AGUA, Agua, Agua
Agua que despiertas cada mañana
bailando entre mis venas,
silenciosa y seductora
invitándome al ritual de la Vida,
donde navegamos buyiciosos
como barco sagrado vikingo
entre esos mares del Norte.
Después de algunas horas
viertes goticas de tu esencia,
y gritando me abro Feliz
en delirio de Piel purificada,
excitando nuestra ceremonia de intimidad,
como un Volcán de Agua!
En la noche nos volvemos a ver,
tu dentro de mí
yo dentro de ti,
y nos sumergimos otra eternidad
jugueteando entre sábanas del Olimpo
donde visitamos los dioses,
que musicando van sonriendo
en los arrabales de una canción.
Estos Sueños se vierten desapercibidos
entre las nubes del Fuego perpetuo
dibujando Cósmicos eventos
que palpitan en los corazones
de aquellas Almas más entrépidas.
Es la ceremonia de nuestra unión
desplazándose por la Vía Láctea
veloz y ligera...
bendiciendo las llamas de las Aguas Sagradas
que habitan en el Infinito hogar
del Castillo de los Duendes.
Oh, no me pidas que me llueva.
Oh, no me cantes ese Valz.
Oh, no vez que aún sigo invisible?
Los Volcanes del Mar
no se esconden de mis Aguas
Las Estrellas
se encienden con mis Olas
Soy Mar
Soy llanto
Soy Lluvia
Soy orín
Soy Laguna
Soy Río, Quebrada y Pozo
Soy la Nieve que dibuja solitaria...
Soy la Primavera del Rocío
Somos líquidos inquietos
que como rocas diluidas
bajan las colinas de Lava ardiente
cuando hacemos el Amor...
y nos terminamos convirtiendo
en dos fluidos sagrados
del gran Ritual del éxtasis sexual.
l DID LOVE YOU
I loved your before
in a past so far forgotten,
we played like Child Souls
in between Universes and Eons.
But I didn't forget your Colors
I didn't forget your Smile
I didn't forget your Voice
I didn't forget the taste of your Lips
because they are still swimming,
inside the Ocean of my Blood.
Now we're living in the same Planet
but the Love is conditioned
to a list of worries and insecurities
growing from broken Hearts.
Now we're living in separate Minds
where Thoughts navigate alone
experiencing the cleaning
of many experiences of mistakes,
like naked dolphins playing
in Waters of dark polluted veins.
Is our Imagination still Alive?
Are our Souls still longing for Love?
Is your Hand still reaching out?
Are our Bodies still romancing?
Oh, flying verses of Solitudes
searching for a You with no Face
Oh, Feelings of wanted Desires
touching your Skin and Bones
Oh ...and we still don't know
if can read our ...Tears.
WALK
WALKING INVISIBLE
walking
walking invisible...
the road splits in thousand pieces
so diverse, that all I can see
is the fog of the imagination
walking around in excitement,
excited in perception.
the background of that
was as invisible as my body
when walking among the sleeping,
so I decided to fly
like a black Crow following clouds,
clouds that vanished slowly
after I seeing them.
there's no music in this picture
the musicians are six feet under
I only heard the songs of birds
calling us to join the journey
inside the eternal walk of infinity.
the Jaguar inside me
have wings to visit the silent rooms of the great days in human life,
I didn't realize I wasn't alone
I was not ready to see you around
with all your magic and smiles
like a survivor warriora.
let me hold your hands
let me hold you inside my desires
let me love you tonight
inside the dreams of invisible lands
inside the solitude of a poem.
SOMETIMES SHE COMES
Sometimes she comes in the shape of Rain,
and soaks me in.
Sometimes she comes in the shape of Snow,
and paint in white my flow.
Sometimes she comes in the shape of Clouds,
and I can dance solos with the Winds.
Sometimes she comes in the shape of Mist,
and whispers of a Loved she missed.
Sometimes she comes in the shape of a River,
and naked we make love forever.
