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With a flower I announce that we are cursed

I'm a snake in the desert meditating
that has swallowed the keys to the gates of a garden of meat, meat
apple cores and food for centuries, to return
dragon made in the verses that are written in your mirror
with the blood of bulls screaming
that the battle is won if the eyes do not convey the presence, or appointing
hands the secret of shadow puppets in the womb
the girl you were at fourteen
crying for the emergence of a pimple on the forehead,
as an equestrian statue of pus, alone in the schoolyard.
you sign with a flower that you are cursed,
that I have no message to give my sex,
I am a brick in your wall semen
ice and if you ever were three Sometimes the goddess of my sleepless nights
was because we were alone under the sheets of a verse.
gunk will plant one on your navel
to grow there the tree of life,
and that their branches do not touch,
and its roots grab your guts, and
see that the fruit are detectors smoke.
rest in which finger the ring whose stone has the color of my eyes,
exactly the same,
if yours is one I ask you to undress me with the other
and stroked my back just to
chosen and hope to die in your arms in that moment of extreme narcissism.
before I would cross the moons of Saturn
and air whip my face with the whip of your looks
while waiting to discover a hidden horizon in which the road plunges into the ocean,
and salts after appointing naked, to name without your voice,
clapping to nothing, as do the bells,
kissing the forehead of silence, taking his hands with yours,
realizing they are two strangers with no kinship
the terror of being alone by always be
parentheses between a fetus and a corpse.
I, however, I have a doctorate in diamond,
bronze bust of snake
a head start, footer end point of a text from another, condemned
a rhyme and others
invades me through the pores as a perfume darkness.
I want to sit in a philosopher's stone does not
myself in the sea, to spit on the ground
and hope that my saliva was
sulfur and could finally pass the recording of your telephone answering
and morse code at least tell you that always took you back,
all your rings have a stone with the color of my eyes,
exactly the same,
and naked without knowing me in infinite parallel worlds,
and in those worlds touch me back,
and even though I never want die at that moment, I
and landing on the edge of oblivion not

Demon sitting "by Mikhail Aleksandrovich Vrubel

(Iza Iza Iza spent)

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Paratroopers and the Titanic

flesh and blood Firulete
kiss the sky is not looking at the neck of the landscape,
tip of the tongue that touches everything in bed,
whose bullet train destination is the navel of the earth ...
That you
a moment made of stone that falls well before horizon
nothing is written on the envelope,
are not poetry, sheet
fall and trampled by the shadows, echoes
eyes, not looks, whispering
hungry snake lying
on the back of the voice of the people.
While oil spills in the tanks
your fall is accentuated in the fictional Edens
and internal bleeding occurs
flowers that look frightened
and give us your perfume last as a silent testament, made
air
noses potters aimed at comfort and agony,
populated Chinese shadow made in Bolivia.
many feet in height required to be alone,
to let the skyscrapers wrapped up with a drop of semen,
am sure that you fear the shield of silence that comes after the scream, scream
just because
as your given number feature.
Dadaist at the elbows that break the ridge of wind,
mirror show me your palate,
broken mirror and both show the sole language of the devil
treasure hidden in the corridors of no dialogue.
jail I see your tarot cards, I chains, and see
tied to not know how many horsepower,
drinking in the barn swallowed saliva in your childhood
are the remains of the waves of the Atlantic,
Titanic silent cancer that looks at my side without a message,
without saying the name of the ship is inside the bottle gin. Irony
you left it on the news
by suicide tirándote the ways of the underground,
and finally meat you were ashes in the ashtray
sofa arm so either someone like you,
to hand out the window to see if it rains
and carry umbrellas or not its horizontal life of six letters. Your tab
fall without a parachute from the ledge of your eyes
and you know that at bottom all that glitters is not glitter,
not all are lions roaring
defeated kings of the jungle
reproach that dream at night that are thrown upside down on a zebra.
're getting ready from the plane paper for the big jump and you
crosses as if God really existed,
and finally you coin thrown from the height of someone.
Lazarus, arise and die a whore once and for all ...

