There are feelings carving the insight of all the things I see

I make no sense, there is nothing to hold sacred or to let go. And you know it’s funny, since I have been longing for so long for a reason to give everything a soul to pursue and believe in. But it seems that the universe has been waiting for its own reasons to give in. To throw me into this deep void of untitled madness which I will never figure out alone.

Carving deeper to what is left, to songs about cuddling ballerinas fulfilling destinies of those who hate art, I realize that I will never be able to write again. These passages, words, phrases remain floating in vain. Once in a blue moon I will read them again and constantly say to myself don’t look back, don’t look back, no, not now, maybe later…. Ironic enough though, there is always a detail to remind me. And I’m aching, crying for the times when it was perfect and artistic, with cloudy days that seemed warm and cozy, never cool and dreadfully hostile. Now they are the ones pointing fingers.

I scream I surrender but they would never listen. Chairs breathe through the peaches that slipped from the table and remained on the same old chairs. Some peaches are on the ground, intoxicating the floor with redemption and lost gestures. Well they were funny once, tender, withdrawing every drop of skepticism. They are now poison flooded with regret, the type of regret one will never know until helplessly trying to deny it in order to keep sane and lucid.

There’s a blue moon outside and so I read these again and the peaches rot suddenly, turning to ashes of shadows from the early past. I hate you, beauty of form, Art, I hate you forever and you will never foster me again. But I will look for you. And you won’t be there. In the end, it doesn’t even matter, does it?

I am now disconnected.

High without hopes, as loud without sounds or highlighted without paint. Either way it doesn’t make any sense and fighting it only feels like an unmade bed, a broken heel or a piece of glass in the foot. Like colours that don’t match and never will and birds that sing endless choirs of misspelled words.

And the misgivings, the disillusions, the desecrations, the disabilities, disaffections, disappearances and disappointments. The disarmament that can only be discerned throughout disbeliefs and disconsolation. I am now disconnected.

The Rite of Spring

Haikus are writing themselves, hang on trees and slide on the back of dragonflies, endangering themselves. Words turn promiscuous as the spring dawn moves forward and unveils their bodies almost completely. Without any resentment and an eclipsed shame they dance in the scalded milk like air, breathing slowly through vocals and puns.

At noon they occasionally hide beneath the leafs of plants growing in the dungeons of shores, just to rest for a while. At three o’clock they’re back, lingering around with the same promiscuity, leaving a ghost aftertaste.

Some would think specters walk around foolishly, in heavy daylight, compromising the lights they’re made of, when in fact such poltergeists are the bits of haikus striking in the heat, the haikus which were given too much credit.

They fall apart like illnesses, at the sunset, these worries-provoking creatures now looking like nothing but broken light bulbs with dim-lights covering their fragile bodies and vanish at midnight, returning to the humble who operated himself, who cut his throat to let the words out and create the haiku he was unable to write.

Dark-blue ink tiptoed on the wooden floor.

The Dark Horse climbs up and reaches its place

Arms leak, needing to hold spheres, like a human Ouroboros, biting its tail where the fingers of the left hand meet the right. Dichotomy between the human skin and the overlapping scales of the snake. Androgynous in caressing, in meeting the opposite watching from above how the skull and the neck and the entire body, except for the arms, melt away, turn into the flavorous clouds the Dark Horse recreates itself from.

Shines on recklessly. And the once-human hits his seventh journey, as the metempsychosis closes upon itself, like a self-controlled wooden locker, with deep roots embedded in the Ground, like a red, flashing wound concluding inside itself, covered with thin epithelium, underneath which the volcano will sleep.

The Dark Horse climbs up and reaches its place and the man starts resting under a greater placenta, breathing through the limbs of the horse and the snake that’s now dying in the arms that once transcended into Ouroborous.

Crows fly in circles above a great whole.

Crows fly in circles above a great whole. Wolves circle it as well and grow broken branches from the paw prints they left in the thin sand. Savage bushes and leafless trees grow on top of each other to form a fortress that holds secluded only ravens and crows and wolves.

Winds tends to scatter the birds but then brings them back together and symphonically howls through the rotten smell. Bats clap under the sun and splash in particles that would soon stop upon the skin and the candles. To blow off the candles and hold them in dream catchers.

Well I don’t know about such metamorphosis

If these were my hands and ink flooded them suddenly, if my feet were embraced by points and lines turning me into stones, would a bird come an take each pebble in its beak, then safely put it on a sea shore and cover it with sand? Well I don’t know about such metamorphosis, about such anthropomorphism of delusional creatures, both the man and the bird.

