White skin…

…blue eyes…

…blonde hair…


…they’re guilty of my madness…

…I’m alone…

…in front of a longig that it isn’t agree…

…I’m hurt love…

…thirsty of passion…

…I’m stupid…

…to look forward to have unattainable something…

…I’ll die for just…

one kiss of yours.



Months are passing and my hands are implanted among the leaves over and over; rests of the entrails of the fallen out of favour trees, every time that I try to quench this ravenous hunger of want to express my beats, day after day, on your white body.

Agony, of living the longing of trying to metabolise me among the cells of your being, with the ink that flow of among my hung-up feelings, every time that my desire is disrupted with your strange walking, steps that overflow the rivers that circulate me the soul.

You. That with your short skirt exasperate my reason extending me the metastasis of my neurotic and gullible heart.



Setting deep is your memory among the arteries that they water these neurotic fields, that they writen among so many moons, whispers of the night which they wrap up the petrol that it goes down the flakes of this old hatch.

Wind spreading ashes, remainders of the caresses of your words. Crazy matches that they set fire to the senses of this thoracic cavity little by little.

Broken bones. Tinder burning among your silences, paths which go over the blind feelings that they scrutinize you among the shadows of this cold pyramid.



I’m leaning against the clear pane, feeling the water pouring on my back, an idea passes through my mind like a starlight.

Sitting on the floor, with a blanket on my shoulders and lively letters, I’m writing poetry.

Senseless words fall on the paper and they’re carried along by the music which is born from your vocal cords.

The sound of your lips, the colour of your hair, the heat of your hand, your mind…

You’re a perfect shadow that vanishes when I try to reach you.

And my fingers run after you, among the night lights.



What is poetry? You say while fixing
in my pupil your blue pupil.
What is poetry? And you are asking me?
Poetry… is you.

And if Bécquer already told us that poetry is you, who am I? … To contradict his words, if I’m only verses in full writing, incomplete in search of that rhyme that rhymes you without rhyming and that makes you perfectly rhythmic in my mouth, but the torture of living in the agitating frenzy of sewing hyperboles on paper with these rusty needles, that I thread with the tears that run thinner down the tracks of these cheeks, those mighty rivers dying in the sea.

The sea of this madly paradoxical soul that is full of metaphors trying to describe you because it doesn’t find those damn words through the moldy pages of my being; those that make it possible to recite your name poetically.

And this heart in perpetual metastasis that does not pay the rent of my ribs, because I’m a bad poet, is looking for a new home whose prose doesn’t gut its muscles every night, that doesn’t force it to sleep on mattresses of thorns that pin the colourless memories, humidified in black and white by the acid rain that hides the stars, your star.



​I know that sometimes which I write kills me and other times, on the contrary, it treats my wounds. But what to do if I only trace the scrawls that my eyes draw in my mind in the nights alone, when I see that lady called Earth from my window.

And how not to talk about so sad young lady with green eyes that she dances forever under startights, pretty lady who makes me an idiot, in front of her dress of thorns which slows down walking on her body and they scratch bare feet in her withered bed. Death covers her among colorful papers and suffocates in burning seas because of the black colour that dyes the heart.

Ripped her green ribs in the sun, hungry predatories comes to the celebration; vultures that dig in her entrails looking for the addictive golden blood that escapes of her arteries, feed their bodies with shiny guts and overwight because of their metallic bones fly to the other ladies to the gut.

The lady cries acid tears that wet to the virus which live in her soul, that in fratricide slaughter, parasites fight for the already wounded heart of the green lady.



What are words? They’re more than simple strokes scribbled on paper or sounds that come out of our throats, that dispersed in space help us communicate; on certain occasions, words are something else:

In those moments, already stripped of their superfluous clothes and curled up in our weakness, called by some feelings and by the most daring art, they stop being simple strokes on a blank paper or intertwining letters; they tear the emotions away from our soul. Reflecting through tears and smiles our innermost, our most genuine being, giving us of a bit of humanity.

Only when our voice becomes brittle, a bunch of panting sounds that frantically try to express the most human and profound of our being, only then are words no longer mere letters; they’re poetry, they’re magic that makes our skin crawl and overwhelms our soul, transforming us for eternity.

“Only if words are endowed with feeling, we will be human beings and not mere entities lost in time.”



I look at the blood drops sliding between the wrists, minced heart arising profusely from inflicted wounds. It’s chopped meat with the cold glass of your two eyes; that bit a bit it dampen the last death rattle of this consumed body.

