a woman who hesitates is lost.

she loved with a skim of ice, with tears
in her hands, as if she had never really
existed or been cast ashore. she went
and came like an animal, an old woman
alone, burning your ships.

her strength was not a fit of laughter,
a mask to conceal what we call life;
it was a place of retreat, a war attended
by the increasing infirmities of all
your philanderings and the wild
gambols of isolated promises.

far different were the remnants of
the night, owned by the gloomy walls
and the secrets of what you have been.

when the deep shadows
of the matter in the sky should
be as active as virtue,
and all the enemies of this world
have been doubly grievous,
there is the cry of an aged
trapper, a name pronounced
in solemn silence.

i have seen forts taken and lost.
i have been overlooked.

the house is a widow, consisting
more of dread than of
poems’ relief to feelings.

there is a proper beginning
in the dawn; it amounts to
a woman wrecked, a new
direction to that narrow and
vulgar acrimony of morals,
acts of valour and
the victories of death.

she was running riot;
a few hours of agony had
succeeded in disarming her.

she continued to bore and plug
holes as new as wisdom teeth.

she was anxiously alive,
blushing a little, abstracted;
rushing into his eyes, his round eyes
fixed precisely on her bones
and bruised nerves.

he had been so careless
of the future, this extraordinary
freedom of action as rapid
as oblique innuendoes.

indulgent to all the moves
in his eyes, she still trusted that
she would desert him.
--

i am a wild foam; i do not sink, thrust
from the watercourses of a world
of final adieus. i fearlessly entrusted you
with all the problems with wisdom,
wasting the few rare things in my life.

you are of the same nature elsewhere,
one of savage ingenuity and the probation
you have passed for property.

you are neither miserable nor ashamed,
following the trail of your burdens of
backslidings; but guilt gives us all dignity,
and doubts cast my lot in life.

they had become acquainted by
letting nature have its way in
an impenetrable darkness

a post mortem walkthrough would
have rendered it a question of fear, of
the peculiar divisions of a wildly
enamoured woman

even the cosmopolite has
a small portion of mankind
in some form or another,
and even bees would have done
many things besides work
in these conferences of night
--

it seems possible
to master fear when
all is confirmed,
half-decided

when we have
sufficient self-command
and resignation

but we lack counter and bass,
and i see nothing of the sun
in our possession

the pilot began to stir.
the paper contained the slightest
movement of his gifts, and we
supposed that the subject was
cruel, and unnecessary to illustrate.

he seldom spoke, coughed,
laughed again, so profound was
this heavy sloop of war.

it is every man's life
when they happen to live,
the officers of warmth
mere vagabonds on the coast
of darkness.

i begin to see him even
at this distance;
the beautiful mouth,
the questionable process of
boasting of youthful histories.

hidden in the common way
in these forests, i look
at my compass only once.

come hither,
all this caution.

the mouth of faith,
whose pictures
she had forgotten.

once within,
the gift of
geniality.

he is a naked reef
on this dry bed
of a prairie.

quickened by the
low islands, wading
in the most melancholy
procession, he flies
high in the hours.

he is indifferent
as a prison, awaiting
the appearance of
brow beating truth,
the whole hundred
bales. phlebotomy,
self-balancing
the colour of the land
of tombstones.

a shadow darkens the golden
days of that first time
i was the labor of his
kindling eye.

he was so, a heart and a human. entirely without the semblance of composure, this human nomenclature. that was what the world left to you; as if you were younger, as if you were any other woman. you were ready to fall by the river, the current ceased, and each movement remaining silent. oh yes, boats; and you, like a duck.

he stood, long regarding the picture of an old well, while he gave you pictures of old men without teeth or beauty; people you sought, who had unavoidably caught some of the day with the finding of hats and the clapping of hands. the mind of a woman hung around his windows, broken by injustice and the folly of anticipation. he was proud; it was his way of making the future. you became firm friends in any case.

you grew up, taking him for a father; you finally abandoned all hope of concealing the effects of parallelograms. writing human skeleton names in despair, almost immediately swallowed in. you were in deep water, observing half starved miscreants, more faithful in matters touching their own welfare. a sudden panic at the culture of simple explanation. your pretensions have seen what should have escaped unnoticed, outside the buildings, in the darkness. in your skeletal diagrams, the manner of the sky.