Sometimes she comes in the shape of Oceans,
and we play with the Cetaceans.
Sometimes she is nuts,
and I breath her to my candlenuts.
Sometimes she is happy,
and I bring her inside my Tipi.
Sometimes she Thunders,
and I feel like Riders.
Sometimes scattered my Soul with Lightnings,
and we know we are gods.
And sometimes...
we just be there.
TIERRA SECA
La Tierra seca
que viene Respirando
burbujas secas en Primavera,
absorbe las pocas Gotas
que la Lluvia derrama
entre la Mañana silenciosa
de un día cualquiera.
FLYING WINDS
Saw a Woman with a big straw hat
She was near the train station
Painting the porch of her house
Of a white brilliant color.
Her movements with the brush were gentle and peaceful
Suddenly she stops the ritual of her morning work
And staring at some spot, she drops the brush down
Grabbed something minuscule with two of her fingers
And started doing something else.
In my curiosity to get to know what she was doing
I grabbed the camera and zoom in,
Effectively she was helping a fly getting out of the wet paint,
she holds the nervous little animal with two of her fingers
And with a free finger of the other hand,
she placed saliva on its winds to clean them up.
The little fellow let her do the cleaning
And the energy of their mutual communication filled out the air around
I was enchanted not just for the gesture of lovely helping the small brother
But in how the both of them were communicating right after she lets it go.
I came back to my routine of after work cleaning
And notice a small fellow flying around the onion plant on the window
And I started a conversation with the small animal,
since that moment, it likes to fly around me when I get close to the onion plant.
POEM-THOUGHT
Writing down scenes in words
Thinking the unseen to be possible
All behind the glass of a window.
A man is sitting on a sofa
He is looking outside a window
In how a crow moves around a tree,
he thinks the crow doesn´t see him.
On a branch of a tree
A crow moves its ways around,
he sees a man on the other side of a window,
he ignores the man behind the transparent glass
And keeps on doing what he is doing.
The man observes all about the crow
And sees all around him.
A tree with many branches is there
Beautifully expanding its arms to the empty blue sky.
The crow wonders as he moves around the tree branches
What a naked man is doing behind the window glass.
Crow thinks the man might just finished the cleaning of his body
Or man is lonely and waiting for a lover.
The man loves animals and tries to feel the expressions of life in the crow,
he wonders if the bird has a partner.
He wonders how the crow survives winter
He just wondering inside his nakedness
The feelings of other creatures around.
The crow finds a good spot to open conversation with the wind
He starts to open a flow of sounds
That embrace the tree branches and the whole afternoon,
he wonders if the naked man behind the window can listen to his verses.
The man hears the peculiar singing of the animal
And start dancing around his flat
His thoughts go way into the distance
Where the girl he likes has a memory from last night conversation.
The crow knows the deepest feelings of the man behind glass window
And keeps on doing what he is doing,
the tree begins to move his arms and leaves in harmony with the scene
The wind began a flow of whisperings
And the huge window of the naked man´s apartment,
bright and connects all the actors at once.
Then the Sun arrives
Then the clouds arrive
Then more birds arrive
Then a beautiful smiling girl arrives
And the whole family of earthlings are happy together,
dancing the Love of Life.
POLVO DE ESTRELLAS
A medida que se van llendo los muertos
Van dejando detrás de ellos
El polvo de estrellas ancestral
Que se va depositando
Entre los sobrevivientes al nuevo mundo.
Con él, se van edificando nuevas expansiones del amor mismo
Dentro de los sistemas de sobrevivencia de los vivos
Para festejar con nuevas canciones
Lo que representa ser un ser humano
Proyectado e impulsado a nuevas dimensiones.
No te escondas detrás de los muertos
No te sambullas en los lagos de los recuerdos
No repitamos las experiencias de los pasados
Nuestros pasos van desarrolando un nuevo futuro
Donde los vivos cabalgan sobre las olas de la Nueva Vía Láctea.