The sad silence is intertwined into the diluted rack, ferocious vulture that makes his nest among the entrails of this dead being, uprooting bones and cells, murdering in the red ink spilled on the white, where in another time poems are written.

Rhythmic dripping of the blood clock. It adjusts the wet pages of this last story, viscous and metallic tale of penitent hands; that they only look for hot in the soul that it fades in the dark.



Let your tongue circumvents while bristling the stoned skin of the aroma that your curves give off. Salivate me quickly, don’t hesitate to be deep on the excited body that desire you, bite this flesh that is throbbing anxiously between your thighs.

Undress the eyes that look at youto interweave new caresses faced with winter cold. They your small fingers go over my back, and that the scratches of your hands draw orgasms between blood and moans.

Make me snort each one of the centimeters that form your desire, set the rhythm with the convulsions of your being. That your panting legs surround me on your genitals, let that my words come with the friction of your wet boundary.



It was rain. When that shabby woman opened her eyes her pupils, that in another time they were like a sweet sea, now are dislocated in an impassive red.

Hits. So many hits, that her body broke a thousand times between that being’s rough hands. So much blood her fragile soul spilled, that cold hugged her heart, its claws disarranged each one of the beats of that unfortunate muscle bit by bit.



And these intertwined links by the fibres of the neck hang the sound that screech through the throat. Unsure yells devour the rancid air of the forest of iron and cement.

You, secretive cementery decorated with thousand static fireflies observes the hypocrite meat statues that wander among your cavities of fumes.

Unfaithful flocks gather themselves at the doors of the hell open with the rapid pass that clock indicates to feed this last pleasure.



Kill me. You, fear at the fibrous and intangible moment when you begin to drink from the skin, come vertebras while you wet this stairs to the oxygen with your being.

Burn through nerves. Burn, don’t hesitate to burn to the ground, that your panting hands caress my last rests.

Bite. Tear meat how you can and rip incessant soul while you shake the sheets of this book, blank pages read by exorbitant eyes.



In my den, I’m digging among the dreams you leave they half done, chips that graze my soul. It’s rain. Wet sidewalk blur the letters than I left on your body. Tides that flood the eyes, insatiable purgatory that penetrate us in every one of your glassy looks.

Alcohol looks for this lie, wich calls us among every one of the bitter verses that you didn’t give me, your promises are in the air, snorting in every one of my long wakefulness.

Death. The wants of drink your mouth to verses and run among the banks of your entrails while I’m spilling the last drop of ink inside you are insatiable. Words that have been plotted near the sickly abdomen wich hammers every second of my thinkings.



The metallic edge of sad eyes, that visit the biased future where the black quartered clothes that dress the body stalk, is crackling.

Traces scratches the skin while penetrate the abyss of two legs. And its shouts clinch itself into the pavement, cracks that open under the window.

Flakes of the ungrateful exfoliant that were trying to cut the thorns where the hands threaded themselves.



I write for not calling you

and scare you

when i look at in my eyelashes

the sadness of crying

because I love you

eat between my leagues

cutting like scythes

you miss them

desire to want to kiss you

every time you enmesh

my bowels

with the secrecy of your art.



You. Frost, wet powder that gets stuck my arguments when I start to go across that white lines that demarcate the reason.

Dreams of sidewalk dusted between the corners of the piano.

Keys playing blindly, the future imperfect where the silences of your body shred themselves.

Songs of outskirts written among the floor tiles that shake your black heels, needles that stab through the layers of skin.



Among moons, rustlings of the anatomy of this last verse. Unspeakable stories pouring from the inner ear, that begins the form of the paragraph of this armistice.

We are meat of scars that rub them between lights and shadows, a reiterated phenomenon among the exuded nails that scratch this piece of paper.

Inert ends como to this army of bites, voices that write on the old structure of the body. Letters sewed on the skin of so blind loves.



My texts undergo a chemical synapse between the distracted schizophrenic’s hands, that impregnates himself with the shrapnel of the margins of these pieces of paper that cut his fingers. I’m writing from the dangerous prison of the dreams that lead his spirit through of the cement fields.

Sad sentences building the puzzle of his being after he’s hugged shadows of his bedroom. Letters that stalk his heart of recycled paper, where my eyes dye with poetry. The scars decorate the arteries that go over his body, threads of promises weaved among the rustlings of the wind that rustle the leafs of the trees of concrete on the deserted wasteland that he’s got among his ribs.



With my bad writing and the favourable wind I put to sail my words among thousand of hectic pieces of paper, seas of ink where, after some bottles of rum, I work in boarding of your beats. Letter of marque awarded in favour of your black skirt, flag leading my clandestine feelings in each night battle of this old shallow vault, body that goes under behind your strange walking.

