Archivo de la categoría: Pseudo poetry

Mortally wounded [extended]

What have we ever learned

of mortal wounds

we truly come to know

better than this


formidable fight

under our skin.

Were we not so dumb

we’d be dying every hour

blade to grave if we knew better

long gone before our time.

Luck be dumb be luck

if only for a bit.


Mi deseo te precede

como el jade a la escultura

mi infatuación, no obstante

retira lo que no es parte

el espacio negativo entre tus muslos

los músculos de tus costados

tu sonrisa torcida.

Lo que no es tuyo holgó

inútil en mi memoria

cada vez que te vi.

Diente por diente

estuviste siempre

invisible dentro de mí.

Olvidé, sin embargo

ceci n’est pas une pipe.

Mi deseo, infecundo

te sucede.


Hay un árbol frente a mí que ha estado aquí toda mi vida.

El viento sacude las hojas

de derecha a izquierda,

la luz se zambulle en su copa

y brinca con fuerza entre trampolines

de retazos verde limón.

Un amable gigante en quien rara vez he reparado

que, por alguna razón, imagino de perfil.

Pero hoy es verano

el cielo es finalmente azul

y la cabellera de mi árbol refulge tranquila

como el mar

innegable en magnitud

hermoso como respirar profundo.

Esto, imagino

es estar presente.


I have always known this to be

              f   r     a      g        i        l            e

the house denial built


like we knew it would

and yet…

there I sit

a demon

eating my own tail

gnawing back at me from the inside.

Land has parted        deep

              m   a     s      s        i        v            e

from within

a wellspring of sympathy

gushes out         glasslike



what is ripening here

what has rotten

our foundation.

Ground shakes.

Ground breaks.

It sobs          loudly

«I wanted to be

all those things for you»

It wails the world to sleep

a shroud for covers

little blue heart embroidered on it.

Horizon can be seen

its distance can be known

bu t       i  t    s             w      e        i          g             h               t

as unbearable as tomorrow

and always a day



Media pastilla para estar despierta

dos para estar dormida

otra para la fiesta

entera o molida

otra para coger tranquila

pero nunca estoy tranquila

nunca estoy tranquila

nunca estoy tranquila

nunca estoy tranquila

nunca estoy tranquila

nunca estoy tranquila

nunca estoy tranquila

media pastilla más.

Boy, it was really nothing

Sixty nine love songs

not one fit you

perhaps the one about

wanting to talk about ex lovers

and however many others

jumping off the wires

like tiny birds.

Have you seen them

not a flip as they go

wings stored away at the jump

they know when to when

they know what is what

nothing special about them

you can find two in a row

even when they’re rare.

I am perhaps ready for you

to whistle your tune

and spring off that wire.

In turn I’ll sound out

nothingness to no one

perched on a clothesline

waiting to when.


I find myself looking for

god with no faith

no beliefs

other than the need for reprieve.

Conversations with myself often turn to

pleas for those I can’t reach

it’s hard for us who crave

control when none exist.

There’s none and never was

so build a god I must

and pray this time he does come through

for patience is not my gift

I need to see him receive

the happiness he so deserves

and I failed to secure.

Patience is not my gift but I’ll wait

for god to grace him first

a bone for me, then

if time allows.


Sinks in a little deeper

each day slowly dipping

from hanging rings.

The more I train this muscle

the less it hurts to shoulder

a perfect split.

Merciless hour glass ran out of fucks

fresh out of time knocked the wind off my lungs

flawed execution by classical measure

o h ,   b u t   t h e   b o n e s   !

count themselves and their blessings.


Took a bunch of pills woke up soaking wet

a perfect saturated circle under me

so perfect this shadow, how?

bedspread darkened with sweat

the fabric which clothed me, dry as wry

don’t even know what I meant

don’t even think that it meant     anything

«God is the sweat running down his back,

the water soaked her blonde hair black»

I think about that,


Perhaps I sweated out all color

or slashed the walls of the world with all my clawing

and color slowly drained out


Yes, I’ve sweated out all color       feasibly in passion

but this embarrassing hue

striking against the grey.


Twenty five years a teen

so much you ask of me

«would that I could»

age out of wanting you

like I did at thirteen

foreseeable routine

to covet those who’ve misaligned themselves to me

stripping me only for parts they need

that I happily part with

as if I had no value no value

no value at all.

Train’s a-coming, you know

if we won’t meet, I should board

but you stay on your side

I let thunder roll by

we stare each other down

we each mouth something but it hits the ground.