THE SOUNDS OF THE PLANET
The silent sounds
around my ears
stored like memories
came all from the cavern times.
Sounds of a rock falling
Sounds of the wind passing by
Sounds of the rain
Sounds of leaves dancing
sounds.
COSMOS DIVIDIDO
miles de goticas de lluvia
salpicando sobre silenciosos charcos de agua
que sobre el cemento van formando
patrones de canciones antiguas
que hoy se materializan
gracias a las dimensionalidades
de una materia pujante
que baila entre espacios y tiempos
entre anti-prosas y versos
que antaño eran desapercibidos
mas ahora, se han vuelto visibles
gracias a los guardianes
de la consciencia.
miles de goticas de lluvia
salpicando nuevas estrofas que sobre el
cemento van escribiendo canciones
antiguas
que hoy se vuelven realidades futuras
gracias a las dimensionalidades
de una materia que transmuta
el aliento de otros dioses, y
que danza entre otros espacios y otros tiempos
de anti-prosa y versos
que muy en antaño existían
pero que fueron castrados,
mas ahora, se han vuelto visibles
gracias a los esfuerzos del amor físico de la
misma consciencia.
DEAD CAN DANCE
The world can´t help, but change around us
we don´t have to open doors
you don´t have to leave,
actually, you never were here.
...I just sleep on the floor
under the computer desk.
There is sensitiveness,
but they had been mistreated it.
I know where people is nowadays
in such a beautiful solar day
while I am sitting in my room of Vikova Ulice
writing verses.
A poem, everybody!
Experiencing the senses here and there
in a world filled with them
but, full of hostility as well,
so, I hide instead.
The unstable dream of flesh
when you can´t remember why you there.
Sad when an older feeling on TV
is just too old to expose inner nudeness,
because, everything becomes ugly
on the inside looking out,
and I am not sure if I am alive.
Are my fears animated?
what a confused planet I m now...
QUE LINDO - HOW PRETTY
Que lindo poder ver, / How pretty is to see,
tirado desde mi cama / laying from my bed
cuando recién me levanto: / just as I wake up:
un árbol / a tree
al Sol / the Sun
y el cielo. / and the sky.
No es un árbol cualquier, / It´s not any tree,
es el Pino que se planta / is the Pine that grounds
entre el astro y mis pupilas. / between the star and my pupils.
No es un sol cualquier, / Is not any sun,
es el Sol que calienta mi ser. / is the Sun that warms my being.
No es un cielo cualquier, / is not any sky,
es ni más ni menos, / it is in particular,
el Cielo que arropa mis sueños. / the Heaven that hugs my dreams.
LET YOUR TRUTH SPEAK...
I remember the days when I was muted
only listening words from the outside.
One day, the wind mutters of speaking my truth out
and I did whisper words that became expressions;
until a day, I spoke the truth, my truth...
Then the sun came to me, and said:
boy, you can not always speak your truth out
since not everybody is ready to heard it
it might sounds like echoes of noises for them,
so, I let my truth speak out in solitary,
or when the echoes are manifesting consciousness...
AFTER FIND OUT
Part I
After find out,
the birds are revolting the air
the air is revolting my breathing
the breath is getting shorter
the song is changing slowly.
When would you like to be born?
when would you prefer to start swimming?
What kind of stuff you want to do?
With whom you want to be?
Why are you asking yourself now those questions?
Why the ocean inside you had disappeared?
When had you became what you are now?
Why ourselves can not see the differences?
Whom are we waiting for?
After your dead, whom do you think is going to be next to you?
After you accomplished all the tasks in your list,
where are you going to fly to?
did you see the horizon yet?
are there any birds flying over there?
are they revolting your atmosphere?
Many songs are ringing in the ears
many songs are already dead
many hospitals had not even one song
the sick ones just lay there
the sleepy ones are just dreaming and follow
the new dead ones don´t have a goodbye song being sang,
by no one...
