All hope

Posted: February 19, 2016 in Thoughts

Tonight I learned that some memories have a voice, and sometimes they tend to get very loud.
They talk to you, scream at you and sometimes even cry with you.
Tonight I learned that memories were never really interested in hunting me, they run and run and I keep hunting them, they scream, they cry , and I keep hunting them.
My memories hate me, and they try to keep a safe distance.

My own mind tries to find a way out of my skull,
How can I blame you for leaving?
My heart already escaped the colorless bars of my chest,
Do you want to wait for me to change?

And I am away, away inside this cage of mine,
Inside this hollowness of a mind,
And I am always close, always thriving
but never arriving, never arriving.
Do not fix me,
 Just allow me to sleep,
Do not fix me,
 Just tighten the rope,
And please, oh please, kill the hope,
Kill the hope and break all the mirrors
Maybe I’ll forget that I had a face,
Kill the hope and destroy this mosaic of lies,
Maybe I will disappear with them,
I will disappear with them,
I will disappear.

Oh, memories, they learn to hate us
And they teach us how living in the past is why we are dead,
But my eyes are in the back of my head.


By force

Posted: August 30, 2015 in Thoughts


It’s not the wine,
and not the sheets that you chose one pale Wednesday morning;
it’s not your smile, not your scent, not you;
not you my little princess, not you.

I was hanging there,
roaming the little space between life and death,
between the poetry and the sane,
when little details of a distant past started to knock me down, and it is not you.

It’s the unknown my little princess, the unknown.
Not the way you held your fork or removed your bra,
Not the shaking of your legs when I touched your spine,
Not the way you curled your toes when I kissed your tummy,
Not you, not the blemishes on your skin.

It’s the unknown my love, the unknown.
Not the way you smiled when I watched you eating,
Not the way you fell asleep in my guilty arms,
Not the way you moaned when we locked our souls. 
Not you, not the music in your voice.

It all came to me when I was fighting the monsters who lived
between the words of the poet in me and the breath of the man.

It’s not the rings, wrapped around your fingers like snakes,
not your tribal dress and not the way you threw it on my floor,
not your late texts and not your beautiful mess,
not the times you wrapped your hair around my neck,
it’s not how hard you grabbed me, not how easy you made me smile,
not you, not you, it’s not you.

It’s the sudden void.
The void of simple details.
It hit me tonight.

The fan in my room stopped for few minutes, the noise was gone and silence invaded me,
no; not silence, but void, the void of memories.
We made love all summer while this noise was playing in the background like a well tempered
cello, never missing a note, I got used to hearing it roar while you moan.
The void, the room, the time, the noise, the fan, your skin.
It’s not you my love.
I looked to my right, not to see if you were there, but only to remember that it is not the same fan; the one who played for us was broken and I bought a new one.
New one my little princess, new noise, the air was still moving in the room, but your scent was gone with the little fan that played cello while we played poetry.
Comforting noise, new fan.

My memories ran fast to a time where you used to lay naked by my side and I watched you talk and move for hours, and everything was in heat, and I remember the colors, red, yellow and orange.
The fine winter nights we spent by the light of the heater; remember the little white heater I had? Remember how I used to tell you that its light used to make your skin glow like a galaxy? How the combination of your divine curves and the shadows used to captivate me and render me speechless for hours? It was broken too, and I got a new one.
Next winter there will be new heated lights in my room, little princess.
Colors of slightly different intensity, shadows of different projection.

See love?
It’s not the poems I wrote when we met
and not the songs I wrote when you left.
It’s the unknown, love, oh dear love, it is the unknown.
It’s the noise and the light,
your moans and your skin.
It’s the unknown.

It’s the void that will be filled by force.
It’s not the wine,
not your lips and their exotic blend of colors;
it’s the new fan and the newest heater.
It’s the unknown that is coming,
the void that will be filled by force;
it’s the sad truth that seasons are moving forward and I find myself moving with them;
I did everything my little princess, everything.

I am so afraid of next winter, love, because I know I won’t be cold.
And it won’t be you.

By force.

Ink, tears and immortality.

Posted: November 18, 2014 in Thoughts

The windows were stained with cold breath and dust, allowing rays of grey light to mingle around the oriental lilies occupying the corners.
Few people were leaving the yard and disappearing round the corner at the end of the street and he watched their shadows from behind the stains, he never liked lilies, and he is never cold.
He closes his eyes, remembering the funeral of last night; he cried so much that his tears were rolling into themselves.
The city was fully awake, but his mind was deaf to any noise but his own, he could only see some shadows and invent voices for them, sometimes giving them names and shaping their characters, but he never spoke to them.
The walls of the room were so reflective; he always thought he was surrounded by mirrors; but why isn’t the whiskey bottle part of what is shown on there? Why aren’t the table and the little spoon? Is it a coincidence that the walls only reflected faces?  Unfamiliar and cold, he surrendered all his vulnerability to them.
He heard distinctive knocks on his door, he moved towards the wooden rectangle and started feeling it with his palms, the knocks continued; the door was cold and grainy, he pressed his cheek on the wall to his right and closed his eyes, the knocks were getting louder as he breathed heavily to their pulse, and as the footsteps started fading into the hallway his nails were scratching the wood silently as he slowly collapsed into the nothingness.
“I never liked lilies anyway”, he murmured.

