What there is


Every time you come to me,
deceive a caress around my shoulders
my head suits itself to what it 
imagines to be loved
and waits there for what doesn't sleep,
doesn't wake up ripening in you
because you always go further 
to where you have no business looking
you let me search in places where I can't find you,
not where you are, not where I want to see you,
wind, indifferent wind,
you're not there, I'm alone
and listen every night
to what I once thought of you. 

Chairs on the terrace

Then let me be the woman who folds
open the chairs and spreads them out,
one chair for each thing she doesn't
say, one for every non-touch.

And then let's go there, you, me, 
each separate, sit,
just for a while, maybe.

Counting the chairs under breath,
making visible that what didn't happen,
make it attendable, make it dreamable.

Let me.

Highway to hell

I distrust people
-not like a zebra
who suspiciously looks
at vague contours
in the high grass
near the watering hole-
no, simply like how
a little boy
in Hiroshima
looked at
Little Boy

Don't trust poets

No poets who 
empty pens to made up exes
exploited with a loose wrist

Daddy-issues made into a puppet show.

Better to grind the machine into the ground yourself.
Pin their opinions to your forehead.

A collection that adapts itself so it becomes personal.

Don't be mistaken.  The dialect
from Amazon warriors, turtles and goosebumps 
is in all seriousness and reason the strongest.
Each step we climb higher. More nostalgic.
To the essence. Until you recognize yourself. Pick a fight.

Don't trust poets who
turn in notes like stalkers,

Better leave poetry to read today's newspaper.

Brain me out. Let yourself be needed.

Go and experience some shit, loose drinking games,
rape nights. Channel your skin inside out.
Walk away before you and everyone around you turn into words.

putrid 


this time let us not talk about
timeless things
like wars that pass
and wings that carry oil

but let's talk about me

as soon as I was born, I
started dying

my intestines molded like cheese
but my skin straightened everything out
because it's the outside that matters

I'm about the outside

so I put black around my eyes
paint my lips red and lungs black
because organs are not about giving
life but about extending life 

In truth I am the most putrid person
you will ever encounter
best not to run into me

beware 
this is a warning

I'm not suitable for all ages
and I'm not responsible for any possible consequences 

Italian Noir

 

 
like crumbs she collects her tears 
the room speaks carelessly for itself  
even silhouettes are invisible through the antique curtains    
so she decides to give the night-moths a voice  

acherontia atropos she claims 
 
wrapped in negative frequency  
desperately drawn to their ill fate 
 
the Goldberg variations - Zimmerman 
 
(Glenn Gould did it better) 
 
she cuts faded photographs into a sepia collage  
her knife cuts open landscapes  
where the sun inevitably sets
 
I leave the room and decide that a single sheet will suffice 
 
her leg slowly rubs against mine 
it feels inescapable - time only has a final destination 
 
lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate 

I pour myself a drink 

The voice

In a hotel room in the Barrio                                                                                  
you are once again in play

instead of
over her shoulder
you are suddenly in my mouth

as if you want to show her the secrets
that lie at the back  of my throat

every small word I now want to utter
is being cut off  by your thrusts

you should have let it go, you say
what good did it bring us?

this afternoon behind the curtains of
Buenos Aires
I'm his lover and her illusionist

from my open mouth I fabricate
a monotonous string of mourning-cards

one guess who's name
is on  them?