"Le Golconde" by René Magritte
http://www.magritte.com/

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Forgetting

Nude your portrait looked at anything for more than two centuries
waited days to see you naked again to move a chess piece and check
the nice dressed, was your lady,
with the naked maja, who was my bishop, and so
let
blinking and that once you stop noticing how beautiful you are.
Your jewelry will look askance as more of flesh than of myth anclarte
and in the bed of a palette of gray, red and black
making sheets emphasize the dramatic curves of a body
meat rock silent tormented shore of an ocean of semen. Virgin
do not know if he cries,
across your clitoris does not say anything, nor
your navel that Oedipus is a scar inherited
not to forget that our parents are kings dethroned.
This bank only see your back and your hair,
look like a Stradivarius violin
quietly raging in the veins like a caged lion.
Tell Cupid not to play with her umbilical cord,
someone turned a stick into a snake
for blind crawl on their bellies in the dead
desecrating cemeteries and no silk worms,
quadriplegic butterflies rose garden where no kissing.
Everything is blurred in the reflection,
your face seems the land in a deserted bullring
looking panoptic eyes and divine the essence of the other
that we are indeed just what is left after you
see us from the top of a tree broken arrows,
stray bullets on the horizon,
of fewer holes in the belt of Orion ...
The regrets of your lover
with infrared
noticed you changed your position forever.
Head, shoulders and arms
a goddess revolved around a third axis
doubt that your neck wanted to leave a verse written
of mouth opening to bite the lips of the tiger
trained in the circus your shadow absorbed,
descendant of Narcissus, buried in yourself.
not forget that you are the muse of amputees,
which received seven butcher's ax on the back
Mary from knives.
Your name
successful reconstruction and her six-month jail meat.
Everything is blurry the beauty
your face is the issuance of a syringe
poet with its syllables building recreates the gods. We
mount wood fire in the unfinished verse,
torn petals of a flower in the desert
and marks on your face unspeakable
also reflected in our eyes

"Rokeby Venus" by Diego Velazquez

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This Medusa dozen forks
that were forgotten in my room
tickle like a live fish in the palm of the hand,
to the marks of your feet on the wall facing the bed
mine
me and anyone
of all the shadows that lived,
the first candle that lit
lust and those petals sweeps
corner of the mouth of the vase,
that my mother gave me when they I loved you,
love that he saw me and then did not see you go away ...
I trample the streets again
what was your bloody belly god
while swans baptized with holy water
and almond oil varnish
you that when I touch you nominate your pores
not write sonnets me the keys to your house
while hanging from the door,
and savannas spilled on the floor and do not hang
of nowhere,
the same place where the moon hangs,
the full moon,
filled with pus someone,
anyone with an Italian surname,
as a mark of egg noodles,
second cousin as a gangster,
lovers descended from Caravaggio ...
And that someone who not imagine
unravel your hair in a few months,
and calm when you hear your voice whisper
the same words that I have heard.
As a disarming Rubick Cube
I lie to sink in dreams I do not dwell,
into crumbs left by the crows in your neck,
on carcasses of zebras that hides the forest your hair,
and in your pubic hair leaving frenare
traces left by cars in the rough.
I would take the bones of other poets,
cry behind bars filed down my veins
and then
when nobody comes to visit, I
shooting into the air clearing,
pointing to the sun with rubber bullets,
and I will fall on the floor and fell
your name in my voice forever.
and ring the bell of any house
to tell who comes out I'm not the same,
when I close my locks eyes forbid me see yours,
but will lie

"The Ends of the Earth" by Lucie & Simon

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The Red Sea halves not

's Rib Adam
God gave it to a dog buried in the slopes
of what now is a volcano,
whose corners await the four horsemen of the apocalyptic
heading to London and Tehran, passing by Cairo and Buenos Aires,
for my neighborhood, my home, my door
sad killing all men,
and will be a day when the angels used
neck brace and wheelchair gods spit from the sky
and saliva will be called sulfur.
Because the lion is not in its roar
we desperately seek in others
caged us in the background without keys hidden and those eyes of others,
abandon our self in the sand
private beaches and desert we seek,
and only found the butts of those who wrote the first stanzas
predesigned to verse, rhyme enslaving,
like a cubist statue,
almost carved with axes, bloodshed
foot copper where blind
shake your hand dry heart
to sound like bells coins
called the Mass
where there are not enough assessors in the blood of Christ,
or money to survive into the pockets of jackets irreversible
not confident to take who have injected heroin

looking out or the fire escape that start on the pillow, and also
those secrets will not tell us anything,
not returning the mirror, nor
credentials,
not the skin or lungs, or postponed the appointment with the psychiatrist ...
there are branched, nothing is known after the autopsy ...
The bodies themselves are often patronizing unless
do not usually sign the check to a relative reduction
which sank in the same urn as our blood wrecked in our veins ...
Alone at last,
say as chalks of cocaine in the stomach of someone right now,
finally embraced awaiting stoning schizoid
buying silver bullets to recognize the limits violated,
crying because it's free and legal
because no one opened the Red Sea into two halves ...
will die thinking that death is something that happens to other
or lust and begging for more doses of morphine
to finally close the curtains of the window overlooking the cesspool
and think that the axis of symmetry of great vigilance
was the spiral of promises not fulfilled in life ...
My hell is that Bosch and is adjacent to the garden of your delight,
only lasted a few centuries and no one will appoint,
kiss me if you can, if you do not mind that he is dead

"The Fall of Icarus" by Marc Chagall
http://www.musee-chagall.fr/