Some are hidden behind cloths and masks
some picked up elements of jewelry
some high-hills
some low-hills
some hide inside their empty hearts and contradictory minds
some inside their accumulation of inputs
some... are just dying without we notice it at all,
the hills are empty
they running on empty.
The school of the last nomads had started
the schools are opening again
a vibrational new paradigm is appearing
back there onto the horizon
back there into an open perspective.
Echoes of different nomads are showing up
echoes of new songs are to be heard
echoes of different echoes are passing by,
why do they cling to a different song?
why do they smell like from another garden?
Why I am the only one asking questions?
I walked the other day through a park
the park was full of trees
and the trees were full of leaves
the leaves all have different sounds
some sounds came from Summer
others from Spring
many from Autumn
none from Winter.
A magical conversation
had become like a repetitive sonnet,
the ideas and dreams
had vanished behind the obligations,
the survival kit
had been implemented as a guard vest.
It is difficult to accept the advantages of the other
it is hard to accept we make mistakes
it is almost impossible to said sometimes: I am sorry
it is like the paths are moving in repetitive circles.
Part II
The poetry booklet, had broken in thousand pieces
the words had flown away
the poets were gone.
There were not audiences after all,
no one reads nowadays.
The heart has a test
and had not passed the examination
it needed to stay balanced
at all times
but the waves from the islands
were hitting hard mother land
making convulsions of thoughts,
that way, the other listeners were silenced,
because, no one could take a hold of their mouths
and the words got confused
and the poem got dirty
and the poets went dead... so,
the poetry booklet, had broken in
thousand pieces, and
the words had flown away, and
the poets were gone.
A TERMINATED ALLEY
A terminated alley...
I walked inside the darkness
it was the deepest "darkness" of my body,
there I found the answers on the other screen
it was the screen of the desires.
I begin exploring all the options out there
found the right elements of hidden longings, that I
been visualizing in front of my eyes
until, they materialized in the shape of a body,
an unknown body of satisfactions
an unknown sequence of actions
that brought out the most hidden secrets,
and I claimed that hill
where the monastery of my saint is living
and it all connected to a clear sensation of an state of mind
soaring all inside the sea of my cells
like a pack of birds hovering in a cloudy day.
Now I have that obligation to anchor
all the new images, not into my brain,
but inside the New Earth,
because everything there and in here,
is just a part of a series of downloads
that keep on pushing me outwards
into an immense ocean of the unknown.
I am down
lie a wounded warrior
in times of war,
here, is not a galactic conflict,
is more like an interaction issue
with a system of equations
and those that follow.
They got me down,
but I´m not death;
the hidden message, is,
that the glory comes with a tender
temporally submission,
the victory is supervised by the Higher Self,
so the results in the line of life,
are comin soon. Meanwhile
I remain down on my ground
exploring the alternative solutions
of how is standing up, using all the inner
powers
and, at the same time,
sending the codes out there
to keep on breaking the foundations
of that system of doom.
Besides the door at front
I keep on working
on the survival schedules of money,
doing the odd jobs
doing unnecessary functions;
as just a part of the program,
called: Pay the Bills.
I heard not long ago:
that Love is the only Angel of survival,
from a song
from a movie
from: Natural Born Killers.
Prepare, I wonder what it means,
Repent, wonder what they mean.
The Soul is preparing, that I know.
You don´t know me from any wind
I didn´t write the bible
I heard nations killing each other
species kill each other
so is the human race,
the devil is inside the murdered hands,
nothing is there any more
the soul can handle all these repentness.
Where are the souls gathering?
in the silent nights when there are not
stars.
No one seems to see the near future.
Which direction are we driving,
this coffin of us?
The bodies need to follow
the crowds of souls leading the race
the turbulent race outside the ugly
defected matrix,
I don´t heard any song no more
the future had approached the present
and the time line began a new dance.
