Madrid. 1^st of May, 1981
                                                                                    Also today,
                                                         the International Labour Day
                                                                                  is celebrated.

Days to remember
everything that couldn't be done.
Those days
in which the dead come in a throng
to enquire
what are they remembered for?

Tears to cry for
what never was obtained.

Crazy horses
maddened mares
dull reflections
of the fire
where witches were burnt
quiet wounded dove
calmness interrupted
by truth
peace
with broken wings.

May, 11^st, 1981

EDITORIAL 2

I HAVE ATTEMPTED AGAINST EVERYTHING

I have attempted against everything and it has been worthless.
I have accepted everything and it hasn't been worth either.

Flying
and I flew higher than the clouds.

Dying
and I pressed my hands deeply into my womb
and I pulled my heart out.

Afterwards someone might murmur:
It would have been better to do it another way.

Beauty
in the centre of beauty
great loves
waited tranquilly
and truth
lukewarm madness.

Maltreated skins so that love
reaches its destiny of dying light.
Roads of life severed forever.
Bewildered chains hitting us on the face,
evenings when justice condemns us.

Entire nights when fever
is love
and common thoughts
madness.

Times when life
did not fit in the gaze
times of the famous solitude.

Endless strolls around my body
as if my body were the universe.
Light blue and gloomy.

Lightened suns
dazzled by their own beauty
and the endless black stars
brutalised by pain.

I have attempted against everything

 

  WHILE GROWING UP I REALISED…

While growing up I realised
that living was not enough.

At the beginning I started changing
some hours of my life
for some words.
Those issues of sex and gold,
of the little and nice freedom,
of the gloomy politics.

Words joined one another
like heavy nets
and in that solitude it was necessary to love,
to meet love,
to love love,
to be for love
as if love were oneself.

To commit suicide for love.
To wrap oneself up in the sadness
of a murder for love.

Dream and being dreamt
always by the same person
and to have the courage for love
of plunging headlong
through the narrow pass of the shadows
each time that, what is loved, stops dreaming.

And love with such madness
brings the movement of the stars.
Still suns
in love with dancing moons
blind moons
dancing because of the obligation of love.

Still after
giving away some hours of my life
I entered the cosmos. 

At the same time the quiet suns gyrated
around other chains.
Light
was only the reflection of its search.

               While growing up I realised…

 

WORDS AND WORDS

Threads. Knots. Smiles.
Small glory.
Men in the darkness.

I am he who no longer suffers.
I do not ask for bread.
I ask for marine extension.
Your beautiful eyes
extended at my feet
round
abysmal
looking how
my lips shine above.

Skin of cracked nuts
skin of water jugs.

I kiss your dazzled mouth.
I bite your mouth opened
because of the delirium of blood
and I pull out my enamoured chest
from the statue I have become.

I am not thirsty.
Only skins and verses
along the road of men.

WORDS AND WORDS

 

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HERE I AM WITHOUT MY LIMPID GAZE

Here I am without my limpid gaze
of other times.
Blinded by the slow and gentle living.
Gnashed by the eternal sound of flesh.
I return to say that I have understood:
My father has died.
Words like resins
stuck to my nerves.
Sonorous paintings
screams painted Nile blue
little wrinkles in my face
in my belly
little
delicate phrases.

Here I am without my limpid gaze

 

 

   HE WAS MY FATHER

He was my father
and always walked
a few steps ahead of all women.

I was his son
and always recognised him
because of his solitude.
Afterwards when I grew up
and could run to catch him
he obtained a friend.
He looked lengthily into my eyes
and I could never maintain his gaze.

Still there was an afterwards
he told me stories
and while he told them
he lost his gaze.

It was a remote country
the one which existed in his eyes
and I was not there.

In time
with words
I got used to emptiness.

He was my father

What do you think?

Pornography   or     Eroticism

So far people have voted:

Pornography: 210.000                                    Eroticism:355.000

 

Death when it occurs
occurs in solitude.

               Death when it occurs

  THIS MATERIAL WAS RECORDED LIVE IN THE SPACE

                                       "AWAKENED POETS"

 THE PAST APRIL, 4^TH, 2004

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