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

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

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

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