Tempo

Al final del día lo único que nos queda es la intriga detrás de unos ojos que contemplan sombras.

Prefiero la sombra, aquella oscuridad que envasa misticismo:

Por miedo de desnudar la sombra y encontrarme con un rostro.

Miedo a extender la mano y sentir la piel cálida de la imperfección. 

Miedo a escuchar el discurso aquél de la siguiente persona que se llevará mi imaginación. 

Miedo a que el dueño de aquella sombra deje mis fantasías ebrias y dormidas sobre una banqueta, sin saber exactamente cómo es que llegaron ahí. 

Miedo a las trivialidades mundanas que deshidratan la fantasía de pureza, porque después de lo posible, lo imposible deja de ser la prima ballerina de cada mañana. 

Miedo ante el fuego que derrita mi presente y me deslice al caudal de un futuro que aún no quiero conocer. 

Quiero encerrarme en mi propia piel, herméticamente cerrada. 

Observando sombras, sin nombres, ni compromisos. 

Quiero ser un feto en plena creación, sin pasado conciente, sin memoria descuartizante. 

Quiero vivir en un romance eterno con el segundo que se fragua entre respiro y respiro. 

Pero el siguiente segundo ya viene decidido a asesinar al segundo presente, reduciéndolo a "pasado". 

Pariendo un futuro del cual se alimenta y le roba el nombre. 

Este tiempo destructivo viene a generarme un futuro inesperado. 

Y no me deja más regalo que un presente efímero que muere antes de que lo termine de conocer. 

Amor and Psyche

Have you seen her?

She moves easy, like leaves on a windy day

She swims through eternity, energy of sunrays.

She looks at you with the desired glimpse

Of a mystical creature, pretenatural nymph;

But she is no myth you see,

She is you, she is me.

She takes your hands and gives you a box,

A cubic cocoon that will help you metamorphose.

You hear her voice, beautifully intoned:

She says her name is Psyche,

But has wings like Nike.  

She says you must not see with your eyes.

You find the key in the back of your mind

Long forgotten, the subconscious unwinds

The secret you already knew,

But hadn’t dared to open Pandora’s box

Until you met her, not someone new

What? Not a scent, not a feeling,

Who? Not the question, not the meaning.

At the end of the labyrinth she awaits

And you finally dare to unveil

The secret: emancipation, which reveals the trail.

You venture free of privation,

Towards your winged salvation.

But at the end of the maze

You can’t find her arcane gaze.

All you see is a mirror:

You know you have reached cenit,

Nirvana, love, the top of the pulpit.

And your queer reflection is the affeerer.

You look in the mirror as you transcend perception

It’s not your body, but your essence that you see:

It is still trapped inside a body, a mundane creation,

But now you feel free

And so you see

That there is no she,

No you, no me.

There is only us.

Collective, united, undivided: us.

La ciruela pasa no pasa, se hace.

Posición fetal para proteger la ciruela pasa que llevo por corazón, ya no quiero que se siga mayugando. Parece estar en un proceso de envejecimiento acelerado a falta de amor. De vejez precoz me parece que padece. Espero que me pongan un altar en el día de muertos, a este paso no creo llegar ni a Octubre. 

Me veo en el espejo y lloro, lloro porque ya estaba llorando desde antes de verme en el espejo y lloro aún más del miedo. Me da miedo que se me quede esta cara roja, esta faz seca de estética, esta mueca asimétrica y morfológicamente incorrecta, estos ojos enmarcados por unas aureolas negras de rimel corrido; esas aureolas que parecen hoyos negros de tristeza que poco a poco se van haciendo mas grandes y mas negros y que poco a poco me comen más la mirada, opacándola de tanto llorar. Este llanto entintado me escribe la palabra "patética" en la mirada y todo lo que veo me parece patético y me parece que así es como todos me ven. Cierro los ojos y no puedo escapar de los trazos de esa cortina de piel que empaquetaba su ser, esa cortina que sólo yo podía abrir para dar espectáculo a sus sentidos, para marearle el corazón, para dibujarle mi retrato en el cerebelo y empaparle de español los oídos. Cierro los ojos y me llega a la memoria su aroma exacto, el aroma de ese aura que me perforó el alma. Alma! Alma! ALMA! Alma no contesta, ni por nombre, ni por escrito, ni rogándole, ni llevándole flores. Estará muerta? Que en paz descanses Alma mía.... seguro te fuiste con la de él, alma cabrona. 