Where are the burning walls?
the the Judas´ had constructed,
where are the dead martyrs?
that the Cesar had sent to the dead road?
Repent or die.
My perception of "reality"
went different direction,
so I left the train of comfortable numb
and took a backpack out of the turmoil
and went my own direction.
Most of the spectators, are just
holographic images
of an integrated software inside this
background,
and they look at me;
some with anxiety
some with anger
some with confusion
some within their ego trip
some like I came from a different planet,
few, with respect.
Even animals, respect me
even the sun, respects me
and I do respect all of ya
even if we are in dissonance
just different lyrics on the papers
just another dimension of experiences
far away observations
far away introspections
far away ways to love.
Natural selection of another species,
natural born alive to survive their
incompletions
all those frictions are unnecessary.
Another frequency
Another ocean
Another vibration
Another broadcast.
Different ways to heard
Different ways to understand
Different ways to love.
Make your own choices human friend
your own, your own process
you are the owner of your reality
you need to see later, the mistakes
we need to to learn, from our failures
we have different awakenings.
I tried to open a cartel of light,
instead, a flash of circuits started opening
up
I heard the sound of a new horizon
I smell now the aroma of a different bread
I could walk all the train stations
looking for my ticket to eternity,
but I could only find a segment of
invisible railroads
heading to another land,
I find death sleeping in one of the virtual
rooms
it was actually, the passengers waiting
room,
I took a solo to new lands
new discovered fertile fields of trees and
flowers,
the sun was behind me
watching that I get everything in my
system
...I returned to wonderland,
I couldn´t hold myself anymore playing be
a normal guy,
so, I opened up a bottle of magic dust
and I drank it all,
then I blew air into nowhere lands
and all the trees and flowers began to feel
the new colors,
the colors of the invisible rails
the colors of the last rainbow.
LAST EPISODE
Last episode.
I was observing the fields
the fields of thoughts
after the birds of destruction flew away.
Found nothing but pretentions,
so, I run a cleaner program from end to
end
and it detected all the imperfections of
pride.
I walked away, left a virus behind
I couldn´t put up, needed it to look back
the scene,
knowing I would never see again
any thought of retaliation.
I wasn´t the man who create the
computers
I wasn´t the renegade that hack the
corporations
I wasn´t the man whom spoke wisdom
I was... only the delivery boy
bringing the dooms of destruction´
thoughts
down into the oblivion of nothingness.
I did mess up the whole party
I messed up their desires for glory
I was the dog
I am guilty of the executions
I am taken out my winds of
transformation
and applied for the conservation of a race
...they said, they need to survive;
so, the candle died
and the light went off for some time
expecting the clouds will bring
tomorrow:
the new gates for eternal light.
NEW HEROES
All new heroes are six feet underground
don´t know if because of the Kool Music,
don´t know if because of drugs,
don´t know if hearts were broken...
All I know is, they were the best Kool people of
this planet.
Now we, the left behind,
are the New Heroes.
ME NOW
My neighbor is a She Tree
she is always by my window.
I live with 15 Plants
we share the same Air.
Some Insects move around them.
Outside my cozy apartment
there is a blonde Cat
we exchange Feelings of friendship, sometimes.
A lot of Flowers and Grass
and Plants are Dancing around the house.
I spent time Painting things
plenty of Colors are magical.
Once in a while
I get in the laptop and Write stuff.
There are here a Kitchen with lots of Nature
Food, a WC, a Bed, a Desk, a Monitor, a Closet,
some Carpets and Chairs.
The Sun comes and say Hi
every Morning.
The Angels are singing Life.
The Wind blows sometimes
the friendly Sounds.
The Clouds go by, one by one.
The Birds come and go and Sing.
The flying Insects outside, are doing their
insect go around.
My body enjoys the spectacle
at every breath I take.
The Stars are also passing by
out there in their ways.
Sometimes it Rains.
Sometimes is Silence.
Sometimes I Dance too.
In my Intimacy
I love myself all the way to the Orgasm of Life.
