sábado, 16 de agosto de 2014


it’s always windy up here

it is difficult to write
difficult to wake up
and walk

there are no trees nor water
just pink flowers in the table cloth…
and the wind
howling around me on the other side of the windows
so i can forget about the fucking summer
and all the heat
and the city
and the ventilator blues
and the crowded beaches
and write

no tourist
sardines for dinner
and the short brown grass over the hills
like the skin of a horse
or a telephone goodbye

there’s a half moon floating very near in a pitch black sky
through the window i can look at her
silver and ecstatic
like a roman marble statue
more a jewel than a satellite
as if she was a mirror

and the small trembling lights i see are just the stars
and an occasional car sinking in the unknown
following roads that get darker
and darker
down the road
to other villages
fire tongues
and sweet girls playing with water

there are street lamps leading to other houses
and paths
but they are being swallowed now,
i am certain about this,
for some hundred tons of air and sand and bourbon
beasts that grow older and colder
magnets of heat
burning with powder
touching the skins of the kids
and reminding them about…

bitter memories of LA
(neon signs, dead cinema stars, ending credits)
a special kind of softness lost
fathers picking up kids

and all those things that the human beings do
tangled up
with despair
and small light red candies

miércoles, 14 de mayo de 2014


i’m riding in my car
around the contours of this island
is dark outside
the flies get together in the windshield
crushing their heads like small vein drops
in a junkie’s bedroom
white teeth
remnants of her scattered around the back seat
like hair

there used to be a sea below
a hill above
but there is nothing I can get my hands around
when I need it the most

in a hot night
oil in the road
and the tires
and the bushes,
deep down
in the roots
dipping in to what used to

red lights and the small
of the sea somewhere
spraying my face against the wind
along with songs
and images
of your tender
round ribs
being pressed
with fingers
and caressed with tongues

your naked shadow on top
the bottomless cliffs
to the rocks
and the wish for rain
and storm
and yelling
cleaning it up
telephone rings
and fathers of the unexplained miracle of faith
and love
fire ants
god burning the branches
sacrificing his own son
for those who jump out of the window to silence the filth
in narrow churches built by long black American souls
brightened by the luminescent
of matches
and rectitude
pulsing and singing like wide solitary birds
of the machine and the night
the travelling
the search
the words echoing in the corners while you listen to  it
so vaguely
the refrain of the lost breath of the night driver
around the island

offering himself to the bugs
bared chest
soothing one’s private victory
as I massage my own forefront
and wonder
how the hell did it  all went wrong?
the map was the right one
the capsules where taken following the doctor’s order
for the correct behaving of the
human being
the cuts are elliptical in the house of miracles and plagues

the childhood is stopped
all of a sudden
by the muteness
and the hiding of all feelings
and dirty dove feathers

the lake opens at dawn
the city vanishes under it
water gets high
the old home is flooded
once the dogs run
the longblackhaired babies were asleep
but the king-is-coming, the swords are here, he’s coming tonight to recollect your mercy
you’d better scape baby

there is way too much baggage
packed under the bed-noise
of spring breaking for us

lunes, 10 de febrero de 2014



my own sweat falls from my head
to my bones
a thin presence of lime
black pepper
and safran
in the old opium parlour

there are unknown small fairies
under the huge palm leaves
and scooters sliding above the melting streets

why that endless fire is burning
the red flag is still blowing
for the tellers are going slightly mad and I wonder

who's the best girl I ever had?

viernes, 10 de enero de 2014


i do smell like cigarettes,
and mint chewing gum

like i did so many times

so long ago

but now my hands smell like baby's chest,
that has changed

my neck still smells like your hand cream,

i am all nervous for the coming trip
and the south east
and the bugs
and the russian airports

friends whose brains are all wreckage
and debris
and hate
but i don't know where it comes from
where does it all comes from anyway?

i am running to the embassy
to get the visa,
the hot day
all falling above me
like fists
and stones
the immense football stadium menacing
with all the lingering promises of passion and glory

and a couple of flashbacks from the past

of course

and mint gum

and your lips

miércoles, 25 de diciembre de 2013


toy plastic empty subways in the crystal clear cold halfway-cooked-spring-morning

wolves without teeth
religious zealots
rock and roll in the stereo – downers in the oven  - girls at the door of the laundromat

the old guy leaning on the wall whispering:

“ulises never came home
he tried, sure,
but he stayed looking in circe’s eyes
for all eternity
coming home for what?

even now the old sea-lover-white-dove
is falling on her beautiful white linen knees
giving name to new songs and talking directly to your ears:
i wanna see you again babe
you handsome black haired guy

and the light
fresh god-like
of the velveteen sunset
hits the barrio’s red brick buildings
with an overwhelming feel full of oceanic hope

usually so far away
phone calls
snow and rice fields

so the day passes by in a hush
in a long head
concern about the implications of the lost boats and the burning zeppelins
and the crippled emotions of emptiness
in the skinny
mental sanity asylums
and the ruins of the prison

sorry my dear but i have to keep on going
for a little bit time more
till i get to detroit at least
or to the homemade bread
or the white fence or
salvation herself
and the peaceofmind
or quebec
or those idealistic hands that cover my face
and make me fall sleep like a huge
under the heavy heat
of the
hong kong hills

sábado, 30 de noviembre de 2013


the smell of lime
and onions
in the bright dense
sweating saigon day

the taste of sprouds
the dark iced café,
making me tremble,
in the small tin
police yard

the co twong
played sitting on the cement floor
dirty feet

a war

most of the times you can only see the eyes of
the bike riders
passing over the
surviving french buildings
that look like old botannical gardens

something is really spicy

but i don't know what it is

something made me think about you

but i don't know what it is

viernes, 25 de octubre de 2013


... y hay poemas también de las 4 de la mañana
poemas que son
como medusas urbanas de madrugada
pompas de jabón de fregar los platos
frases a medio decir
sumideros atascados

poemas que nadie escucha y que casi nadie escribe
que se quedan flotando en el aire cuando los lees en voz alta
al día siguiente
casi con vergüenza

poemas-carga de profundidad
con pocas aristas
y ninguna intención
sonambulismo a oscuras en la cuerda floja,
palomitas de maíz en el cine

poemas que hablan de echar algo en falta
pero no saber muy bien el qué,
de echar a alguien de menos,
pero no saber muy bien a quién,

de caras por las que diste la vida
y ahora se convierten en caretas,
de planes de evacuación,
de planes de invasión,
camas vacías,

bultos en bolsas de plástico blanco,
de amigos borrachos de cerveza y Johnny Walker
y piel quemada por el sol
de pijas imbéciles fans de los fleet foxes
que hablan sobre el proceso creativo,
susurros a la oreja mientras te hacen el amor,
pelo cayendo sobre tu cara oliendo a hierbas y jabón,
cenizas en el puerto,
lluvia bajo las crines de los caballos

no es la bajada
es la subida de vuelta

poemas de calor
que pueden hacerte llorar
por que están vacíos hasta que tú los llenas,
medio dormida
con la cara aplastada contra la almohada justo antes de caer