Sailor of fresh water that salts every voyage where I board together this captain that set sail in search of the deserted island of the treasure hid behind your blouse. You. With your cannon shots, smiles that break the keel of this pirate ship that skipper my heart with so bad luck and hook in the inkwell through so much grammatical swell that annoys my untidy emotions.



Here I am tuck in the margin on this yellow piece of paper trying to capture, among the fibers of its old cellulose, the pictures that metabolize in my retinas.

Some colored metastasis that permeates with each one of the letters that my hands draw with its frenetic rhythm. A failed attempt to scrawl the world every time I skin from my entrails.

Entrails. That they articulate so much freedom the muscles that weave the pan of ink where I spill the feelings that closer to me the lights of a new dawn.

Bright twinkles that implode inside my grey matter, endowing my neurons with a new food to feed their connective stomachs to satisfy their selfish longing of knowledge once and for all.



This isn’t a scrawl more on the piece of paper, they’re letters creeping in the jungle of asphalt to your window. Guerrilla band’s letters that are wetting with the orange rain that you spill on the hands, that they scratch each one of the vertebras of this soul.

Volley where you pour submerged words in napalm on the ribs that fortify this heart who hardly survives with a rifle of jammed ink because of the wet of so many tears poured since that your two legs begin this cold war.

And you, soul which is armed with a kalasnikov loaded with lies, make holes in this hypothalamus with your bad aim. That steeped of the poetic shoot of he green plants it spills over and over to color of feelings this blurred asphalt that surrounds your white body.



My eyes start to bulge every morning looking for a opacity of emergency for its retinas. When they see impotent how the nervous darkness activates, covering the neurons that analyze the pixels in the blood; that it wells up pouring fron the swarm of asphalt, where so many souls succumb in the name of some heaven.

Atmosphere. Valhala that no grafts the laughs that run on the fields of cement to color their absence with the viscous stupidity of thousand gods that hide the skies of sanity of so many hearts. Souls that sow thorns on the streets that carry them to the decline of their knocked being.



How a white dove, magician’s pet I feel caged between tricks and magic.

My life depends of my thoughts, free mind, imprisoned mind.

Among the impetus of the night I find a inspiring light, clean, white…

Why foolish me I was suspicious of my free and white magic?



​Today I’m confused. I’m like those days that neither rain nor sun; and this feeling is alike me a bit strange and I can’t find the grammatical meaning to the words that I make a reality on this white sheets that I begin to get them drunk with crimson ink.

My heart just ignore syntax, it’s crazy and doesn’t stop arising from the morphemes of this piece of paper; its blood splash me and bling me of its ideas from the bottom of the barrel. My eyes don’t let me see the direct object who I’m writting.

And although I understand that it’s difficult to walk in a furtive way through the conjunctions that join my soul to your body, today and only one day like this I skip the orthographic rules that govern me to this world.

But this heart lack the verbs that conjugate to narrate you in verses, that they kiss you soul in the dawn. And in the absence of adjectives that describe you in this sentence, pretend a good face when I see you pass on the photos that you put in sentences at an unearthly hour and fill my bed of spelling errors.



And how can I talk my heart?

How can I talk this sponge that I’ve under my thorax, that it’s coated with alcohol to burn in flowerpots of withered flowers. It’s a psychopathic that is sick of swim in these seas of tears. It uses up its feelings among ice cubes for they haven’t expiry date, it’s result of the concern to forget the binary code of its feel.

Heart. It’s sick of beat on my skin while it waits to be devoured every dawn by other parasitic hearts that they gut them of its ribs and leave it in the lurch on ditches of road with its guts that are consumed in the smoke of cigarettes.

Reporters in wars on the pavement narrate stories of consumed flowers on steps of stairs to no heaven waiting for gates to run away, where they can treat the scars that set of price of its utopian sanity. But the world is in terrorist drought, my heart is lost and dances alone the dance of the rain in this solitude.



Dawn. Heart that crashes into the wall of my ribs, it hits itself to run away over and over. Travelling far from me not to sink in the seas of tears; ink where the pen that narrate me on white sheets drowns itself.

Disabled. It drags itself by the corners of its prison, room that corners it inside the pain. Home in flames where a spiral of arrow shoots offers it in sacrifice. Martyr of the failures of my mind.

Alone. It’s pulled up the thorns that tangle it to my soul and runs without looking back. I see it to get away from me and only keep me in a empty drawer until it comes back…

Although I doubt that it comes back with its poetry.



