spitting love and other lonely regurgitations

Trailed Ink

2008-08-13T22:28:00.001-06:00

Insipid box

ed

of jailed magnolia
her silk cupola strained
into unnerved veins
hovered
into a lymphatic embrace

her cage a shrine of terror

a leashed expectation

The scarlett smudge of her fruit
a magnetic wish
breached
at the core
by straddled lips
that bequeathed their selves

Instill

ed

in her awkward breeze
that slightest storm
of unspoken memory
it's craving limbs
a strangling hold on reason

a breath lost in place

shoot

2007-10-21T22:40:00.000-06:00

Autumn lies
its thick falls
like syrup
stupid and sexual
promising escapeless routes
through such veinless river

the stained pillow
a current of adulterated kindred
spilled astray
by this drowsy massacre
in mid departure

you've resurfaced your existence
like ocean foam
whose white body survives
only by chronic retreat
stringed in a sway
your organs surged
like the nightmare fly
who steals my female sin
and scentless prayers
devouring the ring
of citrus lining
and curdled want

you have never moved

nor been

it's because of me
that you are always spring

chet baker

2007-08-03T22:47:00.000-06:00

brass bull has branched its horn
its dizzy tunnel
whirlwind of wistful blows
as brittle as the aim of the
infant's harrow play
cloaked in gentleman wear
from bow to toe

its hollow depth
a goblet for somber brews
that skin the walls bare
and steal the thirst of others

the shell's whispers leaving trails
only to vanish at mid phrase
and rain their overcast secrets
to ears the ones turned soft
by heavy pours
and swallowed pain

eternal fall

2007-07-01T14:40:00.000-06:00

in blank
remains
the splintered seed
bandaged of clogged screen
in a garden of perennial blink
where light rose once only perhaps
told in scented breaths
sold in scripts
typed by unearthed infants coiled in
blossomed tales

returning
like moth wings relentless
to drain their flight in burning faucets
kindling their fall
where past pages muddied words
in unreadable sorrows
of legless journeys entwined
with rewound film
bound to return to the calls
of the crackled strip

and the covers cement their names
and spines
the numbers now futile
and turned too cumbrous
like the song of
the tick when its hunger is silenced

the compasses spring inwards
leading a frozen voyage
the idea of the crash far less terrifying
than this

The Aesthetics of Garbage

2007-03-12T18:15:00.000-06:00

there rest
the bloodless carcasses of industrial prostitution

an epidemic of exploit hovering the landscape
like the torn pearl necklace scrambled between our sheets
encrusted in the sighs
of a hazy affair wired in soft gauze and tranquilizers

the remains of our hunger
devouring the canvass
where constellations of desire
entrench the sobbing crystals from ancient snowfalls
nostalgic like mascara spilling down porcelain ladies
a stream of mortality tearing open the bounds of perfection
her intranssient beauty slashed into circulation with
the black river's brush across time
choking space to expose our nerves
time crumpled to life

the glass mirages bulging into our cemented fixations with order
fill our pockets with lust,
our souls lost
in this mounting crave to inhale
our lips a cave
for murder and reproduction
the urban crib once virgin and free
we will tame
with colorful ejections of re-sculpted packaging
and the embers of perpetual demand

a provocative site
where destruction of the non-manufactured
will ignite our existence
still

Fall

2006-12-30T22:37:00.000-06:00

If even it should ever be
that you loosen the arch of your speech
to shovel up tears
dead in their idiotic slip
like words that fall
out and with no aim
where hours have no fit
and space is too much

to make your tongue a bed
of frozen desire
cementing ancient mirages
like the sin of Rodin's kiss
fatal in the eternity of its past
a hole larger than its own void

we shall expend
the fertile coals
jailed in our guts
where bread breaks down
like the terror of the torn pearl necklace
rolling in infinite scarlet loss
both catastrophes greater than the
fruit they ignite
like your lips flambé
inebriating our strangled talk

the apples in fall
a premonition that keeps our fears awake
if only Sisyphus shouldn't know
our contention against time
would never seem so futile
and awards to guilt would license
love
in time.

Inside (revised version)

2006-10-31T17:28:00.000-06:00

There still is life
going on inside
a room,
clogged in its own stale sighs
remembering how my gag gushes
through your lips
interrupted by default
the way a wind paralyzes
and stagnates life
until it stank...

... the room.

The room stank of anxiety,
an anxiety,
(that same anxiety that keeps you awake in those
pseudo nights when you can't manage to dream, or think, or not think, or not dream)
and it permeates your thoughts
leaving trails of sin and warmth
like the whore's milk
crashing against the depth of your collarbone
until it stank.

It stank
of orchestral beats slamming against my divided legs
encrypting sterile rhythms into that endless crack
where I try to delete life
or consolidate dreams into
the crevice of artificial pleasure

and so it stank.

of relinquished lust.

End of conversation.

No need to go into further details of the
orgiastic consumption clamped on to my smile,
the T.V. set humping behind my head
masculinity crisis
thrusting itself in,
oozing herself out.

The lucid ego, smeared about my face
encaged in the abyss of my own reflection
where ideas are drained and forgotten
like pubic hairs interlaced with toothpaste
because the only market to bank invents beauty as an accomplishment

It's tight
in this room

where decadence and depression have become exhausted terms withered into fashion statements.

where “Drugs and Sex” is the taboo everyone is talking about
between cocked eyebrows and theatrical grins.

The importance long forgotten,
the reason long lost.

