to do things
make something new out of something
this time
is the same time
nothing has changed
the orange sun
in the horizon of your eyes
home
language is lost in it´s lonely rooms
The man who never in his mind and thoughts travel'd to heaven is no artist.” -William Blake.
I perceive you
persevere you
language is lost in it´s lonely rooms
everybody is fuckin crazy
in the illusion of re creating wars
of words
words are the same
we have destroyed their meanings
Significant changes
Tranströmer will maybe win the Nobel Prize
who gives a damn
I give a damn
I give a damn damn about language
so I say fuck
Inmaculate times, no
everything vanishes
these poems are broken
trying to find their poetry lost
these poems are post poems
post mortem poems
the poetry in them is the ignored
pulse
the electric nano thunder through
your brain
I travel a lot
being all around
crazy
lost
sinner
thinker
stupid
selling my life
in order to feel independent
we all sell something
travel
the world is smaller
the world is the same world anywhere
there´s no difference
there´s a you
there´a a me
and there´s sex
think about it
perceive it
language
creator
language
in significance
these are the lines
of a continuum
this is the same poem
but there is no
poetry
this is the same poem
until the end
until the end
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