In the labyrinth of her body

In the labyrinth of her body, her heart was a big cave full of echoes.

Every dawn, a sea of bats came back from the night.

The wind ran across her lungs.

Sometimes soft wind and caress, sometimes tornado and explosion, almost always lullaby and rocking.

The river of her veins was a labyrinth of mute currents pulsating a primitive rhythm.

Some days, red turmoils are formed here and there.

A cavern of sharp crystals is found in the basin of her liver.

A river of bile sometimes runs through: hate, rancor and remorse.

Lost in an idea, twisted and climbed cerebral circumvolutions.

It flew over her thoughts: it was mist, electric impulse and shinning.

A sea of fiber and meat was shaking and expanding.

Waves in the heart go up and down along with the guts and the bones.

Lean muscle and movement.

Made of silk and electric current, her skin is a map of scars, sensations, pleasure and air.

It is a mirror and a constellation of freckles.

Silence and spark, the web of nerves is switched on and off endlessly.

If we ever shine it is because of their light, if they are switched off darkness arrives.

Full of mineral and time they are our history.

They speak about our movement: they will be the dust when once we are gone.

City

He slept under the bridge and in broad daylight in a park.

He smelled flowers and rubbish, perfume and death, desert and shadowed field.

He climbed towers, went down the underground and its basements.

He navigated on streets and avenues, slow and quickly, under the sunray and against the moon.

He heard screams, howls, crickets, tweets.

He lived the silence and the crash, the rust and the crystal, the day in the night and the darkness in broad daylight.

He paraded and was many steps, many hearts, many hands, many causes, many fights. He screamed and the concrete towers remained silent.

He became dustcloud, paper in the wind, the howl of the wind.

He entered niches, rooms, apartment blocks, courts, squares and alleyways.

He heard the walking of the rivers. Rivers of blood, cries and semen. Rivers of sweat and searching. Rivers inside the air, the soil, inside the heart and the gaze.

He became city, concrete and asphalt.

He felt its loneliness, its crowd and its never-ending light.

He flowed in its history and its corrosion.

Vaporosa

Vértigo, mareo y la sensación de hundirse y perderse. Estamos conectados por la respiración. Por un momento, la vida radica en ese espacio.

Labio a labio, respiración a respiración. Los labios se deslizan por la piel. Es el vapor hablando, leyendo la piel, dejando rastros. Un velo que enciende.

Una historia trepa sobre las paredes y ventanas, gota a gota, gemido a gemido. Cada gota es una palabra que no fue necesaria, nunca usada. Vaporosa.

Dos cuerpos yacen en la cama, tocándose mutuamente y a sí mismos, conscientes de la piel de cada uno. Conscientes de su respiración, ese aire que vuelve a la vida.

Mirando el jardín a través de la ventana y a través del tiempo. Perdida y añorando, una melancólica respiración empaña el vidrio. Todas las memorias se evaporan.

Broken mirrors

In the desert of broken mirrors the sun reflects with the splendor of thousand suns.

At night neither darkness nor moon, all the light accumulated.

In the sea of broken mirrors the ripples were cutting reflections on their way.

The sea keeps at the bottom broken and salty reflections.

In the universe of broken mirrors the space was infinite: a duplicated labyrinth of triple nebulas, dark holes and fragmented suns.

In the past of broken mirrors memoirs were distorted, incomplete, multiplied. Reflections of ourselves cut us.

In the forest of broken mirrors, the wind moved the reflections and leaves crashed like crystals: mirror dust under the path of the wind.

In the clouds of broken mirrors, pieces of the world were reflecting.

When it rained, forgotten pieces of ourselves showered us, leaving us damp.

In the sun of broken mirrors storms raise and a thousand fragments reflect the light.

Everything melts and mirrors are formed anew.

In the future of broken mirrors, reflections shine, blinding.

We confuse fragments with precious stones. It is a single light.

Radiant.

In the rainforest of broken mirrors sounds are reflected.

Even at night, with the moonlight, the space is filled with murmurs and green sounds.

In the wind of broken mirrors, reflections howl, become swirls and go mad.

Some winds bring with them the reflections of the desert.

In the present of broken mirrors, fragments disorient us and confuse us.

Reflections divert us. We only hear the rustle under our feet.

In the city of broken mirrors, reflections of success, wealth, failure and pain get confused.

Astounded, reflections don’t move.

In the moon of broken mirrors, the gaze of the lovers and the mad are reflected.

In new moon, the secrets of the tide don’t go back to the sea.

In the body of broken mirrors reflected words run through veins and viscera.

Every now and then, some of them escape from lips and lungs.

Everything falls

A star falls, a maybe falls, the sky falls, the present falls.

A memoir falls, the snow falls, a curtain falls, the future falls.

The cold night falls, rain falls, the nevermore falls, the past falls.

The ashes fall, a perhaps falls, the backdrop falls, a tomorrow falls.

Hail falls, a cloud falls, a whatever falls, a now falls.

Midnight falls, the yesterday suddenly falls, the night dew falls, a then falls.

The afternoon falls, a who knows falls, leaves fall, a how late falls.