You can’t tell anymore what is sexism and
who is racist
where is God and
why me

We don’t believe in romance anymore.
It was just a myth
like everything in the Bible.
a contagious disease we love to spread
like the legs of the back alley whore
slit open like slivers of moonlight
tainting the silence of dark hours

the earth is round
and everything learned never cured us from the fall.

Yes

my dress is falling
lipstick’s run
hair’s all tangled
and my smile is torn
but there still is life
going on

inside.

swell

2006-08-03T15:37:00.003-06:00

I wish I could wrap
my lips around your cock
under the saxophone solo
of "you don't know what love is"
(Chet Baker's version to ferment the sorrow)
(a demented diversion to lament tomorrow)

as a fingertip sways deliriously numb
in its addiction to the repeat button,
emulating the undesirable taste of pain
that shoots back up the palate
like onions
or semen
trying to push words through
the scrunch in my throat
where cords in heat coil
the way hair threads cringe against candles
or foreheads crinkle against memories

too many words resemble the past
and too much of the past leashes the future
strangling hope
in a darkness moist of jazz standards
and decrepit walls
where it's impossible to escape
the rise of each morning
or the thirst of the heat
or the sound of hyperventilation
crowding over "sophisticated lady"

the lustful swell in these hips
just a melancholic retreat from truth
and almost as beautiful as when Toronto rain
collapses heavily
like a bird shot in mid-flight
or a young heart stabbed in its dream
a relinquished fall
as vast and theatrical
as when defeated empires tumble
the architectural representation of glory
vanquished under loss
and left for minds to imagine
the way these forlorn palms
yearn to immerse in your flesh
wishing to hold a materialized version
of tearful musing
and pretend for just one night
that this world
was made for poets.

Me gustas

2006-06-27T20:31:00.002-06:00

Me gustas
bien moreno
como el marrón
guardado tibio en su foliaje
plateado

Me gustas
anónimo
como el orígen de las horas
que se agitan en círculo como
mi ropa en la lavadora

Me gustas
en silencio
como cuando los grillos mueren en el campo
congelados en la caída de nieve

Me gustas
cuando me masturbo
y quien tu eres
no importa
como quien escribió el horóscopo del semanal

Me gustas
cuando no te conozco
y no alcanzas a hacerme llorar
como la carátula de un libro que
puede sólo interesarme

Me gustas
en el verano
cuando puedo alcanzar tu cuerpo
con mis ojos de una forma casi
perversa
que me hace reir

Me gustas
a la distancia
donde puedo imaginarte y nunca
tener que esperarte hasta agotar
el sueño de mi día

Me gustas
extremadamente fuerte
como la húmedad de Julio
que no me deja dormir por las noches
aún con las piernas abiertas
y la vigilia estremecida

Me gustas
discreto pero presente
como el olor de tu perfume
cuando me aserco
que sólo evanece si dejo de pensarlo

Me gustas
cuando el eco de mis tacones
son campanas para acorralarte
en el vientre de mis ojos

Me gustas
cuando me seduces por cuatro segundos
y sigues caminando
sin promesas ni heridas
para nunca más existir

Me gustas
de pelo azabache
como lo obscuro en tu boca
cerrada donde no puedo saber
lo que piensas

Me gustas
cuando tu belleza me hace olvidar
mi pasado
y no me encarcela como las palabras
"te amo"
entre otros mitos

Me gustas
liviano
como las hojas de papel
antes de que yo los llene
con el peso de la tinta
de mi lapicero

Me gustas
cuando el encaje de mi escote
le hace juego a tus ojos
como el lunar de mi mejilla
le combina al vestido flamenco

Me gustas
cuando me gustas y
no me enloqueces
tal como me gusta la ficción y
los días de lluvia donde no hay
nada por hacer mas que sentarme
en el café donde dozenas de ti pasan
miran
y me gustan

Possession

2006-06-03T18:17:00.000-06:00

With purchase we learned possession
the idea of ownership a morbid lie
serenading us into cages
the way pigeons drop when they
hit their flight against transparent glass.

Our riches are transitory,
the things we bought as mortal as ourselves
the things we own end up owning us
entrapped in the goods that pretend
to tell our tales

words are fleeting
like when a man says "i love you"
and if his love stays for more then a moment
it isn't mine anyways

my breakfast gets shitted out eventually
and romance always ends in pain
my nails break when I let them grow
and people may change as quick as fashion

so nothing is mine
the people i love can hurt me
because they aren't mine
I couldn't even buy them.

THE WEIGHT

2006-05-30T16:36:00.000-06:00

For the creatures our kind
it isn't that life seems dark
nor that sarcasm is the legacy which
governs our thoughts
nor is it the "drama" we are accused of inventing

