Yo aquí, en mi alcoba,
desnudo, inhalando profundo
porque mis sábanas están empapadas de ti,
con una canción acerca de las nubes en el fondo,
con el sol, ese sol que a veces te abandona,
mirándome con recelo
por la simple y llana razón de yo poder escribirte,
escribirte versos y prosa,
escribirte palabras de amor, de sosiego,
tratando de contarte la luna y las estrellas,
tratando de pintarte el oído con miles de colores.

Yo aquí, en mi alcoba,
cerrando los ojos para que tu rostro me llene el lienzo de mi mente,
creyendo que ya toda metáfora ha sido inventada,
y aún así intentando llenarte el alma de rosas rojas con mis palabras,
para que mi voz retumbe hondo en tus sueños,
y quien te mire dormir se pregunte por qué sonríes
y quiera que le compartas el aroma de tus sueños.

Yo aquí en mi alcoba,
con los pies desnudos, bañados en frío,
ese frío que ahora me cela porque tú estás
y yo ya no le añoro nada,
ya que me siento a pensar en que tan largo deberá ser este poema,
que será posible usarlo de manta en nuestras noches juntos,
y al leértelo se ira destejiendo lentamente,
pero al llegar a aquella última línea, aquella donde te digo que te amo,
el calor de mi amor volcado en estas letras nos hace inmunes al viento.

Fata

I am no proponent of it, I have always opposed the notion that life seems like a pre-recorded tape that one has never heard and should surprise us regardless of the content and outcome despite the fact we have not chosen it. I am myself, I have told myself over and over, I am myself and the lines I trace can be altered, destroyed, since it is I who makes his own decisions. I live alone, in that apartment on the fifth floor, surrounded by text and image just because I bought them, just because I wanted a place with a panoramic view and picked that apartment over the one near Revolución, just because I have made the choice of no choice. Yet, therein lies the bottom-line of this piece, the proposition that has perplexed me for a couple of months, the idea that would not vacate my mind in spite of the thousand words that may plague this text which will be plain relief. Have I really made that choice to be alone? You see, part of the marvel in any given search is the confrontation with the collapse of our notions regarding so and so, whether we seek said collapse or not, inasmuch as discoveries often provoke the fall of the status quo. It is not that I outwardly spoke of or carried out any sort of search. However, the mind and the heart, if awake and active enough, never stop seeking. So, a few months ago, while watching something about a game I expected, a phrase that I won't ever forget popped up casually, amid noises and screaming voices and minimalistic music, to perch itself on me like no other has ever. The fun in all this is not that such proposition stuck, but the fact that in the forthcoming months evidence of it happening to be true appeared at random simply everywhere I went. Now, was it that such evidence had always been there regardless of my attention, was it that life rolled it out for me to understand a higher order of which I might or might not be part, or was it that I saw things where they were not? Unabashedly, my sight is different because of this, but I ignore why it is and what it is which is different, though I somehow know how different it is. A while ago, a friend told me that it might have been some deity who had chosen this profession for me, and I replied it had been me, for this path among others was the one I felt would take me to whom at some point I wanted to be. I still firmly believe it. Nevertheless, if this I am afraid has come to be is real, I have no grounds to do so anymore. Causality keeps having a massive effect, still I am not who conducts it. It is basically impossible. Henceforth, all I have supposedly handpicked is a consequence of something greater. This does not mean it is bad, that I have no control of anything. Actually, one is yet to concordantly act upon this into which we are run. It is only that for the first time ever anything external appears to be the sole tracer of an event in life. It might be a unique occasion, a quirk which won't ever repeat itself. Every year ahead may not collide with it again, yet this occurrence is vast enough to question every previous event, and to have me sit and wonder. Everything happens for a reason, I heard that day. Now I seem to comprehend it.

hyperred pop song

Flavour of the month,

Great Escape thru a back door,

The Sun in a collapsed basement,

Pink shades in grey November,

All outside reality,

So stupid I gave myself to you.

Defiance to the numbers,

Earthquake to idle citizens,

Flowers in the woods of rubber,

Stinks of halothane,

All out of reality,

So stupid I gave myself to you.

There's voltage everywhere,

So brutal,

So violent,

I had to lie down the ground,

So brutal,

So reckless,

I had to lie down,

And let myself be taken,

Shaken,

So sinful,

So reckless,

I spin in Satan's grin,

O dear, what have I done?

Flavour of the month,

Masks and irrationality,

A soul I shall forsake,

Despair and faulty inertiae,

No grasp of reality,

So deep I gave myself to you.

waver

White and yellow curves smudged against the pale background of a regular day, an a-gogo tremble bestowed by the warmth which matches the whole scenario, and the enthusiasm granted by a slice of existence. There is nothing which can barely be up to a moment like this, pure and spontaneous, liquid in essence and solid in thought. The eyes of a thousand beings come to be the eyes of the universe. The band of light bends to the beat of broken silence. The feel of the occurrence shrouds all around her. You should have been there for it was indeed a beautiful second.