In my Mind
I am building a new World.
In my Heart
I´m loving all Beings.
My Soul rejoices.
My Spirit flies gentle.
My Consciousness provides.
My Higher Self connects All.
My Inner Self opens the Doors,
those that perceive this reality.
And I fell Thankful.
And I am Grateful.
And I am Happy.
SATISFACTION
She gets loose
in a world of phantasy,
pulling out Desires of Satisfaction.
The Prince of her Dreams
came fast into her Heart
kissing her body´s Desires;
the next thing she knows,
was a soft feeling of Satisfaction
over her skin and mind.
Today, she walks
on a Cloud of Love,
a satisfied love from herself,
a satisfied love for the Self,
a satisfied love for you and myself.
THE AGONY of TIMES
When depending of the Time
there are corners unsatisfied;
and arriving to the Cliff of Life
can become an Agony of Thoughts.
The Spaces between sanity
and the art of corners unsatisfied,
can procreate a gap of doubts
where the most common moment,
can feels like an end to a Journey.
Don´t underestimate the Power of Love,
since it´s the only Anchor to Survive that Agony
of Thoughts.
BLUE
in the background, the blue of the sky
then a Tree, her leaves green and moving slowly
the silver brown of the tree arms shining
the Sun coloring her with Joy
the Wind passing through moving her Intimacy.
A DAY IN A NEW DAY
the echoes of my footsteps
are gone out the windows,
I live now in the future of my dreams,
sculping paradises
inside my realities.
UN POETA SOBREVIVIENDO
Los poemas como las palabras
van escondidas las unas de las otras,
solo el poeta experto sabe fingir su vida
solo los expertos saben programar sus muertes,
porque las hojas siguen secas
porque la hierba no sabe a nada que te embriague
porque tanto el vagabundo como el artista,
los dos mueren bajo el mismo puente.
El puente puede servir para morir al saltar de él
puede servir para cruzar los ríos del destino,
o pueden servir para dormir debajo de ellos.
Al final de cuentas, debajo de los puentes
solo viven los profetas y los poetas.
El burgués no puede vivir en estado sano y cuerdo
porque su cordura es solo parte de un disfraz camuflado de pensamientos
que van y vienen con rumbo fijo. La sanidad del burgués
habita las casas de lo simple y fácil
de la vida cómoda y de buen comer.
La ciudad es un estado de aprendizaje,
donde la gente aprende el arte de ser burgués.
o de volverse un criminal aburrido.
Como dice el que sabe bien:
solo soy un pájaro que viaja con la tormenta
trato de dejarla tronar a su propia voz
trato de dejarla parir todos los mostros y que dé a luz;
la tormenta es la dueña del paisaje de los observadores;
afuera de sus ojos, solo tormentas
al frente de la tormenta, los actores,
detrás de la tormenta, la vida apaciguada del burgués;
van escondidas las unas de las otras,
solo el poeta experto sabe fingir su vida
solo los expertos saben programar sus muertes,
porque las hojas siguen secas
porque la hierba no sabe a nada que te embriague
porque tanto el vagabundo como el artista,
los dos mueren bajo el mismo puente.
Me dejo llevar de la tormenta
de las tormentas impetuosas
las dejo mentirme
las dejo ganar las batallas falaces
de los que pretenden ganar todas las guerras.
No hay guerra sin tormenta
pero si hay tormentas apaciguadas,
ellas llegan, me dejo llevar de ellas
me lastiman hasta el profundo de la piel
y las dejo
perdono a las gotas desgarradoras
perdono a las voces de los dioses
falsos
perdono a las uñas que fabrican palabras oscuras,
todo se perdona, todo se mantiene
al final, solo el resultado lo conoce cada uno.
El poeta me llama mentiroso
El poeta sabe que miento a cada palabra
El poeta reconoce el timbre de mi voz
y sabe que miento.
Porque no soy el armonioso
menos el sabio,
No soy, el poeta feliz
No soy el iluminado.
