How Can You Tell If It Is A Bitter Almond

Prayer of a name that drowns

Heaven is a gag levitating
and sun blind a paratrooper who jumped
paper airplane
Cain Abel smashed without knowing
which was written in poetry.
My wrinkles and lines of the parquet
one another and are drawn centuries before take us by surprise,
caught in the cages of our voice and blurred
the candle that lights up little or nothing
reeling in this chandelier suicide.
abortion These pills will not erase any verse,
single syllables of a name
drowns in the uterus mirror and written my letter
that appears in my nightmares every Tuesday and Thursday.
not learn morse code to tell you not to beat my lack
make me ...
Rima consonant someone crossed my name on my back,
mouth of my flower vase implantandas,
looking with my mouth your chest, but none of them exists ... Tabs
drops a god close your eyes and eyelids
are Christs have just beaten three times denied.
Where is the melody that you not whispered in my ear
so I slept in my crib?
I'm not a cyclops who wants to fly and spit on the heights
streets where cars did not honk or train pass over him.
butterflies were flying over your navel because worms
and I had wanted to depart from thy womb, leaving my footprints
bloody with your blood and mine,
to ring a bell and borrow the keys to a house.
a wolf's eardrums barely heard me cursing
and since then howl at the moon is a sphere of comfort,
broken piece of a music box
orphan of a deity that once knew my eyes when they were heavenly.
Primohermano of Treplyov and its gull drawn,
my skin are the bandages from his wrists
and my angel saves the provider of those broken feathers.
The dirt from my nails is the junk that hides the sea, Titanic
rings included and syphilitic sailors from another century.
diesciocho carat Gold says your palate dry, dry
not name, to cover myself with dirt before parirme ...
I bit the placenta of impotence but had no teeth
felt like an earthquake and I forgot to hate ...
were 1.5 milligrams of a hitman, hitman
tell day after, fire extinguishers pharmacy ... Be the
I do not care really,
Isaac I befriended a morning drinking tequila with salt
and even wrote some verses cadaveric and exquisite, rhymes
consonants of a name that someone crossed out on my back,
mouth of the vase of flowers my implantandas,
looking with my mouth your chest, but none of them exists ...

"Aktion Sorgenkind" by Gottfried Helnwein
http://hispano.helnwein.com/

Blisters On The Gums Of Infant

The taxidermists and moon

The panoramic view from its windows
aisles and doors destination file,
and skins and eyes and eyelashes for future sculptures,
meat and plaster sculptures,
immortalizing a gesture only
perhaps once did someone
someone who probably was not them ...
Their language is a
scalpel and cut lines of the other leather.
Each syllable holds the slaughter of the throat until who knows where ...
Who are the dummies and those wild beasts?
To do not know if matter,
if you stun the car horns
and the light of the moon every night.
You wake up and you wash them
while on the roof of your house
skin hanging rope
and your voice out of nowhere.
What remains are the salt in your saliva,
and the foam of the ocean you drown, you
removed until the echo of your heartbeat ...
calculate the error without naming process,
without even knowing if one day you were happy by feeding your fish
or if you wanted to grab a bowl of stones that impossible shipwrecks,
know thee not, nor is that his style ...
But they have studied psychology and anatomy,
advance and bought a container full of statues of polyurethane
to evict you from your flesh
fall behind two months by paying the agreed rent, with
god that apparently inspired Bibles or miracles ...
Look in the mirror and see a centerpiece,
a basket full of wax fruit
and see that the flies do not come,
signal that does not ride,
and the rind and pulp at this point are the same thing.
related as cut nails of our fingers,
of the fingers of anyone those of our ancestors,
We still life,
or better
killed by snipers from the glass shot,
and point to the heart because they are convinced that it is plastic.
Once we reupholstered,
as if we were the chairs in the living room of their mothers,
are immersed in their dreams of disciples of Van Gogh
and return us eyes, now made of glass,
confuse realism with its details while applauding themselves,
and greet like blood brothers diluted in the darkness of his ego,
as poets do cling to their metaphors
so stark as the moon, which is a stone
sulfur in heaven contractures in his verses contain

"A Pair of Shoes" by Vincent Van Gogh
www.vangoghgallery.com/