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A poem in the mirror you

you've left

a poem in the mirror,

if you come back hungry for auroras

and you are not.

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When I arrived, yes, we will taste

ruddy ages to no avail and aspire

smoke some weed.

When you arrive, yes

overflow heat from our skin

and burn the ships,

be our little revolution.

And if the run, you,

you sit at the table

and make fire,

be my mouth

the hare at noon

jara

the sticky on your waist

and north through the

merganser in your chest,

party in the portal

of your lips.

more away from you, Queen

the desert.

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Farther You know the fury

You know the fury

twenty-four hours

like embers.

You know darn secret and silent

sleepless nights.

Plus, it's early yet, do not say

gloom

eternity or fear.

This morning

hope.

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Neuronal derangements

Pushing the door open with the image I am returning a broken mirror. Many pieces that are related to each other but who are not able to give a unique sense. Also others who could not fit in, like lightning too blue or black tab.

I look at the lips seems to have worn down to almost nothing. H. nudges me because M. appears to have ignored that we are standing there waiting for something.

But an eye I see lying there in a corner, moves with signs of having seen. M. turns and starts a shaped body hardly perceptible. But I still see these wrinkles are not only the seams of a pieced face.

smiles as usual and H. can not suppress the desire to move forward and embrace. And I start to talk in a completely uncontrolled by the concern that I have produced the picture that I found. M. and H. laugh at the nonsense I say. Return a smile costs little, but my back stiffened as he felt that I discovered a great truth.

M. not sick, no va a morir aunque siga sentado en ese viejo sillón orejero con las piernas cruzadas. Pero yo me lo imagino dentro de un ataúd y lloro un instante por dentro. Mientras alguna pieza musical clásica conocida pero que yo no reconozco suena de fondo, pienso en por qué mis pensamientos van siempre en direcciones tan insospechadas como independientes de mi voluntad. 

M. escucha el relato de H., y aunque sigue el hilo y seguro que podría responder a cualquier interrogatorio, no está mirando. Sus fragmentos vuelven a estar esparcidos por el suelo y en un instante siento la necesidad de coger una escoba y devolvérselos todos juntos. Pero eso sería ponerle en un compromiso y sé que no voy to do so.

Despite the exchange of gestures and words of endearment, I start to leave you with the feeling that we have always left more of us than we got. Always at the door, but without change. A sealed meat where occasionally someone gets some air to escape.

But that someone is not me. Certainly not

H.

regard to the latter, I will not tell you my experience of this evening because I say very seriously, he is very technical, I have to learn to control my neural disarray. But is that I remain convinced of my great truth, which comforts me and makes me feel for a while I'm smart and intuitive.

Because despite the close distance of M., I know there's something we share .

That silence differently.

One that is not based on shame, the wisdom or the knowledge to be. Is one that pushes against the lip and to do a lot of strength (hence to be spent). Force not to leave certain words you wish to keep forever. Because the moment that the utter cease to belong. And are subject to interpretation and uncontrollable changes. The nuances and intentions that are based on others 'neural derangement' that would

H.

do not have to be large or deep secret desires. Just a group of words that for once you want to remain intact. Although in the case of M. (Which has done so much longer than I, hence her lips almost invisible) paid the price for outside mirrors reflect an image made of small fragments impossible to rebuild.

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The truth is this story

THE TRUTH IS THIS STORY
and the bad taste of soul.

This thirst and pretext
of your sex.

this without living and this winter
that gets old and says nothing.

The truth is that I feel you on the pillow

warm red blood
drowns. Indeed

tonight
carved wall.

That never ends.

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Survival

often crossed your world at this age
in which almost everything seems wrong.
You know that life is an endless amount of sensations
and years and if someone faints,
everything continues inexorably.

The survivors are the land that nourishes,
me so every day through all your valleys
and came to the endless horizon where I get hopelessly lost.

Then, yes, I declare that I return and
shelter in our street and there I hope the sun sets.

Every sunset heralded a new triumph.

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your nakedness

1912

TODAY YOUR NUDITY

seek my heat uncertain

and perhaps return to the beginning of your verb.

More

not find me.

Why be

memory

other memory?.

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Yours Today is the perfume of lilacs

NIGHT HIT ME shells

that your weightless body. It rains

and here lies the suburb which delicate Aloa
inert.
The truth is you people
dreams my insomnia.