rather,
it is the weight with which
events tumble before our eyes
that makes the heart quiver
in pain or delight
The way perturbance keeps you sleepless
after watching the neighbor
from the building across naked
rocking back and forth on the floor
wakening the night with a dire cry
that repeats itself like his rocking,
wrecked in some sort of attack.
The weigh seeing the ex-love on the street
with the girl he cheated you on with extenuates
the burning terror of the epileptic ceasure you
witnessed that morning and
the weigh the ceasure suffocates the trivial
moans of the wounded heart.
The weigh indifference towards the death of
[emotionally] distant relatives enslave you
in self-doubt
The weigh your friends' love stories
turn your sighs into vast paradisiacal winds
The weigh laughter feels as climatic as orgasms
The weigh fear of bumping into certain people on
the street turn you into an alien
The weigh friends abandoned you in your most
feeble moments and the weigh guilt replaced
gratitude for those who didn't leave
The weigh the sweetness in pineapples make
the day more bearable
The weigh dresses fulfill my child-like princess fantasies
The weigh making new friends feels as thrilling as a new date
The weigh age makes empathy more common than sympathy
The weigh the bruise left by a loved man will be nursed
by an unknown woman
The weigh you can mourn the terminated presence of somebody
whose aura you savor
The weigh sensuality becomes an approach to living
The weigh small sounds are so terribly startling, the
residue of panic lingering even after realizing their
innocuous source
The weigh excitement over simple stories steal
my ability to speak
The weigh a downtown apartment can feel too quiet
The weigh the tragic tales of others will efface loneliness
and sporadic feelings of exclusive martyr
The weigh hearing music on the street
or listening to another's pains will make you cry
The weigh of feeling trapped in mistakes
The weigh buoyancy strikes with the sound of
articulated speech
The weigh internet chat can either thrill or
spill emotion
The weigh accomplishment feels lost in
the passing of time
or gained with the student's learning
The weigh poetry can lose its pretention
and assume to be sentimental
The weigh you desperately want someone
to witness the high of ecstatic bliss
until the weight of the ego brings you down
like colorful balloons eventually fall
or the lover's flower wilts
the weigh my beauty shall wane with time
The weigh thoughts can be dangerous if there
is too much or not enough
The weigh love-making makes me want to cry
and lack of it changing the way mornings rise
The weigh the love-making bed can feel too
large or too small
The weigh games must be played though
no longer fun
The weigh hope keeps you afloat with the same
force with which disappointment buries dreams
The weigh weight can be a burden
or the gift of sensitivity.

SEA

2006-05-13T07:22:00.000-06:00

A friend once said that having
a love is
having a witness to one's life
someone to applaud your mild jokes
and dread over trivial pains
(like a bad haircut
or menstrual cramps)
a love to know every crease of your body
and memorize the subtle gestures that
books will never teach

eyes that see the multi-dimensional
roles of your persona
and the private intricacies that
separate you from the rest

someone to keep a mental diary
of the frailty of your innocence
and the regret in certain thoughts
the endless abyss of your sensuality
the anguish in your guilt

It's like writing on blogs
hoping people will read your soul
or being on stage where
anonymous faces thrill at every skill
and slump with unforeseen mistakes

a love is the closest way to fame
his eyes like the paparazzi lens
guarding seconds of you
worth a million dollars

for living unwatched
is like being dead
if no one will witness our lives
who will we live for?

bird

2006-05-12T01:08:00.000-06:00

I had thought about deleting
ancient words
and rosy memoires
of illusions cloaked in velvet masks
allusions left to guess
delusions meant to dress

confusions to confess

the thickened mold
of innocence lost
crawling through our dreams
leaving no cushion
nor space to invest
on soft laments
nor feeble tears
nor nostalgic yearns
nor time to question

its hardened case
the graveyard of hopes
that lets everything be
its inexplicable self

and all the women gather
and huddle their hearts
nodding the heads
pointing the fingers
their eyes enlarged with vile stories
the coffee thick between the lips
the eyebrows exasperated
by the men that huddle around
their hungry looks so easy to compare
their cliche lines that cry worn out
by the rusted paths they've walked
and the aimless circles they've talked

we'll nod our heads
and let things be
for the heart certainly does cure
at wonderful speeds
the repeated falls
making stronger knees
the only terror remaining
in the bird between the legs
its freedom flight
a dangerous journey
the chance of death
a taunting idea
that marks the body with regret
a once sacred site
now carelessly tainted
by child play's mistake
leading to the dingy road
from which we may not ever awake.

SARAN WRAP

2006-04-25T21:46:00.000-06:00

I just adore using
tupperware and saran wrap
it makes me feel so north american
plastic to protect
from germs
plastic to cover food stench
plastic to limit the possibilities
of chaotic mess

plastic

I wish they sold a saran wrap
to keep the heart
from spilling out
and causing disaster
as the heart tends to do
and it would make me much less intense
and feel so north american.

The Sounds of Laughter

2006-04-24T22:35:00.000-06:00

Bronze dunes made stone
their burnished slivers
a cryptic legend
strangled in its own story of
encrypted heat and hunger

A tale to make hidden
like the crime of a lustful gaze
or a child’s wish on washed out ink
smeared on a sheet crumpled
by her guarding fist

every day will end
with my woman flesh
soiled
and cooked
beneath his scent
Cursed by the truth of touch
and the enigma of secrets unshared
and whispers unheard

every day will begin
with the words of a nightmare
familiar and still daunting
and yet easy to dismiss
and yet difficult to forget
crushed beneath the sands
intoxicated in their beauty
and the impossibility of their numbers

the landscape he inspires
bears no resemblance to this world
and thus the tattered thoughts
lurking through these moonstruck visions
trickling down
the way mud stains
ruin the painting
and give it its own life and story

We are the architects of rain
vanquished by the unsettling
drop of a pause
and once again bolstered
by the euphoria of a sweet embrace
and the sounds of laughter.