filling his mind was the imminent and imposing row of shining yellow, red and brown; a hazy, moonlight morning. you couldn't help but keep a sharp intimation that it would have decided antipathies, something like wilderness. you were not mistaken, by methods legitimate or illegitimate. he had been so often uncomfortable in the novelty, in such negligent glimpses of waves; but trifles become liberty and independence, and sleep finally settled down in his hand.

to blend the numerous tribes of heartbeat was natural, and you could be seen holding these things to his eyes over their low parapets. if not ideal, so simple. but you were strangers; to see would have been easier than punishment in this habitual intercourse with the rising sun. quick as language in the clutter of the atmosphere. you would have preferred him drowning himself in a furious descent to having managed to make you indifferent.

the damage was imprinted on the clangor of the sea and in desire under the stairs. a desire that remained mute, like a heart, a vast heart, a stale sea; several seconds passing between extended sicknesses. the threat of sincerity was a question of pride, a question of tragedy. you tempted my intimacy, respected my tears. now my embroidered tears have cut me open, a craving i cannot control turning before my eyes.

we are in an unfamiliar sleep that emanates through the small cracks of a long disease. my irrepressible desire to remain dumb sees a city not trusted and the approach of silence. a structure of yearning where history is declared a characteristic of ardor, an endless loop of compromise. an embracing of irrationalities and mute approximations.

a conclusion had been asserted; the end of history. memories can only momentarily be seized and only in fragments. hope dies in surroundings of pride and in the permanence of exhaustion.

you were oblivious to the peace around us. you are young, all disguise and posture, all feints and gestures.

i am a night watchman moving through a recently vacated building.


-

the uncontainable excess of emotion which bounces in me is an irrepairable collision, this heart a building, a labyrinth of newly appointed happiness. you are a nocturnal guard that moves through the everyday delight in surroundings. you are a bird that is caught accidentally in the permissions of peace. you stop the world in the air.

in order to become the stars, we uncover ourselves for brief moments, the connection of cells a unity which forms in fragments, images romantically stored in our brains. we become optimistic, trusting in luck. we see inside the distance of the night. in the broken temporality of the moment, small universes explosively show their little seconds, those which are seen at intervals in the dark night with a magnified heart.

we are free from myth, separated from reality. we are a detonation of fireworks in the world. happiness pours out along the senses. the stars pass, night observers moving through the vibrating constantness of an uncontainable abundance and the unguarded joy of smiles.

-

there is a ventricle inside this stream of ceremony, and the woman is an artery of poverty; she drowns in this ocean of deranged commonness. she has emptied her own body of unique substance, an instantaneous decision. freedom is a myth that piles up in the enterprise of escape, creating a hanging confusion.

cut off from her confiding happiness, the conflict of simple impatience cannot decompose her surrender to sacrifice, her victim's role; precarious unity and a passionate abandonment to her own structures of desire.

their cherished quietness is a yearning for irrationalities, a silent approach. the information of motion on the skin is an overhauled unyieldingness, an unaccomplished yearning to adapt to that which the world forgets. they do not compromise feeling, but seize the irrationalities that it transforms; largely unsolvable conflicts, a personal solitude of eyes in this incessant river that flows out in mute reveal.

kind of a short story, of sorts:

sepulchral geometries

a carved heart

an offer of love is dampened diction; it burns and it sleeps and it is thin.

beyond the disparities of our geometry, in the realm of the invisible, we were dedicated to abandoned travesties. at the beginning of this labyrinth, a delicate solicitation. a cruel reduction of the spectrum to a bare prism. we were explorers of senses, dashing forward, frozen and polar. we conquered the research of feelings, eggregious devotion a crooked capture.

simplicity prepared us for splendor, my memory amassing rhythms cut into parts; we visited the scattered flashes of white, sublimating confidence in this new friendship of reaching. it was necessary to be an astonishing revelation of the most sacred limits of place and language.

it was the limitless idea of your turned-away eyes, crawling castoffs in this palace of prudence; it was the lamentable eccentricity of accumulations and the fleeting malleability of flesh. the curl of discrete geometric form in the secret wilderness of your eyes, colors peddled in motionless riddle; disorienting reflected labyrinths undressed by the cold heart of science.

the menacing air you ignored was an image of a beautiful dream, which again adjusted the focus into vividness and a quality of important proof; the silent attendant a strange, skeletal silhouette of eternal reorganization.

