Rivers of carmine vessels shine

Obscured –yet opaque- timeless maze in the inner ventricle of the soul

Beckoning the ol' razor - Puzzling the daunted beast

Is the rightness for a cascade of earl grey slime

Fidgety, blind hands try to sink in the hunger

Is never morning at 7 am –

and all the desire has metamorphosed into a secluded caterpillar

– tight in its anger

maggots are tempting to fill with the pockets,

but the

Other Face

has turned around with knowledgeable repulsion

now - fathoms an ocean beyond Death

indeed – will forget the symmetry –

murmur - peeks behind the hanging

taking the form of the same haunting

-inclined in lust-

apparition of ever



Summits crinkle in the twilit year

If I hadn’t shunned every mirror until this last hour of countless spots and flies of fire

blinding me

How do I wrinkle, in the silent snap of scattered patterns - where my voice is just a fleck of dirt

Fudged swirls and lost traces of smell

– a picture lying dead in my wallet –

Memories covering each other like guilty orphans

The immense rumbling of his little steps beyond my own instinct – breaking that last boundary –

Where a pictogram plunges in that last vision of me – Trans




Where Death sits, like the ever knocking figure in my dreams

Wrinkle, Crinkle and Snap

I’m a wood about to burn in extinction

Bunched in wicked thoughts - Conversed in the last skin of the Serpent


Four hundred days of great stagnant days

Trodden without ash – dry and staggering

A solemn, light wind cutting the landscape

– Fading– Unfaded with a rub of the eyes

Articulated seasons –now frozen

cover me, tear me into pieces with primitive cruelty

– Configure the old infantile dream.

And once awoken, the eyelids stick relentless

So much we'd like a slumber of H

-tunnelled vision-

-metallic echoes-

taking our eyes slightly crystallised –formerly of glass-

Erizada con hielo seco

mi piel se hace aquella del gran poderoso lagarto,

justo antes

-justo en esa casilla del juego-

del despertar del Común.


cuatrocientos días de grandes momentos estancados

hollados sin ceniza - Secos y tambaleantes.

un vientecillo solemne cortando el paisaje

- Desdibujado - Vuelto a dibujar con un frote de ojos.

articuladas estaciones - ya heladas

me cubren, me despedazan con crueldad primitiva

- Configuran el antiguo sueño infantil.

y una vez despiertos, los párpados se pegan inclementes

ya quisiéramos que un letargo de H

-visión de túnel-

-ecos metálicos-

poseyese nuestros ojos levemente cristalizados –otrora de cristal-

spiked with dry ice,

my skin becomes that one of the powerful lizard,

just before,

-just in that square of the game-

of the awakening of the Common.