INA

2005-11-23T19:28:00.000-06:00

"oh how I hate short, stubby girls" she'd say
a thick russian accent
travelling in the smoke of her du mauriers
crashing into the red wall
where dozens and dozens of tolstoy and other
favorites sat
eccentric and ageless
like her
and that german face I loved to watch
as she sat in her leopard coat complaining about fat people
her tall body bent over the stroller
and her eyes round
her eyes round

"you must smoke. I highly encourage that you smoke. I encourage all the addictions"
and we'd twist open the wine and talk about whatever she wanted
and I wished I'd be like her at her age
and I haven't called again

always

2005-11-23T19:16:00.000-06:00

listening to a cd obsessively
will always take you back to that time
the bodyguard: 1994
dee-lite: 1995
alanis: 1996
marilyn manson: 1998
dinah washignton: 2001
and you will own those songs
as if your life had a sound track of its own
and you cannot replay the tunes
without feeling depressed
and wondering why the past always
makes you depressed
always
so on the bright side
maybe you're not going through difficult times
you just always hated life.

spider solitaire

2005-11-21T22:53:00.000-06:00

you can stop living
buried under
the numbing gleam
of sex and the city videos
and spider solitaire on the computer
and that empty email account
you keep on checking
a depression forming
on the green pull-out couch
where you've left your body
to just consume itself
and the mind to stagnate

no more questions nor
sorrows
just that premature sign of
defeat
wallowing in embarrasment
swallowing the crevice of your life
that no one sees and nothing enters
like that fungus creeping through
between the washroom tiles
its innocuous germs an
invisible catastrophe

that is what it's like
the want to want again
to have purpose
even in the unconquered land
and to not dread the rise
of each morning that reminds
you of how dead your life has become
and that it's all your fault.

grinding

2005-09-12T12:08:00.000-06:00

and love will come while the sun will blind
shining over your well-schooled smile
and performance kit persona
and that well groomed fear posing
like docility in the chaotic 21st century North America

take off the light
I won't be much, not even less
the closet still stinging black
and eyes swelling like the menstruating crotch
of a chiguagua dog
always purging its foul insides
always looking painful

the leaves turn

away from your last season's rage
it's a system of betrayal
you decide
the congress of want
the society of foreover consume
the fall into cavity I
where the search is circular
and bound to immortality

twisting open the how are you's i'm fine's
in desperate need of oiling
lulled by the watches of
when to do what to do
no whys

I've decided to then become what I hate
a vacuous eggshell
no substance and morbidly fragile
eating animals and slurping at the
Second Cup
full belly, hollow soul
and that forlorn longing
that when the leaves turn
so will I.

OLD BEAT MEN

2005-09-02T08:22:00.000-06:00

He was the kind no one would care to
sit beside in the bus
but I had been reading the Beat Reader
so I did
I even smudged my ass closer
cuz his warm alcohol aroma
was like my boyfriend's
and cuz of the Beat Reader
and
every now and then
he would flip his slow and gone gaze
towards me
his matte blue eyes bored

He must write, or have some other genius - I thought
at the fifties grey suit and jazz hat
and the white wife beater clinging fiercely to his beating chest
and I remembered that other 60 year old cat I saw
in highschool,
geared up in his fifties suit and jazz hat
big square shoulders and long hands
and wearing a strut that any young broad would die for
it was cool and chill and smooth and sharp and ready and brisk and oh so styled

The old drunk in the bus then pulled a notebook from his pocket
and wrote in large print letters:

"COMPETITION

WHO IS THE SMALLEST?

WHO IS THE GREATER?"

and then tucked his notebook back in the jacket pocket

I got off before him
and couldn't check out his strut

Black shirt Black

2005-08-25T12:58:00.000-06:00

Five years ago
and in another country
the black long sleeved shirt
became mine
drenched in pink vomit
that took countless washes to rid
the night he read me the letter
I would have kept had it not been lost
I would have remembered had I not been drunk

we never were really together
and we never met again
but I still wear the black shirt to bed
but I still love that man now in my bed
who lets me do what I never did
with the black long sleeved shirt

to become a magician
that could turn all her things into garbage
her earrings into rubbish, her socks into trash, her scents into waste, the bed they shared
all disappear in a black plastic bag
to never be seen again
to never exist again
nor before

but I'll wear the black long sleeved shirt to bed.

2005-08-18T07:58:00.000-06:00

My mother's aunt
had enough hair to count
and a glass eye
that could see everything my mother said
She had meticulous fingers
and talcum white wrinkles
a hunched back
and an elegance that made you silent
Her talking also made you silent
She had shutting up difficulties
and so she talked all day long and throughout her sleep
telling detailed stories with closed eyes
about Robert John y el pollo

She was old-fashioned and somewhat racist
but I forgave her because
she adored the smell of mothballs
and liked to dance with rags drenched in parafine.

Last thing I knew, she thought she was having an affair with the President.

I don't know why I talk about her in past tense
She's isn't dead yet.

culottes

2005-08-18T07:45:00.000-06:00

"Culottes! Culottes! Culottes!" he screams

over and over again

"Culottes! Culottes! Culottes!"

Sometimes he jumps around

kicks his legs

sits up

lays down again

throws punches in the air

screams some more

and when he wakes

it's as if he had never slept

for he spent 9 hours in bed in

intense physical and vocal activity.

One time he pissed in the corner

of his ex-girlfriend's bedroom.

One time he entered her mother's room at night.