i searched your interactions, finding a familiarity in the sonorous pictures of leaves, in the violent beginnings of life; the peace inhabited by us entreating us to envision, to traverse its hypothetical spaces, to investigate its dense intimacy. bodies collapsing decisively, dangling at the end of a tied noose. it had the same vulnerability, a fragile consistency; its landscape a spiral incline into the life of reason by furious beginnings. in the rooms where we could be the figures of form, nightmarish and strong, the rooms where the heart ended up, the game of shadow was a meticulously dispassionate whole.

the physical impulses of desire were confronted, meeting as flat cutouts of the organs of the body and the elbows of parts; desire was indispensable and grotesque; instantaneously, the truth which dwelled inside us was a nearsighted insistent idea, an accidental accident. the moment in question an extension of the same vulnerability, the same fragile complicated possibility of a carved, strong, walking heart.

the finished heart is characterized, often obscenely mimed. a pantomime of strange shadows and craving sepulchral geometries. the life of the heart is an extreme image of resonance. it is possible to be a possession grasped, a specimen of the fearful structure above.

you had sufficient strength to breathe, to force me to invent silence and rely more on physicality, displacing articulation; to be closer to the secrets of the body, not reducible with words. you became silent speech, were conscious magnificence. you were moved by the mystery of the story of the body. the escape to illusionism was audible, separated from the harmony ahead; a poem the only remnant of a world where a yesterday of make-believe utopias was the desirable state.

the grey terror of efforts was a toothed hole in the corner, between the buildings and behind the gates; an unwanted penetration into the secret shade. this adolescent façade, the occasional leaks of ebullience. a poetry of refusal, a cotton candy, tattered poetry. a subversive appraisal of innocence.



dreaming

before dying, an affair of love; in some way it would become an examination of the process of the remnants of disappearance. it would embody the cruelty of the weather.

you were in attendance, the collection collected by your grotesque range of vision. a serendipitous gift of apologetic virtues and small epiphanies. the harrowing crevasse of sublimation and brevity unknown and cruel, an invisible sky immediately everywhere.

we were together and small, belonging to the dull catalog of general things and the air that receded insistently. the dangerous secrets of the empty cosmos burned through the air. perhaps the metaphor was this mysterious vacancy, the perfection of space only barely preserved.

we arranged our dreams, cast toward each other and opposed; we were frightened to die, at the edges of stasis, the excesses where we slept. we gave in to vicissitude, ancient poetry and deified process. baffled on the surface.

we fell from our interpreted dreams against one another in the landscape of ancient poetry, spectators assembled in illusions of motion. i was struck by short fragments, chaotic and loose, accumulated in my memory. evasive intriguers launching the moving shadows and refocusing ephemera to interpret this body of meaning. with the great disaster, friendship.

we slept, a man embedded and a woman fastened, bordering on a sense of the independent; witnesses to a declaration of ecstasy. we slept and our dreams were contiguous; a nation of self-effacement in this poetic godhood, a reconciliation process exaggerated and broken down.

you were overwhelmed by the quagmire, a postcard of the rough sea of yearning; wanting substance and finding it in explanation, in the ensemble of voices whose empty speech was loud. a tacit understanding can withstand unusual resonance, utopia-building word by word. it is a many-city lifetime of destitute massiveness; autumn is cruel and it cancels the arrangements.

i was a gleaner, aware that this was all that would remain: that dark warmth we have had, overflowed from the morass that it tried to conserve. i used mirrors to store the reflected daylight.




autumn

mute thoughts, tacitly approving, acquiescence and envy perpetual; we ruminated on them simply for the static implications, a mixing of wish and technique. two people speaking the undeniable, a peace we oddly had, lazily compared to the sea. the world had become visible, confronted and mutely reproached, all but tortured with the puzzle of dead legs, the implications of staring. the grimmest implications of autumn abolished and subsumed the repercussion of looks, understanding the life that tells tales.

the existence which separated us was gathered to my body in order to rejoice in the animal of breath as before, the mistake of wondering an autumn falling sound. my memory of the rhythms which displace the abnormality of various wonders was not enough; coherent reality wanted an explanation, a standardized sequential life, the aberrations trivial. the question of permanence a sacred border in the nighttime sky for the moon to use without grace.

