And then, Communists..../// Y.....

Wishing your hands might fuse with my nipples,

and that your phallus,

flaccid,

-just the way I like to taste it more-

may set in my mouth its lightest traces,

may reborn,

helped by saliva, which is full of poems,

and then you cum,

and we both become some crude socialists, or communists, or wherever you like the most.

Then you take my red vulva as your communist flag, and recite your manifest before it.

And then my nails painted with desire, dovetail with your left arm,

-tattooed of what your soul unvoiced-

and become draw a turquoise butterfly,

emulating me,

and then, an erotic beyond resurge,

that will go from sadism to communism,

and from metamorphosis to climax,

and if while I write you this,

my sex is getting wet,

little by little,

getting full of my sacred elixir

–according to your mouth-

recorring my vagina, self-possesed and palpitating,

and if my mind doesn’t do anything else but imagining  you,

raining white over my shoulders,

and my back,

and my hair,

and nothing matters then,

because it’s voluntary retention, and your fucking friend Marx is next to you,

and not me,

that I’m just listening arias,

and smoke,

slowly smoke,

towards your savage, flaccid, tasty sex, always present in my mind,

and my lonely cum….

---------------------------

…y que tus manos se fundan con mis pezones y que tu sexo se sitúe en mi boca, flácido, como me gusta más probarlo, y hacerlo resucitar con mis anilladas manos, y mi saliva repleta de poesías y después de venirte en mi boca, nos convirtamos en burdos socialistas, o comunistas, o lo que más te plazca, y que entonces tomes mi vulva roja cual bandera comunista, y recites tu manifiesto frente a ella.
Una vez más mis uñas pintadas se encajan en tu brazo izquierdo, tatuado de lo que tu alma calla y que ansía ser dibujado otra vez de por vida, con una mariposa turquesa emulándome, y entonces que exista un mas allá erótico que valla del sadismo al comunismo y de la metamorfosis al clímax del orgasmo, y si mientras te escribo esto mi sexo va mojándose poco a poco, con liquido sagrado –según tu boca- recorriéndolo serena y palpitantemente, y si mi mente no hace nada más que imaginarte lloviendo blanco sobre mis hombros y mi espalda y mi cabello y nada importan entonces porque es permanencia voluntaria y Marx está a tu lado y no yo, que escucho huapangos y fumo, latentemente fumo, en pos de tu sexo y mi solitaria masturbada…

Time//Tiempo

Tiempo,

esfera que lo abraza todo,

imagen móvil de la eternidad.

En el tiempo no existe la forma de mi alma humana.

Solo la de un estado a otro de la vida.

El universo,

el ser,

y el tiempo:

latentes, etéreos, infinitos.

El tiempo está sentado en una banca del parque de la existencia,

 esperando que la vida o la muerte pasen junto a su lado,

mientras lee el libro de la vida.

El tiempo esta acostado y escucha, al destino…

Y éste, simplemente le canta....

----------

Time,

realm that holds everything,

eon’s mobile picture.

In the Time, there are no shapes of human souls.

Only the one from the gear between states of life.

The Universe;

the Been;

and the Time:

Delitescent, ethereal, infinite.

The Time its sited on a bench of the Existence’s Park,

waiting  for the life or death passes by,

while reading the Book of Life.

The Time is recumbent, listening to the Destiny,

while this, calmly sings to him.

---------

 

Amok//Vesania

Amok

Amok-Insanity in a murderous frenzy;

My pith transcends to an encounter with your skin, amok.

Transcends to each single word been said, to any plaint been moan by a virgin.

My skin it’s only a vignette of the universe, a tattooed moon in God’s scapula.

Endures to the bites of the madness, transcends to the existence itself.

My pith has wings, and it’s like the smoke of the cigarrete I’m smoking with you.

Free.

---------

Vesania

vesania: (Del lat. vesanĭa).

1. f. Demencia, locura, furia.

Mi esencia trasciende a un encuentro con tu piel, vesania maldita.

Trasciende a cada palabra recitada, a cada lamento gemido por una virgen.

Mi piel es sólo un esbozo del universo; una luna tatuada en el omóplato de Dios.

Perdura a las mordidas de la locura, trasciende a la existencia misma.

Mi esencia tiene alas, y es como el humo del cigarro que me fumo contigo.

Libre.

The Bird...

Pour mon oiseau de désert...
 

The light bird has open,

wide,
its wings,

taking advantage of the wind,
that,
awkwardly,

has risen in its density;

if the bird does not fly right now,

at this precise moment,

it will die, vanish,

among all the screams,

that a very dark forest is conducting…

I am that bird,

pushing hard to open up my wings,

and fly away, harder,

and get to you.

Because you are the warm breeze that my wings need;

to become tangible,
free.

I must fly to you,

sanity,

so I don’t lose myself into the ashes where I come from.

Fly through the sea,

that threatens my trip with its deep vastness.

I must fly into your eyes,

for they are my darkest secret,
my desert;

the desert where I want to lay,

lay on its soft dunes, like a wounded dove,

and, calmly, peaceful, fall in its quick sands.

The desert its redemption.

The sea dangerous.

The sea is deep, and full of creatures,

such as the one that has its own voice,
that lives inside my mind.

The desert it’s plane.

Lonely,
but beautiful, silent,

with only a few redeemed beings living on it;

having survived one of the gruesome deaths:

losing themselves in their own madness.

You are my desert.

I want to lay naked on the oasis of your body,

exhausted,
but thirsty still,

thirsty of your skin.

I will quench my desire with your saliva,

and  be fed by each one of your fingers.

I need to push my wings harder,

so I can take a final flight,
and I may reborn.

And be finally free,
flight without my wings.