One time he said my name repeatedly

and I knew then

that I'd have to remove my culottes some day soon.

some days

2005-08-10T14:57:00.000-06:00

One day
the coffee shop
I began to frequent
burned down
and there was no where else to really go
and the people just walked by
as the building disappeared under
a hot cloud

and then one day also
she asked me some questions
and then said:
"I'm very sorry you came all the way
but we do not do research on people
with depression,
but you can have your 10 bucks anyway
and you can spend an hour with the snake anyway"
and I thought to myself:
I can do all of that, but I'm gonna surely be depressed anyway.

and then after
on one day
I decided I didn't care anymore
and I started eating meat.

bottled

2005-08-03T11:38:00.000-06:00

I scream
I scream
I scream to fuck me
and to fuck me harder
and inevitably
the trip becomes trickling down short
and he'll go fetch water
the way dogs do
and I'll press against a pillow
-the coldest and furthest one
from the pseudo-wet mess-
with his panting in the far space between us
my style unimpressed
my eyes unreadable.

Sometimes,
I can love him after it's done
sometimes I roll over to escape his touch and his "you're gonna kill me"s.
and quite honestly, none of this would have any relevance
if it weren't so true to the rest of it
if feeble prose and 'i love you's were not merely art deco
if i had the figure of a beer bottle
and if sex really would make everything better.
but i choose to roll over
and do as him
and forget
that the bottle isn't rolling.

Tiles

2005-07-29T09:50:00.000-06:00

Tiled
in this gloss walled rage
with no strange worlds to depart
like sins gone
lost
left uncommitted

you live in the spread of light
like renaissance whores
shedding laughter
for the seams undone of a
breaking dress
and the lofty thoughts
of a jukebox mind

Picking up a cloud
the wasp hits the window
in a classic fondling fight
like two lovers encased in their vile hatred
enmeshed in this parasite kiss

a gruesome leaflet of temptation
and paradisiacal hurt.

Flamenco

2005-07-23T21:31:00.000-06:00

I suppose it's similar
to the silence you keep
towards the long lasting lover
when his smell fails to incite
the roll of the shoulders
and his kisses lose texture
like some digital photography.

I suppose it's similar to
dependency on the well known
and the unbearable idea of
returning to solitude and that
impenetrable void that mangles
the persona and his ways.

I suppose it's simply called
falling out of love-
a desperate revenge for things unsaid.
(what was just said?)

And so the ego will of course entice you
to remain in this dull affair
a safe nest built in 6 years
of loneliness
a silk cushioned net meant to feed
the need for emotional fulfillment.
but falling out of love
it will eventually occur
that
one morning
you will allow the nest to
roll from under your limbs
a graceful fall resulting in
heaps of slashed hay
and you will feel absolutely nothing
and you will put the 5 pairs of clicking shoes away
and you will lock the skirts in a suitcase
and remove the b&w pictures from the
electric blue wall
and stop spending money
and sit with wide eyes
enthralled and incredulous
at the utter disinterest
-even boredom-
that stings through the
videos and the burned cds and the people and the words and the polka dots and handkerchiefs and the crossed eyebrows and pursed lips and you cannot fathom how it all became meaningless one afternoon.
and you cannot remember
which afternoon.

Apparently your life was just an obsession.

The next day you take out the soft black shoes
you've been storing for 7 years
and your heart is racing
at the sight of a regained talent
You wonder if it is similar to being on rebound
or if this is really it.
The drive is different of course
especially now that you're getting laid all the time
now it's about endless consumption of cappuccinos
and blinding spotlights
and elbow length gloves
and deafening cries
and the readiness of a big American city
and fuck art
it's gone and it doesn't matter anymore
so is this really it?
It's impossible to know
everything is intolerably uncertain
except the fact that
one day you love something deeply
and the next you will not.

the word ward

2005-07-18T15:20:00.000-06:00

It becomes a difficult
nearly strenuous task
to write poetry when
you can sense the upright cock
at the other side of the gleaming screen
it’s bulging beauty detrimental for words
and toxic for madness
And so you become quite aware
that loneliness is the muse of all genius
and that you have surprised yourself
with your lack of professionalism
and the softness in your ways.

I recall the then
when he named me the pineapple
with coarse surface
and gentle fruit
And how I could not hide
the pain
and the horror
that sprawled each time
his eyes escaped
like my lack of understanding.

Now he calls me chocolate
and we amuse ourselves dearly
at the peace of the other’s sleep
the infinite possibilities behind the eyelid
similar to the unpredictability of our lives
similar to the buoyancy of an adventure
A landscape of sins
a nightmare of flight
a calendar fiend
the truth of a murky secret
all raveled in a helium twist
of lofty smiles
and addictive sounds

He’ll never make any sense out of my poetry
The most intimate expression of self
But that’s okay
because I will never quite comprehend
the relevance of color gradation,
or the sublime impact of fonts
or why he gets upset if I cannot decide whether a line is straight or not
And it’s also okay
because no one is supposed to understand poetry anyway.

clocks

2005-07-07T20:37:00.000-06:00

I stared at the clock
as he laid beside me
and talked about mother
the electric blanket
exaperating against my back
and the bubble gum pink
reminding me of other times
when I had rougher ways
and a stronger smile
reminding me of other times
when even grandmother didn't seem so dreadful once

I stare at the clock.

It was fascinating to watch life tick by
I've always been impressed by the precision of a second

"Why have you been so silent?" he asks

it is a terribly difficult question that I cannot answer.

I stare at the clock.
it's works are so exact
the way you wish life could be
with one second mounting the other
we grow old
but its arms return to 12 always
always returning time, always returning time.
and you cannot imagine how exhilirating
the entire cycle becomes when
one arm reaches for 12 and the other 6
and all you see is one long black line
drawn from one end of the circle to the other
it is a divine moment
when opposites meet
and coincide in time.
the way things weren't with mother.