She was wearing her favorite perfume when she took notice of the mirror staring at her; she took one more step closer to gaze into the eyes of the woman.
“My tired and teary eyes”
She did not attend the funeral; she didn’t have the guts to go and face him, let alone bury him!
She gathered her skin, hanged her remains on a weary silhouette and went down to her car, she wanted to get away from the intoxicated thoughts of him, from his words and the truth that was haunting every syllable he uttered, but the thoughts were digging all her old wounds so mercilessly and she gasped at the sight of her own blood dripping through the corners of her mind, there is no escape. She was so thirsty, but not for water.
She knew that getting passed his door to see him is like breaking through hell, but she was blinded by determination.
Familiar streets, unfamiliar faces.
Excuses spinning in her mind as she fought her way through the waves of doubts; he is already gone. And he was talking crazy again.
The gates to his building was opened; the few steps to his apartment were so tiring, her energy drained right at his door, her fist started pounding like crazy, she heard sounds and felt movement;
3 long minutes,
she stopped,
 heard him breathing,
knew he was dead,
turned her back and left across the hallway.


Posted: November 14, 2014 in Thoughts

The days started travelling again and pushing their way through the voluntary death of time; I suddenly had an uninvited realization that I’ve always lived between the gaps of the stories of us and never managed to become one.

I was haunted by walls of colorless, yet meaningful thoughts about how things eventually end, how feelings die, how bodies die and how complete universes collapse and reach an end where no eyes can see; but death is the end of memory, for the dead cannot remember the past nor dream about the future, they only dwell into the grey, let go of the burdens of connections and simply rest.

You see, inside this bubble of clouds, only your skin can make the cogs turn, and we are all frozen in moments that last for lifetimes of nothingness.

I picked a broken mirror from one of the corners of my memory, the sharp edges used to fit so perfectly with your lips; it used to melt and wrap around you until it envelops you with my reflections, with my sins, with my imperfections that you loved… With how unsafe and scary the distance between my eyes and yours was; Unsafe and scary, just like me.
Just like my words.
And I am scared; is a broken mirror just an honest reflection of schizophrenia, or is it an intoxication of a heart that is long gone?
What is the difference between what I see here and the clock that is no longer hanging on the wall?
Time flows frozen through my mind and in the soul of a frame where I kept your photo, but I lost count since you last smiled, I lost; I lost my mind, I lost; until I lost the sense of losing.
And sadness filled me and I filled the world with it, the way I never filled you.

“Have you ever tried to murder my solitude? To kill my pain? To break the back of my self-loath?
Have you ever tried to see the immortal darkness that resides the holes in my face?
Have you ever touched my face as I cry the pain and summon the lies orbiting my retired existence?”

And from afar, a scream echoed in the grave yard where all the clocks were buried.
“You only take the pills because you know that your nightmares are brave at night”.

Friendly Fire

Posted: April 2, 2014 in Thoughts

Day 3
Blank papers.
Dead ink.
Dimensions collapsing on her skin.
“I am delirious”
I find it amusing how our species managed to invent a word for every mental glitch and emotional slip that resides our psychology; let alone the highly debatable term psychology itself.

Day 4
Black and white, over exposed pictures of shadows.
An analogue clock that never tells the time.
Rays fighting to secure a spot on my swollen wall.
“Hold your tongue”
I never was able to stick it out and hold it long enough to prevent a conflict between the many faces of mine, as if it mirrored all of their ideas, all at once in hideous dissonance.

Day 9
Pale faces on a backlit screen.
Oil bursting out of an icon.
“You are distant”
I ran out of words, out of thoughts, out of dreams. Rivers of imagination are dead and dry.
Distance is not what this is called; do you want to hold my blue corpse and smell my blue skin?
Dead people are not distant, they are lost in a circus of well defined circles and blurred squares.

Day 11
Closed window.
Lines of dust sparkle over the statue of a snake.
Voices, outside my head.
“I did my best”
What is “best”? Is it better than the “good” of yesterday? Is the “good” of yesterday better than the “worst” of tomorrow?
Unconditional love and conditional mythologies.
What sorcery conspired to anatomize a breakdown of hopes?
I am doing this for the “best” of tomorrow,
And my soul is still locked in a cage of frozen leaves
breathing a storm that destroyed the collective conscience of my selective memory.
“Is this black magic?”
I asked her as she stood firm there like a well-tuned cello that is about to silently plays every note that escaped my sober mind.
Unanswered, my questions retreated back in the black hole where my brains suffered infinitely.
She turned, I left.

