We will never be,
defeated by time.
There is melancholy in our seconds.
Yesterday we got our mirrors dirty
and we washed them down with the same filth,
and now those seconds,
hit me like pieces of led
that love gravity.
Those seconds that invented hours
as the sea whip on my conscience.
I don’t adjust myself to the hours.
I don’t trust their generosity.
I allow myself to be too exposed to the hours.
No, I lie.
The hours allow themselves to become too exposed to me.
They penetrate me as a confusion of branches.
(There are always unexpected vine shoots).
I make fire wood with the hours.
I reveal myself with their breastfed-executive.
I do try, but I fall …
I am unexpected
because I have too many chronometers.
I battle between bradycardias and tachycardias.
I live between stairs.
I reject the routine plains
as I do reject melodic rocking chairs
or closed cycles;
as I reject so many waves
or so many unquestionable rocks
or so many mountain ranges as meaningless wounds.
It would be nice to be tired.
It would be nice to be erased.
To fall into our damage
and not to recover.
To get used to falling.
Not to go out in order to avoid entering.
But beauty is reflected on my nerves…
I surrounded myself with these lines;
with the inability to accept
that my sensitivity
has no edges,
It comes to me, vigorous and extensive,
with creative leaps,
within suspended smoke excited,
with the blow of hooves.
that my plague
is due to an overdose of time;
which makes me appreciate my wrinkles
as if I dug them myself;
which makes me scratch emotions up to a ridiculous point
and to predict
that slaughterer who prophesies on my forehead,
that rhythm of migraines:
stampedes of my existence.
I carry a cage to lock your inertia in
and for you to copy mine:
«Come on, Irene,
jump towards my eyes.
Tremble baroque before the trumpet
that startles in the nostalgia.
Let your life be an acrobats stunt.
Let your life be an argument of fallen petals
like shameless sprinklers.
Walk, interrupted in the aromas,
break up the thyme in your hands.
Here I am,
and I want you to divide me in you».
It’s not manipulation,
it’s that my heart
is a leap of flowers;
and the flowers
lead to the stem
and the stem
leads to the thorns.
And why take out the thorns,
if I don’t wish to be slow
because you don’t wish to be fast?
Perhaps, though I love you
like a collection of sensations,
even though you surrender all cultures with your lips,
we are obvious when we are one?
Is anyone obvious within the unit?
let us cross time
with a set of whips if it were necessary.
with tear-drop collectors.
we have passed by many flavours;
hard, dry, sharp, finished.
Come to this last cornice,
The one I want the crown,
where I wish to die without any artificial cold;
lie down here,
let us make love like extinct animals.
let us burn our dreams with red and murderous swiftness.
Here I am,
and here you are,
blinded yet not aged.
Here is my tombstone,
If you long for… your tombstone
Here, you and I,
pure in doubt
pure in consequences,
immortal souls burnt out.