No soy de los héroes que van a las guerras
No he ido a ninguna guerra
No soy un héroe;
puede que exista una guerra dentro de mi
puede que exista un héroe dentro de mi
puede que hasta haya un sabio armonioso iluminado y feliz,
pero no los conozco.
Porque ahora vivo pegado de las uñas a la telaraña
la web que sostiene los tentáculos de la sobre-vivencia
la red que mantiene vivos a los que desean ser burgueses.
Y salgo solitario a enfrentar a los vientos que arañan
salgo a competir por la sobre vivencia para no vivir como los muertos,
salgo como un perro a husmear las calles
huelo donde hay mierda de otros perros y perras
percibo donde es que están las acciones subiendo
y dejo una hoja de vida que va vacía y en modo insuficiente,
porque los ecos de los ancestros desean traer a la tumba
a todo aquel que le comienza a salir el pelo cano,
el destino es el mismo: la tumba.
Tres metros bajo tierra
con el mismo olor de cuando nació virgen.
Ahora ya no espera que lo llamen
Ahora debe sobre vivir sus concupiscencias y sus vómitos.
Los poetas son todos iguales;
Se disfrazan para ir a funerales
pero bajan desnudos al sepulcro de sus propias vidas.
Soy un fanfarrón que pretende estar bien,
el poeta me conoce y me lo dice en la introducción.
Pretendo no temblar al abrir la boca y decir,
Que soy un artista... el mejor. Cuando en verdad,
Solo vivo debajo del puente donde viven los abandonados.
Camino ahora en el filo de la espada de sueños ajenos
Camino sendas que no tienen mis pisadas
Camino ciudades que huelen a luchas de clases
Sobre esas huellas, envío mis hojas de vida
a desconocidos patrones que no tienen nada que ver
con las vicisitudes de los poetas.
Así pasan los días en dimensiones que creo conozco
Cuando en realidad, solo las siento por encimita.
Busco el centro de algo con sabiduría dentro de mi
y encuentro la cuerda suelta de mi interior
pidiendo a gritos que la observe,
la recojo como si tuviera otra vez, cinco años
en mi primer día de colegio;
alejado de la cálida protección del hogar,
asumiendo que todo está bien. Lanzado a el zoológico
de la educación formalizada, a aprender tanta cosa equivoca,
que al final de cuentas, solo termine siendo nadie.
Porque los poetas como los pintores y los músicos,
somos un pedazo de un nadie, un pedazo de la nada
donde la nada juega
para nosotros, el papel más importante
el mapa extenso de la imaginación.!!
A POET ON SURVIVAL
The poems as the words
They go hidden from each other
only an expert poet knows how to fake his life
only the experts know how to program their deaths,
because the leaves are still dry
because the grass does not taste like anything that intoxicates you
because both the vagabond and the artist,
they both die under the same bridge.
The bridge can be used to die when jumping from it
can serve to cross the rivers of destiny,
or they can be used to sleep under them.
At the end of the day, under the bridges
only prophets and poets live.
The bourgeois cannot live in a healthy and sane state
because his sanity is just part of a camouflaged disguise of thoughts
That come and go with a fixed course.
The health of the bourgeois
inhabits the houses of the simple and easy-going
of comfortable life and good food.
The city is a state of learning,
where people learn the art of being bourgeois
or to become a boring criminal.
As the one who knows well says:
I'm just a bird that travels with the storm
I try to let her thunder to her own voice
I try to let her give birth to all the monsters and for her to give birth;
the storm is the owner of the landscape of the observers;
out of his eyes, only storms
at front of the storm, the actors,
behind the storm, the appeased life of the bourgeois;
they are hidden from each other,
only the expert poet knows how to fake his life
only experts know how to program their deaths,
because the leaves are still dry
because the grass does not taste like anything that intoxicates you
because both the wanderer and the artist,
they both die under the same bridge.
