poetry is a way

Say oh! Life!
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The sound of an unstable ceiling fan.

The window with a permanent landscape.

A buzzing noon in this cabin soaks

The race of life and thirsty deaths produces it.

The blood that the hands have washed flows through the sewers.

The earth treasures that in its bosom and grows

Green on the stolen memory of the fall.

Rust is growing on sinful deeds.

Unsent letter envelopes are

Become the placid toys of the mice.

Your message is one of them, torn.

I look at the wobbly ceiling fan.

It’s so easy to waste…

That I choose to strike a match instead.

a way through these days

————————————-

The curse of a dead bird in the pass.

Stop to lean over dead life.

Horizon full of death is exploding,

Watch the taste of infidelity explode.

The corner of cruel eyes cutting through

The red sky, the breaking of the soul…

The road I take to reach the quiet sunset

Through the streets of dawn, noon and dusk,

The path is whited in colorless blood of

Deadly games that man plays. The sphere of lost souls

Watch as I move to a quite place

Natural end, untouched by them, slowly…

Riding on a fallen trophy (what I saw at the time of a storm)

————————————————– ——————-

The storm enters the ways of humanity

Only then. At that moment I see the horse.

The Pale Rider. The rider is in odd

With the vigorous grace it produces.

A fallen beauty from the trophy room past.

Storm takes a walk through the city.

The lanes and lame lives are becoming one,

Just a rider with dirt in his hair

A bare top with coagulated earth.

The horse closes its eye to the storm.

Blurs details of belly and hunger.

A blur is the horse scene.

Galloping to carry its rider further

Little days of a world life.

faces of death

———————————————

Sunset, now, at my window begging to write it down

A purple suicide note.

Come on, write it yourself. he may have uttered.

selfish as i am

Or a man who doesn’t have enough to believe

We kill or we kill.

‘Welcome’ I say instead. A room with a porch.

The long marches of blood

They are the bright memories scattered along the roads.

Blue Moon Psychic Smile

It propagates in extremely slow motion in a pale sky.

Myths are carried by some

Fireflies. We see them wind and unfold life stories.

So now suicide has decreased.

But, even with the sails distant from the shells, I know

There are many faces of death.

a night walk

————————————————– —

A sweet breeze touches the face, plays with the locks,

The car moves with the light and shadow of the night.

The torn blanket thrown down the side street

The breeze is amazed at the tactics of life.

The rat with two hungry lights seeks

your surplus The wild car with night movements.

Move the world. The end of the night remains

Face down in a stream from a dark sewer.

the green eyes

————————————————– —-

Green eyes shine brightly. And at the bottom of the body

Streams of material poisons flow.

Why are we the prisoners?

green eyed? Dirty poodle bathers?

Green eyes turn towards the house and capture the city.

The sky turns yellow, white are the leaves.

The unspoken chimes rust in the breathless wind.

(Our) hands draw the curtains on the window pane.

The whispering bed darkens with lifeless debris.

(Our) green eyes see the face of childish purity.

She breathes the sun in the skylight, pale and

Peeping with a message of friendship-shines.

And, with his turn of the face, the green eyes die.

woman inside

————————————————– —–

The woman inside the skin of his head

Pick up those stones that have been thrown and build a

Rock garden in the midst of the disorder of days, nights

And life.

The curious world peers through the opening

Windows you never mind closing. The light

Showers a state of mind that you care so much about having.

Oh light!

The light whitens the black and gloomy decorations of

Rooms and tasks. The days of rain and loneliness

Porch, wet.

Wet sleepless miles on the ground of conflict

What desire does he surrender to and what love does he make

Believe!

The woman inside the skin of his head

Create a world of a thousand flowers, cry rivers

and loves

FRAGMENT _I

——————-

His blunt scissors fell from a too-old hand.

The red dirt of a village road ahead.

The hair of the village barber flows in the arid air

Fragment-II

————————-

The inventions of the benefactors of hair, skin and teeth

even age

Lie down in the double mirrored vanity.

she overlooks

The creeping shadow of time on the glass.

The power outage on the main street

————————————
Outside, the sound of pollution rises.

Noon, rushing for nickels, sweats.

The blackout has taken a book,

Words dance before PC’s eyes.

A French window, ajar, let in the light.

A hitherto unknown colleague opens

The page of his story illustrated with

The rumors of a colorless life.

Weird. Others see that a house-mirror

Slowly consume the skins and accents.

A coat, not hers.

(a poem dedicated to my friend the writer KcKlein)

A coat that is not hers wraps around the little body

Crouched down, he turns down the alley of sleep.

The girl sleeps on the night bridge forever.

The flawless sun rises above her and she crouched down

To wipe out the last of the cloudy night

Of a soul that should not be touched with

The lightest of darkness in which he lives,

The days of entry and exit. haha the measurements

Men invent to unite slipping time and space!

She stirs and takes off her tattooed coat

And time ties to reach a lifetime of us.