Neither can I guarantee about a huge giraffe starting to eat the tree in which a dwarf found shelter, clutching each leaf with its teeth until leaving the tree leafless, with a dwarf and his little hat sleeping vertically, dreaming of the clouds barely flying with 5 meters above his head.

The giraffe would eat the bird with the pebbles and I would kill the dwarf while climbing up to the clouds so as to escape the great flood of ink.

Mellotron scratch

The skin becomes cryptic under the pen, struggling for a different kind of damnation. Killing cells, painting them in ink shouldn’t be tolerated at such levels of creativity, the creation the skin cells would never conjure.

Oracles should know the paintings are better on skin, that tattoos tend to create themselves after a while. That it’s the body that needs the drawing in order to remember the moons that passed and the wolves that cried out in the woods.

Musically, the pen glazes for one last time and then hits epidermis, succumbing its poisonous colour. Oracles stretch their arms, as the skin screams at first. It soon gets used to it, dealing with the mayhem turning ubiquous.

Pens arising from every limb, every face and finger, toppling the temples in which the oracles crush their necks and draw white chalk circles to protect themselves.

There’s a signature of every porcelain, building and tissue. The membrane of the world cracks like a nutshell as a giant pen encrypts it under the sign of a giant tattoo of porcelains and buildings and tissues.


I miss you more after 1 a.m. It’s only then, when things get quiet and real. When solitude occurs like a sharp blade on a whitened forehead, a surreal poppy in a snow field. A magic spell in a ghetto of grey bricks screaming “we dont need no education”.

here’ve been enough blizzards for one winter, enough mary-go-rounds for one child. Enough kidnappers for the same butterfly, turning into a spider, crawling behind doors and promising people he is God. In the end it’s just the giant hydro molecule of a dissociative life.

Utopically, turning bipolar, splitting in half, in four, in eight, in four thousand ninety-six. Becoming glass, running towards the fire and cracking itself. Foolish hydro molecule aching for reckless metamorphosis. Foolish hydromorphone molecule, defeated by my mind, after 1 a.m…

Le temps elastique

Fictional but humdrum, the princess seeks to jump out of narcolepsy. She ossifies the world she sees on the window of her drawer, then puts it to rest, shaped into the shape of a lizard, on her bookshelf. Another perspective, mundane in its fiction for the invokes fiction every hour, another lizard.

Such phantasmagorias take place under the eyes of owls, the seven white owls guarding the room, with threatening, philippic beaks. Under such dictatorship she would normally fear giving birth to the lizards, as the owls watch their pale, greenish bodies curling into this air from her small palms.

But the wardrobe would grow and overflow, releasing those maliciously creative nemesis of what she couldn’t see on the real window of her room. She needed to lock them in fetid lizards, lugubrious, with intolerant orange eyes spinning in orbits.

Her knuckles whitened every time another lizard came to existence, as if holding the heaviest gun with both her hands and clenching to hold her body straight. Soon there will be too many of them in her room.

The owls would refuse to eat them, so they would refuge in the back of the princess’ eyes, in her wrists and joints. And continue to paradoxically grow out of fear and hunger.

Our broken garden

Dear Darkness,

You stop me from seeing. And I can’t force my eyes upon such a blankness any longer. It’s getting frustrating, although I know I have made promises. Promises regarding what to do and what not to do, what to see and what to ignore, what to let flow into oblivion or let drown in it, sucked by the waves. But right now I’m not sure I’m still comfortable with you and your obscurity. Your shallowness.

You’re too eager to keep me blind, to unfold every thought I might have about every color or bright light. And I hate bright lights, they injure my eyes. But you hurt them too. And they start to succumb back into the orbits, touching my brain and the cells start to push and maybe I’ll lose my eyes. Because of you.

You stop me from talking as well. I know I promised I’ll be silent, but this is breaking my lips and I can’t lose my lips. They’re dry and I’m thirsty and I need to scream or at least to pronounce a few words, or maybe some syllables only so as to prove to myself that I can talk, again.

Losing my mouth will make the words push against my brain. And it won’t put up with this and I’ll be losing them too, like the birds I held in my hands and lost out of nothing. Out of your bare, thick promises and got me nothing in return. I wasn’t expecting for anything in return. Regardless, I was waiting.

And now you won’t stop. And it’s my fault and no one sees this, as we’re both buried under billions of footsteps and basements, under the graves and the coldness outside, away from any sun and any tremenduous earthquake and drum rhythms.

I wanted my chaos, but now it must turn back into my utopic nightmare. And you stay away, you keep blind and silent until I call you again.