Day 12
Pictures of home.
Sleepless eyes of a stranger in my mirror.
Layers of empty spaces folded into the corner.
“I cannot take this anymore”
And who knows what “this” is?
And was there “more” of me to take “anymore”?
My words used to break down the ice of illusions and soften the edges of burdens.
I was fighting with all what was left of me, a temporary war that I believed would lead to peace.
The blade stormed shining like the fear of a brainwashed believer who saw death for the first time.
Friendly fire.
A very friendly loss.
An even friendlier breakdown of the rules of engagement. 
“I cannot take this anymore”
Did you hear yourself say it?
My flesh isn’t numb enough to allow this stab to tear down the truth.

Day 13
Absence smells like death.
Eyes wide open to see nothing.
“Would you forgive a lie?”
I never thought I could.
In the background, the pale voice of a female whispered through the layers of a symphonic chaos: “Sometimes the sky is piano black”.
I smiled.
“I am delirious and I find it amusing”

Indian Sunset

Posted: June 6, 2013 in Thoughts

My mind turns ironically dimensionless, as I look at the half-opened sky…
She gazes back, her dark, bone chilling stare tears my spirit apart.
Just like a rush of autumn leaves, she bled her beauty unto my canvas,
her subterfuge was howling in its desperation.
A hovering air of mysticism followed her as she walked into my mind;
she smiled like a hymn, like a lullaby that will soon put me to sleep…
And I was there searching for my fate, a tale that was written long ago on the palms of her thoughts.

It was a onetime truth, just like soaring in a parallel universe, she sat there on a bench of solitude;
my solitude;  and I was waiting for something to happen and wave the thick layers of silent wind that were eating me inside out. She never knew.

She never knew, because she was never there.

My mind turns ironically dimensionless, as I look at her half-opened mouth.
Bite after bite, forbidden fruits fall from the sinless universe.
One by one, we lay and cry, tears for the unknown.
And she stays right there, red like an Indian sunset
Feeding my illusions,
Like a funeral for the living,
Like a mirror that can depict my fate,
Everything in her wants me to find my soul, a manuscript of my existence that I long lost.
Everything in her does not know that I exist, though my pulse was tuned to the rhythm of her breath.
Still, I was an unfruitful work of a darkness that resides the corners of her mind, and mine.
Her mind, like a blade , awash in crimson flows, it was strong enough to relish an eternity.

She never knew, because she was never there.

“Come with me tonight,
I would like to read for you
You, me, your eyes and some Chopin”
“Have you ever held a dream in your hand?”… “Like A Shadow”.

Journey Of A Teardrop

Posted: May 21, 2013 in Erotic Nightmares

The Night Was In Rage
The Storm Was Dancing Loudly
She Opened Her Divine Eyes
Sending Eternal Light To The Moonless Skies
She closed Her Eyelids On A Tear
A tear That Was Searching In The Corners Of Her Soul
Trying To Break The Boundaries Of Space And Time
The Teardrop Sailed Down
In Her Eyes Where Only Demons And Beasts Dared

The Whole Universe Stop And Listened To Her Sighs
She Was Naked, Bared And Ideal
Just Like A Goddess
Just Like A Dream
The Pearly Drop Sailed Down Her Cheek To Her Neck
Where Beauty Was Hiding Very Shy
And Little Kisses Of The Dawn Were Smiling
Rolling Down To Her Breast
The Dance Of Eternity Began
They Were Perfect
Just Like A Blooming Fruit In The Middle Of The Spring
Just Like An Apple, The Taste Of Sin
The Drop Danced Around Her Nipples
Discovering The Colors Of The Horizon
Red, Pink, Rose, Dark And Light
All Fought To Build A Wonderful Sight
The Drop Was Drunk!!!
How Can Breasts And Nipples Of A Woman
Make The Sun Blush And The Sky Shy?

The Tear Drop Then Sailed Down To A Desert
Where Space Was Holy And Time Was Still
The Settings Of A Fairy Tale, Her skinWas
The Drop Searched In Every Corner Of That Perfection
Skin So Silky And Soft
The Sweat Is Hot Like Virgin Wine
The Drop Tasted The Juices Of A Fairy Tale
Then  Went Down To Her Triangle Of Love
Between Her Legs,
The Secret Of The Eastern Perfumes
And The Western Spices
The Tear Drop Was Traveling on The Surface
And Teasing The Tasty Skin
Both The Treasures And The Maps Were There
Where Pirates Always Fought
To Find The Secrets Of Eternal Life
This Is Where The Most precious Wine Was Made
Where Aromas Are Mixed With Fruity Tastes
Where Hot Springs Of Waters Were Flowing
The Whole Universe Was Smiling Down There
The Gods Were Watching
The Demons Were Smiling
The Heart Of The Teardrop Was Bouncing
Pulsing hard
Her Triangle Of Love Was Tasty, Aromatic And Perfect
The Tear Drop Went Down To Her Thighs
To Find The Full Amazing Skin Of A Woman
Full Of Lust And Desire
The Drop Was Boiling
The Air Was Thick
The Woman
She Went Down To Her Toes
To Find Some Silence, A Rest 
The Drop Began To Kiss The Corners
And Looked Up At The Maps Of The Secrets
The Woman Opened Her Eyes Again
The Storm Was Calmer
She Knew That The Poet Lost His Mind
She Knew Her Beauty Was Making Him
Shed Teardrops Of Eternity.