Según tengo entendido un humano no puede vivir sin alma. Entonces qué carajos es esto que veo en el espejo? Tengo un cuerpo vacío. "Se renta cuerpo de joven con corazón anciano a alma trotamundos" dirá el anuncio que pondré en el periódico mañana mismo. Me pregunto si habrá por ahí algún alma que se haya quedado sin cuerpo... Yo creo que sólo de los muertos. Ojalá sea de Janice Joplin! Necesito un alma libre. 

The Neural Sport

My brain has two poles that play ping pong with my emotions. Electric beats flow down from colorful tunnels in my brain, pass through my veins, through my intestines, and float on my internal streams of liquid life. This brain of mine is winged by ideas, it explodes sometimes, it gets saturated with sensation. It flies out of my body and invents a psychedelic paradise where it gets to eat music every day, where it gets to swim in songs, where money is made out of lyrics, and language is written in music notes.

Love Galaxy

Let me be the new sensation, penetration to your senses, the drive of your life, the life of your feelings, the feelings of your heart: beating hard. One, two, and three…. Infinitely beating, if there’s no such a thing as the infinite, let’s invent it with a rising rhythm.
Let me be your galaxy, your ecstasy, your most crazy fantasy. Vibrations coming from your brain waves, sending messages to your body, making you dance, making you get lost in a trance.
Let me swim in your mouth, taste your kiss, feel the bliss, shine like your saliva in the sun as you pronounce my name: music.
Let me be your freedom, your smile, your wings, your drug, your hot cocoa in the snow.
Come on you spectator, emancipate me, take my hand, mold my hips with your lips, travel through my skin, boil my blood with your voice as it says: I feel you.

Yesterday morning
As I sat on the rocks next to the vast ocean
Of running waves, singing and humming,
I contemplated the fine line
Where the firmament (divine)
and the halcyon blue water intertwine.

I introduced myself,
No response was needed;
I already knew her name:
Mother Earth, Nature, or Life itself.

I thought of Mother Earth,
Her body: a sphere.
I thought of her love,
Eternal: a sphere.

Maternal Mother Earth,
Infinite are your blessings
For the human:
-For the woman-
Addressing
to myself your sweet caressing.

I thought of Nature
And her gifts:
Two legs to run free and venture,
Two windows and the world as their feast,
A heart stronger than any of my limbs,
And a brain that moves with poetry instead of fists.

I thanked life,
Who has impregnated mine with
Beauty: a naked soul.
A free soul, incandescent as the sun,
Who feeds of passion, insatiable.

Life seeks for a life,
Whose soul will echo her own,
Whose love will erode her tears,
Whose arms will hug away her fears.

Dear Life, you have doomed me
With sweet romanticisms
And human skepticisms.
My soul is pray of female fragility,
This thirst for love irrupts my tranquility.

I am jealous of the ocean
Who touches heaven
With her salty lips.

I envy the ocean
Because it is not human
But gives life as a woman.

I envy the ocean
Because she can cry,
but feels no pain.

So I took off my clothes
And submerged my body
Into that illuminated entity of peace.

The agony was gone.

The day I turned unto a bean

My ears missed your breathing at night
As you used to sleep while I turned off the light.
My heart hurt, my skin was cold,
The idea of ripping them off was growing old.
But I couldn’t, ‘cause they were yours.

Two seconds later I felt the same.
Seconds felt like years,
Time is elastic when you’re not near,
The brain is a beast hard to tame.

I’ve seen fool moons,
But haven’t felt your kiss
on my mouth, where it used to bloom.
I have seen new moons and blue moons,
I would trade them all to see you.

I tried sleeping to find peace,
But I couldn’t touch you in my dreams.
I tried building a time machine,
But the only thing it did
Was turn me into a bean.

I visited a gypsy
Who gave me the cure
To this lack of you

Every morning I go to the little box
I have in the memory of every one of my senses
To smell your essence like a fox,
To feel your presence,
To touch your skin,
And look at the color of your eyes, green.
Life’s better now, I even think
I kinda like being a bean :D