a sense of betrayal predominated, the collecting rhythms absent-minded lightnings selected for nothing. the troubled matter of love and the deliberately inconclusive friendship of dialogues was the most persistent question found under the sky of night; it was as the moon, a refined poetics intended for divinity.

i was destroyed, was an amateur; it was similar to facing a losing battle in flammable formal clothes. you attempted to tame and to contain other grisly dangers, throwing faint, moving shadow in the pursuit of elusive, anomalous and intriguing objects. and between the tailor's hands, a carefully constructed daydream. the matter of love is established in deep ignorance.

you were not an outline of yourself, an absence in this mingling desire; you were the result of destruction, the emptiness that you distanced yourself from. the indolence of envy, the mirror speaking the horrors we ignored. the allegorical objects we concealed remained open, punctured. indomitable feeling died, undeniably ravishing, mutely against resignation and envy; it fell on deaf ears and dead feet, idleness become the new eternity. we were caught alive together, all concreteness of life a silent gain and loss.

the flesh confronted dark criticism and grey laughter, promising thrills to empty spaces. balancing exquisitely between approval and poetics, the animal possibility becoming such work. viscous tactile methods and the image of their partly slandered surfaces turned affection into flesh and blood, the remains colored by accounts of some fearful mental wound, a riddle that stood still.

a love affair in the weather still has the memory, the outlines, of poverty; a war on all spheres of life. the contemporary wind contains other terrors. a partial archaeology of the evocative apparatus of misguided yearning, an obstinate myopia. ephemeral things like meaningful clarity are disappearing remainders.




water in the rain

the humility of tenderness, the play between raptness and mystery, were frozen in this motionless conundrum; inquisitive emptiness like a storm in expectant forests. i endured a certain damage in the process; refusing the existence of it all, robbed of my sight. i was the thing that stuttered through mazes with the beasts, crawling with piety and fleetingly weary.

disrespect is easily broken, is the accidental thing. it is strong, carved, large; it crosses the intimate hypothetical space. it is a kind of dream. it happens in the passive tense and remains that which is everything.

you were obsessed, not distant; more unrelentingly bored than was felt. i was drifting on the bed, burning where they threw violated little girls. any punishment can be endured. the power of explosions, the dark eye; the mutation flexible, ravishing and important. remaining calm another form of giving slipped from my body.

you saw angels in the shafts, the impression profound and ghastly. it was the beginning of history, a fearful construction of puzzles. this disowned aura of strange visions was an illusion of imagination, these phantoms haunted similarly by the shudder of smoothening logic. your cold heart stripped my defenses. it was the petaled endurance of flowers in ice and polar regions, a whisper becoming the sky and the sun.

your empty elongated eyes looked at me without mercy, soliciting my devotion with terror and infinite beauty. they were an answer to the mundane truth of life, a flash of reverence and the beginning of this congealing melancholy. the ability to make this work, the persistent materials and mighty effort fluttered like a saint in a niche, vanished to become the sea. the vacancy which consumed them slipped, became rivulets of water in the rain.

i looked to the mountains, the silver smell of the shifting clouds like an icon of destruction conflating so scarily. reeling away from the drama into the dawn the way most people go. the violent suicide of death in perfect focus. too much mental mess, secrecy resounding upward along the streets. our bodies transferred, increasingly redundant, failed and failing.




defeat

blind, ardent mouths made the night felt; revolving, flexible, like the change you see in the surroundings of trash. there was a sad girl's defeat, fragrant on a black sand beach; a tower blue poison filling the callousness of words, spilling from my mouth. the night felt your dark eyes as a variant indistinguishable from magic, a perfect survey of tragedy and suffering. a failure to explain unbroken windows. we would like to die here; possibly we are already dead. visible, tremendous.

you were the shadow that neglected the fable of your death; a night of variation releasing me to your desire from the hum of locusts. the darkness, your eyes a kind of poetic fantasy; i wished that they could have remained defect undraped; distant eyes cut together, staying a different shape inside.

you endeavored, your strange resonance killed by the fire in the warm, dark tunnel where the thing that dies is not feared; you thought of life as a test specimen, the perseverance of processes where vulnerability is complicated. it was easy to escape being irregular.

he who is not recognized is strong, lasciviously persistent, in order to preserve life under the mirrored stars.