I let go of the storm
from those raging storms
I let them lie to me
I let them win the bogus battles
of those who intend to win all wars.
There is no war without storm,
but if there are appeased storms,
they arrive, I let myself be carried away by them
they hurt me to the depth of the skin
and I leave them
I forgive the tearing drops
I forgive the voices of false gods
I forgive the nails that make dark words,
all is forgiven, all remains
in the end, only the result is known to each one.
The poet calls me a liar
The poet knows that I lie to every word
The poet recognizes the tone of my voice
And he knows that I lie.
Because I'm not the harmonious
except the wise
I am not the happy poet
I am not the enlightened one.
I'm not one of the heroes who go to war
I haven't been to any war
I am not a hero;
there may be a war inside of me
there may be a hero inside of me
there may even be a happy enlightened and harmonious sage,
but I don't know them.
Because now I live glued from the nails to the spider web
the web that holds the tentacles of survival
the network that keeps those who want to be bourgeois alive.
And I go out alone to face the winds that scratch
I go out to compete for survival so as not to live like the dead ones,
I go out like a dog to sniff the streets
I smell where there is shit from other dogs and bitches
I perceive where the stocks are going up
and I leave a resume that is empty and insufficient,
because the echoes of the ancestors wish to bring to the grave
everyone whose gray hair begins to grow,
the destination is the same: the grave.
six feet underground
with the same smell as when they were born as a virgin.
Now he no longer waits to be called
Now they must live out to their lusts and vomits.
Poets are all the same;
They dress up to go to funerals
but they go down naked to the sepulcher of their own lives.
I'm a braggart pretending to be okay
the poet knows me and told me in the introduction.
I pretend not to tremble when I open my mouth and say,
That I am an artist... the best . When in truth,
I only live under the bridge where the abandoned inhabits.
I walk now on the edge of the sword of other people's dreams
I walk paths that do not have my footsteps
I walk cities that smell of class struggles
On those tracks, I send my resumes
to unknown managements that have nothing to do
with the vicissitudes of the poets.
This is how the days go by in dimensions that I think I know
When in reality, I only feel them on the uppermost.
I look for the center of something with wisdom inside of me
and find the loose string of my insides
crying out for me to look at her,
I pick her up like I'm five years old again
on my first day of school;
Away from the warm protection of home,
assuming all is well. Thrown to the zoo
of formalized education, to learn so many wrong things,
that in the end, just end up being a nobody.
Because poets like painters and musicians,
we are a piece of a nobody, a piece of a nothingness
where nothingness plays for us, the most important role
the extensive map of the imagination.!!
VERDUNSTET
Ein Stück von mir
Verdunstet als Wasser
Wenn sie getroffen wird
Von einer Sonne.
In diesem Prozess
Navigiere ich wie Wässer
Auf den Feldern meiner Emotionen,
Manchmal regnet ich
Manchmal überflutet ich
Manchmal vertrocknet ich, und
Manchmal schwimme ich durch die Weltmeeren auf der Suche
Nach einem Eisberg.
Dann, kehre ich
Zurück zu mir selbst.
SONNENBLÜMEN
Sonnenblümen
sonnenblume
sonnenblume,
eine Menge sind dabei
Sonnenblümen
sonnenblume
eine Menge sind die gelben
sonnenblume
eine Menge sind die liebe
liebe Sonne, liebe Sonne
du bringst die Blumen alle Formen
liebe Blumen
liebe Blumen
ihr schenkt der Dichter ihre Duften,
Sie Laufen immer, Laufen immer
in der Nähe ihrer Sonne,
Sonne und blümen
sonnenblümen
sonnenblümen sind dabei
eine Menge
eine Menge
eine Menge sind die gelben
andere Menge sind die liebe
danke Sonne
danke Sonne
Danke Sonne auf den Blumen
ich bin zufrieden
das die Blumen tanzen immer
tanzen immer, immer noch
immer, immer, immer gelben.
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