And yours is the perfume of lilacs
and moon on the corollas

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backroom Love

1915

BACK TO DECIDE IF

not have been sterile absence ,

that dreams and light

were cornered

in the tunnel of time.

full moon tonight

backroom and love,

sadness hovers

tangled between words and gestures.

(Soon

rain in the early days

this fall

and it will be cold on the plateau).

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oblivion not sleep

Tonight, light and darkness,

not sleep forgotten.

will not a word more,

or gesture that is lost.

And shades curds,

(do not forget),

domaremos the flanges of diamonds.

When the sun shines.

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For those of too much history to have this

A red circle on your calendar. Red on red for anyone looking to know that something will happen (also happens, it happened) on that date. And tell anyone because she does not need to point it.

think that these two unique numbers could write a thousand stories. In fact they already are but not on paper. But today is a history almost erased. With rubber removed but those that stain at a time.

A blue box has caught the number 5. Should see a doctor. A fine mark, more than anything for that to have him present.

The outside, in blue, it looks vein. The inside, with red paint better artery. What drama. Not so much.

But a calendar is always better marked. The portrait of a busy woman with many elements in the background. Or the bulb of the forgetful. But this is not the case.

Red, always a little bullies, is getting closer and then, the knot in the stomach and heart rare. With his words excited ready to go. His ready smile. And why not?. The

why not so scared that gets under the shower to turn the sound off with cold water.

mentally cross off days remaining. The lid of the yogurt that has no red circle but also betrays. The dates have just come. Although

also pass. What a novelty.

Today the circle is just the chalk outline of a cadaver. Died on Friday ready to end up in the trash.

El día sigue marcado aunque el yogur que no fue capaz de comerse, ha caducado. Ella respira tranquilidad porque todo ha pasado. Ni estruendo ni risas. Dolor sí, mucho. Aunque no se lo dirá a nadie y se pintará de azul.

Piensa en arrancar la hoja. Pero los meses no se arrancan hasta estar terminados y ella es una persona ordenada. Tal vez podría recorrer con tipex ese contorno que tiene un nombre preciso. 

Pero de momento lo deja ahí pintado.

Quizás hasta se atreva a enjaularlo de nuevo en próximos calendarios. ¿Para qué?

Más que nada por aquello de tenerlo presente.

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A light scent on your pillow Somebody loves you far

AND YOU FEEL YOU SHOOTING

between laughter and nostalgia.

No doubt you're away,

although sometimes

share breezes

follow the dictate

who knows what new hunch.

Yesterday left forgotten

a slight perfume on the pillow.

Perhaps beyond

is anchored other sorrows,

sometimes haunt me very clever,

the impunity of silence.

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Somebody loves you far

and occurs every dream

a summer.

And you

appointments and

lats under my skin.

Perhaps, sometime, you

be tired

and did not come.

What

truth is that the night

passed without more.

That chasm

held on the six and a quarter.

That despite not knowing you

discerned in the distance,

a stream of innocence,

a flowering oleander

and a new air

lips left me

almost teenagers.

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will stop
time and place for you, find
rain
the empty courtyard and country


refuge where stale clothes
and laments. Only


dawn brings signs
curds in your face and go crazy

words straight
flowering of memory.

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Only the morning dawn seaside

1912

Perceive

the opaline quiet of the old houses,

thousand stories and the city

you hear distant.

Tonight

follows the field alone.

the morning go by the sea,

the source of the air, where each wave

has written a shipwreck.

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'll come back to Seven streets

If necessary, I send you a letter
,
to know that there is no forgetting
and wait your innocence.

orange blossom, the wine is gentle
, begonias


dawn light and there is even good politicians. That

I write
to return.

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I do not know if they were the right words in a wrong day or a simple slip with a broken others.

- I like the term fracture. Sounds exactly to crunch, to something that is broken ... .. frac

But of course, eventually sealed fractures (careful not to catch you still inside.) Although maybe it was that for a moment I felt better than I am.

- or the yearning to fuck, why not.

Yeah, but I never say that. And let me a moment, try to concentrate on what it was.

- Why do not you focus on what was not?

For that I do not need to concentrate. Let me continue with my game.