we imagined the destruction; it entered the daybreak, a tragedy to consummate fires, a blind reduction; death, rationalized, drifting to the night. sometimes it revealed the sun, the shift of bodies, and words i reversed from my mouth. the brown sea manifested as festoons of flowers given to the body perverse; it learned how it was by illusion. our deaths were actualized in simulacrum; a round round sound, a type of poetic imagining; more and more repetition. defeat.

expansion to the physical world, almost absent of people, and i a rejected ghost. i was not afraid. i was built in the elsewhere dead's sound, the ceremony inside my dress evolving the fire which enveloped me. i was easy to ignite.

i will characterize my history
with regard to my body,
words a mess in my mouth.

how desperately i yearned for
the scent of sadness.

two hands stopping my future,
hair all around; golden currencies
propagated by the electric light,
the red spearheading chorus
near my heart.

i am white, a sparkle of possibilities;
i am callowness, my heart a graphic
design textbook of scars.

from my mouth overflows the aroma
of acid defeat, quailing the silence,
brown and rotted at the edges.

there are sad animals all over this world,
the bubbles of the body a liquid parade,
soured by the power of loveliness.

the adoration of uncertainty
is a revolution, a stolen
significance

the bulk worshipping of
human will prohibits,
renders helpless with
uncertain and anxiously
guilty questions, procuring
guilty answers, an uttering
of confessions and
nonabsolute invariables

there will be only
the pessimistic unborn
under them, under
their gray origins
--

to sleep, different inside,
together with the beasts,
you fight; you do not know
the obstinate fear of the fog,
the resignation to linger on
the most sententious signs of
an insistent idea.

no accompaniment except
small chiseled offers,
the irreconcilable objection to
answers.

no guidance apart from
the most eloquent symptoms of
a man fighting hard.

there is a crime in denial,
impossible in this world of
rebellion and scurvy confessions,
gray colors and a quantity of
helpless victories.
--

strength, strength.

these various confusions
prepare themselves to know
what ugly consent they express.

this irreconcilable, contradictory
consummation forbids and lulls,
in the flustered attempt to betray
the cold compromise of warfare
and force, the victory of possibility.

uncertainty an insurrection kept
by a disabled hero.

i will limit my answers.
i will name only a beginning.

we were chained-choked slaves,
in fear of discovering a tolerance
of everything; it is all values
betrayed, a distant insensibility
and a condemning vice of men.

we were immolated,
that distant spring silence
a blind riot where the lowest
savage was memorized.

in such abject deviations
the argument is useless.

there is nothing it cannot
degrade and decompose.

the silver product of self will
be simple, seduced by a night
of thievery, some specifically concrete
desire in the progressive destruction
of your own personality.

each man has the courage to fight;
you’d fight for anything, and
the rack of tortured years would
seize the rest.

he has damaged what never
belonged to him. he would like
to love the girl who pushes him
by the moment to be a suspect and
corrupts those unknowable others.

she is ordinary and profound, and will
wipe tomorrow from all his values.

passive parasitism clashes with
desires, indulges in fantasy and avoids
wishes that are kept but never discovered.

nothing is possible but the gradual and
general interests of destruction, foggy
and empty in a world i never made.

i do not allow for wistful longings or
the blind choices that prevail; they belong
to the conflicts in the rivalries of chance.

the girl who would like to be loved becomes
divorced from the means, standing in judgement
of the heart that is pushed by the deeper
substance of mediocrity, hanging in the vacuum
that with love would be peace.

the tools of knowledge
abstain from thought,
remembering the human ruins.

the research of scuttling is
divided against itself and
without reason understood.

by a collusion the minutia
crawls from possibility,
is a malevolence at the mercy
of the guilt and terror of wretches.
--

empty control

a deeply personal joy of
platitudes and abnegation

the false destining a
callous coming where
disaster is a crime of
the victim

where the victims of ashes
are locked up in a fire

a flock of condemned beggars
preserving persona
--

i do not live in a lifeboat,
do not see rescue.
i fight for my betrayal,
the catastrophe of man
absorbed in the fire;
temporarily helpless and
guilty of an important life.
--

i remember this human shipwreck,
at the mercy of ghosts and men.

an ogre that could not admit the system.

guilt and fear are miraculous; the only
short circuits that destroy the heart.

the flesh is an organ one cannot trust;
the spectacle of self a wild malignancy
which helplessness cannot rely on.

in an autistic universe it is difficult to know
the misery that scorns the earth.