Santiago

2005-06-13T14:37:00.000-06:00

The stinging sirens
reverberate in the back
of my neck
stretching like a yawn
of these tiresome days
where rain spatters
and clings to glass
as parasites do, or depression.

Countless hours pass
facing the ceiling
eyes open
brain closed
as if the things for which I have wept
have been swept

away.

There's nothing to say
nothing to think
just the wheezing breeze of my asthma
caught in a Santiago smog
and the clogged nostrils
that disturb my sleep
and haunt my fears of death.

There's nothing to breath.

The laundry dries in three days or more
The foul smell of defecation impregnated
at the end of the drying ordeal

The town is filled with the same faces
doing the same things
and you don't seem to have any memories
of them or anything else

Dogs walk in clusters of muddy fur
smelling assholes
looking hungry
and desperate for affection
and they remind you of
the people at bars
rubbing against each other
like assholes
swarming and smiling
with that same hunger
in their eyes
waiting for a lusty stare
that will make them feel special.

The young women are still giggling like
little girls,
and the lines of objects always
dissolve under a mist
of cigarettes and junk

Sometimes I pretend I will do something the next day
like walk or look for a job or return to the dance classes
but then the sun rises
and staring into the ceiling
seems far more attractive.

Advent of the It

2005-06-05T17:19:00.000-06:00

The hate forbids
its own retreat.

far into the corner
I
eye
a titillating slug
snuggled in the
basement of a falling cavity
that sneaks its own secrets in
for appointments with the mourn

with an infectious snare
the morbid climbs up in shocks
rocking itself with threats
about weaving glistening
death thrones

It had not been previously contemplated,
the possibility
that this may be it
the graveyard to passions
nuzzled in clicks of ideas
and spurts of mirages
a faithful intercourse
a sorry survival tale

never previously contemplated
the concave choices
crammed between walls
of regret
and age to spew

This may be it
the red light bright
and desiccated petals
dark and famished
under the forgotten garden
of murderous bark
and stark
idle veined leaves.

She leaves.

This may be it
for I can see no further
nor the persian cat
that breaks its beak
to pour its sorrows
with the whip of a tongue

and I can write just as easily
about unfathomable truths
and codes of consent
to dissuade revenge

This may be it
I never thought
I would become as cumbersome
as the pains amongst the spine
or icy mornings
and only my man
says he must look after me
though he cannot conceive
how useless such statement
if this may be it

when the forlorn spoon
drowns in its own breath
and awakes with the acrid
laughter
and gargantuan yawns
off into eternity
at the speed of dark
and batting eyes of
the daylight sleeper

This may be it
when life spends itself away
pursing the lips
with that desire to strangle
impending across the light

JUNE

2005-06-03T11:47:00.000-06:00

Alas, June is here

and I insist, there
is something far more humorous
than intelligible about such statement

as funny as how failed athletes
become writers
like jim carrol
and my much mentioned bukowski
and I remind you I have never cared much for sports

as funny as leaving Canada in May
to another winter

as funny as kissing your first boyfriend
for the first time
on April fools day
(1st of the 4th
while his your first
you´re his fourth)

as funny as losing
a condom inside you for a week

as funny as performing 6 times a week
for 3 weeks
as a horse
and realizing the only reason
you ever even auditioned for the show
was because a stranger was jerking off in front of you

as funny as breaking a friendship
with your female friend
after kissing her on the lips
-content with the fact that maybe she's hot
but you're a way better kisser

as funny as rereading some of your poems
and not really understanding them

as funny as being 21
and having unbearable back and knee pains

as funny as losing your virginity to a guy
who says you have the most beautiful
vagina he has ever seen
and not being sure how you feel about the fact
that he's comparing it to over twenty others

as funny as returning to
the exact place you had never wanted to leave
and wishing you had never come back

as funny as not caring
to be a turn off to people anymore
they already haven't done it for you anyway

as funny as thinking that
more than 5 people
have checked your blog

as funny as getting
excessively tired after drinking too
much coffee
and getting insomnia from calmants

as funny as not really knowing
what the hell you´re talking about
and whether or not you wanna
finish up the poem.

Alas, June is here.

intro to jazz

2005-06-03T10:00:00.000-06:00

The pills are gone
and the Bukowski book is done
the last pages in his death bed
a skillful redemption
a realization
of that light long sought that
only rose before its execution.
He never knew how great life was
until it was almost gone
unlike my pills
and their heavenly grass scent

They want me to do so many things
things I simply cannot
foreign intricacies
that involve stapling on the smile

We think differently.
they enjoy translating laughter
and good life into happiness
and lift an eyebrow at
the possibility of not knowing
my silence assumed as restrained voice
not ever lack thereof

The shining people, they carry an innocuous speech like:
You're blowing it out of proportion, you're drowning in a glass of water, you worry too much, too deep, tragically ungrateful, excessive dramatization, childish fool, an exaggeration, distortion of reality, and hush I never said that

Only us
with the somber stares
know what it is
and if we become bright again
we shall forget, as all the others have
forgotten
how substantial is the
shrink of self
and attitude of desire,
all needs narrowed down
to three songs of django reinhardt
the clicking of awful and automatic poetry
the magnifying tensions below the neck
and fantasies of sleep