Maybe it was that I became a bit of upside down or walked several steps backwards to get that dream old metal pipes and gelatinous texture. The fever dream

- make me think of a nasty worm. Para. Or

returned there just because he asked me. A perfect story every night on the nightstand, a skeleton of leaves in the morning. Although maybe it was a brave 'for trying to not be' ....

- the trouble is that always ends up being something. I know. You know.

... or an hour with no more hazardous. Things just happen. A brief contact.

- hours random?. Haha, do not get in
writer
plan are not here, so I can afford to believe what you want. Despite your intrusive thoughts that come from afar.

Where I stayed ... Brief contact, yes. Perhaps it was the words again, those who have defined a specific space, and certainly should nostalgic. Always as if expecting someone. Unprepared for battle, a struggle that basically do not want.

- Too much history

And though not the desire, I have not yet gone.

I do not know if I knew many things but one. This is why I stopped so many nights in places common to remember: lip, leg, hand, ass. One or two corners. No more.

- That's it. Too much history

Yes, that is. But let me finish. Too

so little history to geography.

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Seven

streets of your home will take the night bus

and between chaos and tedious

architectures

night I'll go with the proletariat.

go about bridges and streams, ridges and bars

roadside.

circle without reference

the highway

sad, phones for emergencies.

Vislumbraré constellations and when I give up the dream, I know that

distance is little more than a poor landscape

that only you inhabit.

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elderflower I searched I can not believe you

1907

searched elderflower HE
to feel your name
to desperation because morabas

dreams and feared not find on waking.

've seen on the four
to Cegrí
who came from Granada and I was told the old story of the chrysalis
in the maze. It


a desert and the sun never goes out.

The miracle: the only night
see you become a butterfly.

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1903

I'LL believe you
if I see the leaves fall
in another fall
and stranded me
pride as a poem drift.

is because I have
thousand grooves on my face
tours of your waves.
(Unfinished Symphony
and sighing going out, recalling

the brief notes of your heartbeat
and sea of \u200b\u200byour lips).

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within

We have within

small constellations

that govern us.

An order of planets and asteroids

and a tenacious and hidden god

beauty gives us a.

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We hope back soon

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I once had a grandmother that we were forbidden to call Grandma.

never lost a time of a basketball game, a football or a bullfight. In that order.

home never confessed it was the students in basketball and football Barca, because I knew my father was from Madrid. And she loved.

I read El País slowly and quietly, and never commented on any news that was there.

said little, he gave advice and never ever be angry if you were talking too loud: why I'm not deaf!. Although it was.

When we visited he always slept in my room. And I liked it. I remember the crackle of his fleece jacket to leave the chair. I used to wear a scarf on his sleeve and I was amused to see this gesture so quick and natural as blinking.

occasionally surprised us with a direct and very sincere words like: oh, how ugly are you in that dress.

My grandmother to you could not call it never hung out with other ladies of the neighborhood because he said he had only complained and diseases. As for church, he added.

When my brother and I were alone with her let us leave until we wanted. He told us "approach purse, smiled at the 5000 pesetas we knew in advance that we would no more give and added," hala, to have fun. " Never a 'back soon' or 'be careful'.

My cousin spent much time at home and from a very little girl said it was the silence. You could see the pictures, I put the tea on cloth above the knees and that was it. Enjoy the silence and peace that transmitted. The escape from the crowds at home and fights for no reason. Until the time of the time, because as I said, never missed it.

not laugh much, but not crying.

remember one day when he slept next to me and I needed a permit for a school excursion. My parents were working and she was the adult at home. So I woke up and handed him a blue pencil and paper. Lying there he wrote his name. With trembling hand which usually do not write anything. No frills and blue. With some aspect of children's letter. I thought they would suspect I had signed it. It was the first time that tender pity for me and always accompany large glasses or old shoes.

tired one day and died in the chair where he used to see the time, basketball games, the football and a bullfight.

is curious that over the years, much less echo. Be that in times of much background noise for me is vital people like her who have never needed each day what they believed, thought and felt.

Now that the time one takes forever, I remember her and think about how much I have enjoyed.

Suppose that

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infinite

BELIEVE in the jasmine

of those summers

clear and true.

O in a light bias

of our mornings,

clear and accurate,

as your absence.

That flies in the breeze

infinite fields of aloes.

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