I never wrote a poem. If I ever, ever did, I locked it in a drawer and forgot where was the key. There’s always another chamber, other layers, onion ring, and waiting, across the hallway, another pair of feet. I never wrote a poem. Almost never got naked – Deep
One summer night in James Lynch’s crypt two feet flew o’er his plaque. On the cold stone they stamped and slipped and Jamie knocked back! – Yeah-hey-ho, yeah-ho-hee! The concertina and Sir James Lynch come to dance with me. Letra: improvisación por CTV El Sean-Nós (“old style”) es el tipo de danza irlandesa más tradicional. A diferencia del “new style”, …
You do know, yes, you do know what means when the White Ones begin to dance. Their wings they flip and they flop and the Air rises to caress their pockets in unnoticed swirls. They dance to every beat from the right place to the perfect place to move. A huge, spotless machinery – eight voices mumbling at a time …
Old Works (06-2012) The white of this place always hurts. The floor is white, the ceiling, the doors. White-sheet-ghosts wander all along the corridor, looking really busy – but I know they really aren’t. I myself am dressed in white, which would be unusual if I weren’t here – a white that confuses non-white-dressed people, and spurs them to ask …
Satire is ether and so everyday is Larynx Day We pour a bitter drop ‘ and our bones, they squeal yet motionless our tendons, they stretch out of sight our nerves just can’t remember they were spoiling for a fight. PS: Saboteando la MIR (día 116)
I was born dressed in pink. I loved it, then hated it. Eventually, I didn’t give a fuck. Today, I’m still dressed in washed out blood. (The question is: ‘WHERE does my skin start?’) You know I’ve been naughty. I’ve been living as a free human (as free as a standard human is supposed to be). …
Blue Casket, Rubacava. Año 4. “With bony hands I hold my partner Con manos huesudas tomo a mi pareja on soulless feet we cross the floor nuestros pies desalmados cruzan el suelo the music stops as if to answer la música se detiene como si respondiera an empty knocking at the door un golpeteo vacio en la puerta it seems …
Dear “boys who have ever loved me” Dear “boys I have ever loved” Dear “couple of girls, too” Dear “smashed cactus” Dear Alexander Pope: Have you ever seen a pumping human heart? Have you put a single finger on it? Do you know how it feels? (That is the Greatest Taboo) Shhhhhhhh. I love you. Don’t get deceived by my …
Do you know those porcelain cheek girls? Maybe once I was one of them, but they’ve never had the guts to excuse themselves by saying, “Don’t take it personally, but you are such a tedious specimen,” without twisting at least twice their tongues. And let them know just because I am not omnipotent I’m not remaining that forlorn: …
I found her on a bench in Venice. This one, I think. I touched the marble and read these words twice. And I knew somebody, somewhere, had thought about my vital situation in that right moment and had carved every letter. I WAS the particular person ALL THAT was written for. I was anyone. I’ve been trying… trying to cut …