This is what I've become
useless for all art and expression
beyond the push of a button
or the determination of the cock

Ellington's 'caravan' just sprayed in
and if i´d make tunes like that
i wouldn't have to be pressing the repeat button so often
and wondering how late it is

at least I got this jazz MP3
out of that crappy rich kid university.
4,000 money canadian
I think it's worth it
it was daddy's investment anyway
even if I just couldn't learn the theory
or know if it was ellington or not

and though the shining ones claim it's rather early
we think differently, of course

StUCK PhLEGM

2005-05-26T16:42:00.000-06:00

In this crimson game
no one can hear
with the styrofoam dicks
shoved up their ears

The melodies bleeding
from the songs they were
trained to slash
the unborn phlegm
nested in a bed of
talcum scented flesh
conjuring up the blues in Memphis
of sleepless nights spattering
beer and smoke
and the idiotic self-assurance
that has made me a failure.

No other can sing
the way I can't
our obfuscated sins
the raison d'etre comme ca
gasping for a spray of color
to move
or the mistakes I've made
to perish
as everything else has

You stained
my last playing card

I can't move.

Ignoring them play

2005-05-24T20:41:00.000-06:00

Embedded
in the crinkled glow of a loss
the jagged waves drew their mortal disease
like the promises I gag about
in those raveled thorned threads
constricting my smile

Self-fragmented, and

deceased
I hover by the eyelid
My stitched toes neglecting the touch from below
and the puppet fades
through the caked makeup
smelling like the
urine
pasted in my lips.

But the eyelid shall rip, I am sure
leaving these sordid ideas drooling out from its
vacuous hole,
its foul shine a
mad encounter,
like masturbation in an unknown space.

It´s all gone, like I
and certainty has ceased along with the velcro kisses
my bed a wet cup for tears
and cum
and wax
from sinking candles
their flames a fucking cliché I prefer to hate.

All my aspirations have slowly shriveled
into gruesome operative slivers
of mascara gunk and
bottled medicine
their lucid containers more
attractive than effective.

Caged in this state of silence
the spite never sleeps
but circles in search of the poison
it feeds.

Nothing is the same.

a crumpled feather
collapsing in space
its pungent fragility
secreting down my nostrils
crashing like a wave against the
curve of my own frown.

Nothing moves.

Where am I

MAGNET

2005-05-13T17:08:00.000-06:00

We slept
with that mortal furrow between our beaks
chanting tales of mirth to repress in our wake
with the gleaming burst of a tear,
that oh so foul deluge towering above our necks
bringing the lethargic choking
of my days gone by.

Inevitably, I gravitate towards the sinful,
seducing the harrowing laces of
graceful spite and spit

A proficient drama slut
opening the legs to every
promise of pain that erects
before any orifice of hope.

You spoke of the danger
you so dearly embraced
and the parallels to cinema tragedy
(I have heard this before,
an impulsive like you who
conjured up the Romeo and Juliet cliché
as my alcohol breath desiccated the torrential weeping )
Yes; I have heard about romanticizing tragedy
and I yet kept silent
incase you should
flee
from my naughty mania for self-infliction.

I now indulge in the possibilities of pain:
the pounding solitude perched upon the eyes,
the screeching aches between my legs,
the fears of betrayal and the hideousness
of my own temptations,
the numbing edge of time,
and that smile I shall never conceive.

until I disappear

2005-05-08T21:20:00.000-06:00

I may shrink
for you

slowly waning
from the hard want
between your legs
Fading with every sunrise
and the voices in your night drinks

I may shrivel into a nine-letter-name
you'll recall with the mail
for you could become far less persistent
than with the rolled cigaretes you
recycle from the ashtray
and me less tangible than
the days on a calendar.

I may dissolve like your
photography under shampoo
the colors placidly defaced by
that striking pink I adore to
excite over.

it will all have been
a mythological spring
where vanity dictates
I pretend it was not real
our restleless urge
for one another travelling
up our spines
culminating in this unbearable
distance I can only reproach
for depriving me
of the sole thing I had
sought all my life.

the confused want

2005-03-27T11:57:00.000-06:00

Carnality purged
through the decrepit seams
of the thorned dress
hanging loosely
from the restricting wires
that hold an abyss
more distant than I could imagine.

Gnawed at the temples
these thoughts disperse and
tangle
the silent yearning behind
the bamboo and withered leaves of
forgotten ways

I am not sure of how much
I am able to
what
I am able to
the logic tearing all desires
into shredded guts of mirth
never laughing at the jokes
of possibility

encased in this site of
numb protection and pseudo ego
there is no space beyond I

I am terribly frightened

and there is no space in I

CREEP

2005-03-21T13:12:00.000-06:00

We crept
when the Torrents bled
and shed their colors
under the voiceless crimes
of such frenzy that collapsed
under the gaze of the
broken manners
people fix with jokes
The fuckin humor
that keeps our hatred civic
and will to consent.

a plexus dried
and seeded
like the desiccated
tears from repressed leakage.
A wreck climbing up our spines
in the slow speed of a song
that snatched all chance to be.

we crept
from the illness and the Wake
and the blotches on our skin
that spread beneath the coarse
breath of
consume and decay
and left
no signs
to agonize in or for
or apologies to smother forth

fuck the train
and the spit rubbed
on its bones
the cracking will not cease
until I fetch another song.