​Once upon a time one of those grey days of drizzle, that what soaks to the bones and wets your heart among shivers. Maybe it was cold or perhaps she was who seems a iceberg in her mind. It was late when she approached to that taciturn boy and with evil smile she let out him without beating around the bush —What are you thinking? —fixing him intensely the look. He thought “what a strange girl!”… but he bowed his head and with the half smile that she returned him, he answered her — so I don’t know… about nothing —. And she, with her furrowed brow and surprised face, said him —Anything? How are you thinking about nothing? That’s impossible… —. He, with excessive calm, answered —Yes I can —. She muttered —nooo. And he, controling his anger, replied —Yes I can… because I think about you and you’re my void. She was left without words and for not having words this story was over, the hungry partridges ate the happy ending.



​Hemmed in!

-Skydiver of the fear that he curls up in the corners of the night.


-That it tries to jump of the springboard of my soul to its last cataclysm. Fracture where I can express my hopeless feelings.


-Colourful lights between her hands. She grips me to my arteries and pounds her nails in my heart to pull it.


-That they look at me and they make fall me in a wild swirl. Sea where I can drown the sorrows that they breaks my world.



Heart. It plays among words to hide the caresses that it recites in my dreams, sheets of phrases where to find your smile; poetry hugs to take from the cold of my ribs in November, verses to heat up the piece of paper where I draw you the soul.

Soul. Flower without thorns that she comes up from my thorax among your laughs. Guffaws that shoo the prisons of my grey matter. Pupils that look at me when the owl sings me and fall me in the arms of some god; dreams of a nocturnal person on your body.

Body. Shiver where my bubble loses your way and it takes me by the corners of you rhythmic skin. Walker that paves the way to himself on the paths that mark your heart.



There is so much heart to add to the equation that solves the unknown of your skin. The tagent of my soul is entangled in your integrals of short skirt that divide the time and subtract any rest of sanity.

You’re imprisoned in my retina, a golden feeling of seeing you pass among the lines of these sheets, but I draw myself parallels in the curves of your compass; illogical and unreasonable mathematics that increases my desire.

Lost. I’m left over me wants and lack me fingers with which to join me to the cardinal points of your body. Geometry among verses that draw you at dawn like rectangles of sheets where we lose our reason.

Pencil and paper to find the direct function to your nudity, algorithm that shut me up tne code of your ribs. Problems pile up me to hug the rhythm of your heart.



And these fucking wants to eat you in verses, to recite you with my hands or it will be that the ballantine’s clouds my sanity. But this anguish that rustle me against the glass is so real that, how it can be madness? If every night the owl is who puts out at my window and I feel how it stifles among some ice cubes, cold sheets that cover me. And if in reality all is a fit of sincerity, help it by the alcohol and the hours in solitude, what they call to the fucking need.



And this heart macerated in sulfuric acid to treat its wounds, every night it sees how the words dance to it alone on this crumpled paper, after so many years to slide its tears. Its flickering beats clamour letters for to the sky to ask someone to implant it out of these ribs that scratch it with every little poetic punch.

It snuggles me among some ice cubes, to feel in its thorax a little heat, but it burns among so much cold feeling, and its ashes in my entrails are its tired end.

Rest in the peace among the pieces of my soul, forgotten of any rest of sanity it bleeds to death among its last help words to avoid ending in the scrapping of an old drawer.



Hungry wolves’re howling, ferocious souls that devour themselves with frantic pleasure.

They walk on the paths of cement looking for the salted blood of their fellows that fatten their bodies, selfish rabid dogs exhale from their throats caws in the darkness that hide them and make a blur of their black and sooty hearts by the smoke of the monotony of some lifes that are sew with the rough thread of the envy.

Their tongues lick the wounds of their packmates with pity, infected ulcers tear by their own fangs one day with delicate pleasure laughingly.



Promiscuous night, stripped from its old rags, dances with its cold nudity next to the faithful rain the improvised jazz of my grey worries. Spirits can’t sleep between old whisky glasses, sweetening it with the salt of wandering memories in the penetrating darkness.

Black idle crows, sail through the shadows sculpting like masterful artists from the Renaissance tombstones of shivering marble, sheets that wrap the body, bristling the sighs of the being; which doesn’t want to surrender to the fratricidal storm that unpunished inflicts it perfect stabs with excessive passion, breaking the soul.

And the owl that overnights on the window disturbing the sleep, is a faithful witness of the hoot of a heart that bleeds every evening waiting for the night chaos. Stealthy wind wafts through the cracks of the soul, leaving its fertile field dry and barren of hopes, covering the yells that cynically consume the psyche.