Self-portrait

¡Cold coffee!

And your memories
running around me.

I always speak about the same:
about silence
about loneliness
about why
you are not
about
those mountains
of amazing and non-existent
sex.

Oh yes,
pornography,
that limit
that consideration
about beauty
and desire
in movement.

The moans
and screams,
sometimes
pleasure
is a too little reward
and I need to
hurt.
To hurt who?
To hurt what?

The perfect onanism
of substituting
dependencies
with punishments.

I suffer, therefore I am.
I insist,
and then I just
keep existing
for still suffering.

That pearl of knowledge
disappears
when I morbidly enjoy
the grovelling,
the kidnapping
and the parody.

I would like to laugh.

Sound of bones
like a xylophone
from the catacombs
of your love.

You only exist when I create you.
You don't have soul.
You are mine.
I possess you
in more ways
you are able to
imagine.

You are the tool,
the excuse
the brush
of this self-portrait.

The Devil gets bored.
I love that image:
the evil
surpassed
by his own creation
(at least one side
of us is his,
not by merit,
but by pure and simple
legacy)
without being able
to be surprised
or to react
to the mundane horror
we have created:

We shape
the dislike
with a goldsmith passion

We damage
with the temper
of an old Furtwangler

And we desperate
with childish devotion.

I always talk too much
When I don't want to say nothing
I contradict myself
as a -perfect-
excuse
against my limitations.
I am deliberately bad
and now
I am using a costume.

Hopefully clocks
work backwards
Hopefully words
could sweep away,
get collected
like simple
fishing rod
and make them
disappear
under the
rug.

How much wasted love!
How much self-imposed disatisfaction!
How muck fake melancholy!

I am not even convincing.
Better leave it.

I'm trying to convince myself
that your absence
will end.

I devise reasons
I look for paths
that I know before hand
that are lost.

But I need to keep talking to you.
Making you present
in my loneliness.

I can't lie to you:
I'm afraid of losing you
afraid of hearing
reality saying that
one of those days
our paths will go
in different directions
and it was fun
while it lasted.

In other moments
I'm afraid of forgetting you:
I have tried to replace you
but those are
little unsustainable
lies.

I hide under a
dripping shelter
and I always come back
to you.

I recognize it:
I have a little,
tiny and jealous
heart
which gets dirty
too easily.

Sometimes,
When I fall in my own
meanness
I like to punish myself.

Sorry, maybe
I should not tell you those things.

And then,
you come back.

You are the light
I cannot explain.

October -4-

Losing the map
of your re-encounter
and get lost
in wasted
substitutions.

Emotional
Constructions,
far away,
orphans of
all reconnaissance.

Loneliness plays
the role of mist,
who silences everything,
who hidden everything.

The lack of alternatives
forces me to
be an exiled God.

I can only erect
an ill foundation
of an impossible future
through the faint memories
of your love.

Ocasionally
your words come to me
And that light
Is
Enough.

Mice

Mice.

The first word
which came to my mind.

Helpless,
Surrounded
by traps.

Little living creatures
plenty of diseases.

From corner
To corner.

Hiding behind everywhere.

Death is stalking.

I hear them
running around up the ceiling,
behind the sofa.

I have been watching them
two nights in a row.
Looking how they leave
their hiding place.

But as soon as I make a sound
They disappear.

Insignificant rats
which, however,
want to live.

Curious.

October #3

It's not your presence
or your absence,
but those moments
in-between
in when
without being
you save me
and when you come back
you kidnap me.

Concentric circles
of my love
that I don't understand.

I don't want to explain you
Although it seems
I'm not doing anything else.

Octubre #2

Camino sobre las ruinas
De deseos muertos.

Las derrotas se vuelven
Intimas.

Cierro los ojos y desaparezco.

Ojalá nadie me encuentre.

JAMÁS.

el silencio es mi única posesión.

Octubre #1

Nada ocurre en Octubre
Quedan los ecos
Los cielos rosas
Los cafés frios.

El horizonte.

Nada ocurre en Octubre.
Nada ocurre.