NEUROSIS

2005-03-15T17:17:00.000-06:00

Gashed and withered
the chronic nervousness
tramples over the lewd
trenches of my smirking attitude
and the unwillingness to laugh together

I am sitting with all these strangers
a toad smothered in slime
croaking for disrespect
and those silent looks
I am paranoid about
And yet somewhat enjoy.

Forever embellished by
thoughts of cock and no face
Forever stagnated
by complacency
and the crude mess I’ve left inside
They will never tell me what I am
And so I squirm in discomfort
sagged of self
and inept for people.

I have changed
So much I cannot recognize
but become amused by this
squeaky new paranoiac personality
and the pretext to not conform
I cannot even invent nor foresee

I perceive this new inadequacy more
as liberation than realization
and there’s a penis behind every thought
and an ignorance that permeates
these crunched temples
A scattered sense of identity
that no longer holds
to the whole
but to the hole
And this brutal embarrassment
I cannot sleep with
And these playground anxieties
I cringe and twist about

I am revitalized
and sucked
by this tantalizing bomb of candy neurosis.

GONE

2005-02-23T13:46:00.000-06:00

The hole is
A monster
That squirms against
My spine

It quivers and lies
And multiplies
Into tales of
Numb and pale

Within the sack
No colour sings
Just a circling filament
hunched and bruised
that pours its screeches
into luminous screens
Mesmerized by its
own painful light

A far out attempt
for revival
Partially sagged by
the gagging outcomes
of previous people

It’s the hole
To fill with hate
when no colour sings

The poet never lies
when everything else
is gone.

THE PROFESSIONAL I FEEL DIRTY ABOUT

2005-02-09T21:28:00.002-06:00

half an hour
half of our
relationship
was his profession and
my craving for
dropping my brain
only half an hour
and the tears
were tearing
my scratching attitude
to pieces

two pieces

in that awkard room
shining impersonality
and lack of closure,
it was strange
to cry before
the stranger
and simultaneously hide
that sudden sexual attraction
you have to cross your
legs tight to
and scrap the cuticles for,
while you admit about fantasies
replacing the word sexual for the
less embarrassing romantic.
He smiles small,
possibly plastic, possibly tender
but it's making me dirty
because he says vulnerability
isn't my style
and in the process he's
pouring me wet in vulnerability
and I end here, utterly destroyed
and ridiculous
with that smile on his face
at the corner of misty vision
pulled at my nervous system
cuz I'm so dirty and guilty
about the excitement he churns
in this mess of erupted weak.

PUBIC in PAIN

2005-01-19T18:26:00.000-06:00

There was the day
at the Van Houtte cafe
when I cleaned the piss
off my crotch
with washroom paper
and a piece of gum
got stuck to my pubic hairs
I gasped in pain
as I pulled the gum out
reminiscing the moment
he'd pull at my pussy hair
when we were sinful
and frozen like waxed figures
and selfish because of sexual excitement

and wishes

for stories
that crept between the
damp textures of disease
and our clogged souls
raptured in the now
and the things we could hurt

It was painful and I laughed
just like in the fluorescent bathroom
where a stranger's germs
crawled amongst my crotch hair
and hurt the way I like

wet ego

2005-01-16T19:42:00.000-06:00

I love men
who are geniuses
but I hate
feeling stupid

STRANGE

2005-01-16T19:37:00.000-06:00

He sat there
with all his oddities
and conventions
and conventionally
unattractive.

but then he said
he did not think
this place was strange
with a slight
shake in the head
and that made me very horny.

BIRTHDAY

2005-01-15T12:35:00.000-06:00

I turned 21 35 minutes ago
what the fuck shall I do
for this special day?
amidst a life of beauty
and superfluous dialogue
a loud laughter so void of feeling
i have to keep swallowing my puke
because people won't like to see it
even if it's my birthday.

The Gruesome Sound of Affection on Display

2005-01-12T22:05:00.000-06:00

Few things
are as aggravating
as the squeaking hiss
of two lips jammed against each other
the lethargic tragedy
of needy love
pressed against my ear
pressed against to sear
meant to make believe
that
affection can be narrowed down
to this one
monotonous
trivial
action
replacing conversation
to swallow another mouth’s oxygen

They are giving up knowledge
for death
in the name of love
and manage to irritate
my neurosis furthermore
with the excruciating
taunts
of the sordid stings
of the morbid rings
of the screeching
of the kiss.

Perverted System

2005-01-12T21:14:00.000-06:00

We are swaying
amongst the stale
underscents
of the Montreal metro
system

It's a system.
And we are all in it.

And it's not clear
why
I enjoy
to stare
so ever intently
at men's crotches,
but I do, and
no one notices

cuz I'm the
most beautiful pervert
in the system.

Debil

2005-01-04T18:07:00.000-06:00

I went to the doctor today,
who smiled quietly when
I said I had never before
had sexual intercourse.
Then she asked me if I was dating girls
before asking
If I was dating guys

I guess virginity
must connote
homosexuality nowadays.

“It might be nice for you to meet someone” she said.
I nodded
crumpling the lips

At the end of the session
She said I had a low self-esteem to work on
And I almost laughed
because I don’t trust to
have the strength to overcome it.

unable to

2005-01-03T20:43:00.000-06:00

Often I see you
as a reflection of
my failure

and your disinterest
becomes ever so more painful
more because of me
than because of you

Fortune

2005-01-03T19:06:00.000-06:00

Whenever I get my cards done
The Hermit appears

repeatedly

then
efforts
to overcome
solitude are
fruitless
if sewn
into my fate