My Chernobyl
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Glenlivet 12 Whisky Mixers Drink
My Chernobyl was not the press cover.
My Chernobyl does not name anyone, not even my friends.
I exist in the echoing silence d the instant after the explosion,
primohermano silence is the silence with which to end the orgies end
and see people wiping with towels and rats licking semen from anyone in the corners ...
The rear doors of my veins, giving my wrists are covered with bricks
years.
no master key that serves to get into my halls, corridors
volcanoes resting
expired fire extinguisher on a date I prefer not to name ... Take the bars
My prison without buttons,
you do not carry the luggage and you look at the crotch, if you
verse in the voice of the dead
in another language
talking with my mouth and said that my language was a rock
where
syllables that beat like waves are nothing
alone but together are falling on my bed sheets,
as silent scars of a stay in hell
and mid-ocean sinks
copper bust my face and your name ... My fingers are
bread crumb
just break your egg yolk,
and my mirror is the dish that was staining
and when you left, I had to wash
just to stop seeing everywhere .
The petals of a flower that speaks Russian stem fell off my eyelashes
as we would leave if they could scream,
if they believe that beyond our eyelids is a world ...
My red pine forest is populated by
blind birds singing a mournful melody to teatime,
and roots of trees are spoken in sign saying that I'll never be happy.
I survive as church bells, voices
meat hidden in whispers,
rusty and cobwebs around my navel,
but breathing my air and exhaling that call is not heard
as if my lungs were the room wait a psychiatrist dumb. You see at my table
open scissors
left a century ago to see if your voice finally appeared again, but in the end
the ellipsis is not agreed or knew your name
distinguish your fingerprints from the parachutist
quadriplegic who descended on the roof of the hospital only to find a blanket
because it was May and it was cold. Go
preparing a new sarcophagus for future
snake skins detached dwelling on the chair fell on that day,
seconds before me, who kept my promise not to hear the roar of my moles, and I ran
to yours,
to rest in the inner courtyards of the caresses of your hands, who knows how many
have already run and miss, and I envy
as cannibals hungry just because I keep the art of reconstruct you
My Chernobyl does not name anyone, not even my friends.
I exist in the echoing silence d the instant after the explosion,
primohermano silence is the silence with which to end the orgies end
and see people wiping with towels and rats licking semen from anyone in the corners ...
The rear doors of my veins, giving my wrists are covered with bricks
years.
no master key that serves to get into my halls, corridors
volcanoes resting
expired fire extinguisher on a date I prefer not to name ... Take the bars
My prison without buttons,
you do not carry the luggage and you look at the crotch, if you
verse in the voice of the dead
in another language
talking with my mouth and said that my language was a rock
where
syllables that beat like waves are nothing
alone but together are falling on my bed sheets,
as silent scars of a stay in hell
and mid-ocean sinks
copper bust my face and your name ... My fingers are
bread crumb
just break your egg yolk,
and my mirror is the dish that was staining
and when you left, I had to wash
just to stop seeing everywhere .
The petals of a flower that speaks Russian stem fell off my eyelashes
as we would leave if they could scream,
if they believe that beyond our eyelids is a world ...
My red pine forest is populated by
blind birds singing a mournful melody to teatime,
and roots of trees are spoken in sign saying that I'll never be happy.
I survive as church bells, voices
meat hidden in whispers,
rusty and cobwebs around my navel,
but breathing my air and exhaling that call is not heard
as if my lungs were the room wait a psychiatrist dumb. You see at my table
open scissors
left a century ago to see if your voice finally appeared again, but in the end
the ellipsis is not agreed or knew your name
distinguish your fingerprints from the parachutist
quadriplegic who descended on the roof of the hospital only to find a blanket
because it was May and it was cold. Go
preparing a new sarcophagus for future
snake skins detached dwelling on the chair fell on that day,
seconds before me, who kept my promise not to hear the roar of my moles, and I ran
to yours,
to rest in the inner courtyards of the caresses of your hands, who knows how many
have already run and miss, and I envy
as cannibals hungry just because I keep the art of reconstruct you
"The resurrection of Lazarus "by Caravaggio http://caravaggio.com/
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Homemade Keg With Heineken Keg
chips are still
glass splinters are still
of that dish I popped into the wall,
included and cold noodles your last caruso sauce,
inappropriate for that call.
broom and kicked and I managed to deter the stubborn dog
their only hope was to eat my food.
Butterflies of the world will
flying dragons and snakes were hiding before
mud while their skins under my bed
with an empty blister
aceprax and two milliliters your soul's in my blood is just
that ...
I grab your bones if they were a step
but are spilled on your body
and do not lead to anywhere ...
From mazes I'm tired, embarrassed
never leave my children,
rather than slamming doors have not closed the doors of those eyes,
that were mine when I was a son of middle-class parents
amazed that my high notes in math.
glass splinters are still
of the cup of wine that threw me in the face,
and is still stained the carpet
as if following stations recorded eclipses
in letters that are more silent tarot
all flowers together.
The sunflowers are sun moon
no doubt that is a stone cold
turning just because, without light or aroma,
devotees of a king without a crown
point with me spring eyes are
and hurt me with his arrows of meat / dough. My lunar
shout that this lock of hair of Medusa
is an army of dead sea jellies
and why bother to kiss lips gray or majas
dressed or naked pestles,
if I know full well that the inside are filled with piranhas,
of fake crying virgin lost her virginity long
whispering another name, other
sweating sweating ...
chips that are still glass rib
God took me and then shattered,
sculptor who only knows how to work with clay, stone me
let myself, let me
resurgence of ashes on the third day ...
No. I do not want anything from you or anyone else
just want my shadow anchored in my navel
and my beats hanging to silence you left
to take your voice and the ticking of your wristwatch
glass splinters are still
of that dish I popped into the wall,
included and cold noodles your last caruso sauce,
inappropriate for that call.
broom and kicked and I managed to deter the stubborn dog
their only hope was to eat my food.
Butterflies of the world will
flying dragons and snakes were hiding before
mud while their skins under my bed
with an empty blister
aceprax and two milliliters your soul's in my blood is just
that ...
I grab your bones if they were a step
but are spilled on your body
and do not lead to anywhere ...
From mazes I'm tired, embarrassed
never leave my children,
rather than slamming doors have not closed the doors of those eyes,
that were mine when I was a son of middle-class parents
amazed that my high notes in math.
glass splinters are still
of the cup of wine that threw me in the face,
and is still stained the carpet
as if following stations recorded eclipses
in letters that are more silent tarot
all flowers together.
The sunflowers are sun moon
no doubt that is a stone cold
turning just because, without light or aroma,
devotees of a king without a crown
point with me spring eyes are
and hurt me with his arrows of meat / dough. My lunar
shout that this lock of hair of Medusa
is an army of dead sea jellies
and why bother to kiss lips gray or majas
dressed or naked pestles,
if I know full well that the inside are filled with piranhas,
of fake crying virgin lost her virginity long
whispering another name, other
sweating sweating ...
chips that are still glass rib
God took me and then shattered,
sculptor who only knows how to work with clay, stone me
let myself, let me
resurgence of ashes on the third day ...
No. I do not want anything from you or anyone else
just want my shadow anchored in my navel
and my beats hanging to silence you left
to take your voice and the ticking of your wristwatch
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