Mid day falls, a never falls, the pain falls, another future falls.

A tear falls, joy falls, coldness falls, all together falls.

A gaze falls, the remorse falls, a forever falls, an again falls.

Softly falls, abruptly falls, slowly falls, falls at last.

It is

It is the river that runs across the bottom of the sea of dreams,

the agony that drills the rock,

the doubt,

the breath held,

the waiting.

It is the waiting.

It is the joyful water of the river,

the honey,

the cotton candy,

the clouds traveling light across the sky,

the sweet that does not scald.

It is everything that is sweet.

It is the time that stretches,

the future that will never end,

it is everything that was,

what it will be,

what it will never be again.

It is the eternal time.

It is the wound open to the pain of salt,

the doubt,

the nights

and the insomnia,

it is the fear that runs through the skin,

the hopelessness.

It is the agony.

It is a row of days that you have counted ever since the beginning,

it is all the nights,

all the words,

repeated in the silence.

It is the persistence.

It is a tongue running across your territory,

It is the tip of your fingers signaling a path.

It is the fruit open to the bite.

It is the sex.

It is a colony of ants flowing through your veins,

it is the perfect second that stretches.

It is the ecstasy.

It is the dream you wake up to feeling the night’s gaze,

it is the moon’s suspicion,

the wind of darkness in your guts.

It is a dream.

Sangre

Un río flota dentro de mí,

sube y baja,

pesado y ligero,

a gritos y en silencio,

resuena y fluye.

Escucha:

el rojo río quiere salirse de su cauce.

Un río esta escurriendo en aquella esquina,

puedes oír su gotear por la noche

si pegas tu oído sobre mi pecho

o si nadas en la oscuridad.

Un pequeño arroyo corre

por las grietas de la ciudad,

pulsando.

Todos ignoran su presencia

y su olor a sangre.

El arroyo continúa con su palpitar.

Un listón férrico y espeso

sale de cada uno de nosotros.

Se enrolla alrededor de nosotros

uniéndonos en un abrazo líquido.

Puedes escuchar su sonido de cauce.

En días húmedos,

nuestro vibrante listón rubí

se eleva hacia los huracanes,

tornados y nubes volcánicas.

Brilla y fluye,

se remonta y escurre.

Cuando nos besamos, hierven.

Cuando nos tocamos, susurran.

Cuando nos abrazamos, se mezclan.

Cuando hablamos, fluyen.

Nuestros ríos fluyen.

Juntos.

Profundamente.

Paths

To love in the frontier between love and forgetfulness,

to long between the now and the never more,

to come back between the tomorrow and never again,

to doubt always doubt.

To walk over the edge dividing the day from the night,

to dream on the verge of wakefulness and dreaming,

to live in the second between life and death.

To hate between the ego and the afterwards,

to get angry over the edge of vanity and existence,

to go up across the confusing path of futility.

To live out of longing, hope and desperation,

to go back from the future passing by the past,

to walk towards the present through the back door.

To travel around the city wall of self complacency and sustainability,

to dismember congruence to pieces,

just because it is fashionable.

To come and go going through the circles of cliché and must be,

to run against time,

to navigate the river of success on the ship of failure.

To float in a foam of accumulated manias and neurosis,

to forget the love and the why,

to go quietly without breathing

with the eyes innocent of ignoring.

Cada día un bosque

 Un bosque en primavera,

floreciendo,

atrayendo vida y sexo.

Colorido, feliz.

Vivo.

Un bosque reverdeciendo,

creciendo,

anticipándose,

abierto al calor y al viento.

Iluminado, brillante.

Vibrante.

Un bosque en llamas,

quemando,

tronando,

consumiéndose y evaporándose.

Chispa cascabeleante.

Encendido.

Un bosque helado,

durmiendo,

descansando,

esperando sol y luz.

Brillo en calma.

Suave hibernación.

Rumiando y enroscándose.

Cada día es un bosque, a todo lo que da.

Los mitos han cambiado

Los minotauros son procesados en rastros. Los laberintos se volvieron clubs nocturnos. Los mitos ya no son más que paquetes de carne y pistas de bailar.

Las sirenas viven en acuarios y brincan aros junto con los delfines. Sus lamentos no se escuchan: los gritos del público son ensordecedores.

Escila y Caribdis trabajan en México. La primera todavía devora cuerpos humanos. La segunda hipnotiza sobrevivientes con mentiras y shows de TV.

Los pegasos trabajan como mulas pero con cargas más pesadas. Con sus plumas se hacen almohadas y estolas para petulantes actrices de televisión.

Poseidón trabaja en plataformas de petróleo. El pago es terrible y los horarios extenuantes. Es un esclavo moderno que siempre es culpado por los derrames.

Venus tiene una compañía de citas en línea. Es versada en algoritmos amorosos y PayPal. Cuentan los rumores que no ya no confía en Cupido.

A Cupido le va muy bien a pesar de los rumores. Sin las restricciones de antaño, ahora puede ser más creativo. Sus flechas nunca se equivocan.

Atenea está muy ocupada. Es una viajera incansable: ¡hay tantas guerras por doquier! Pero nadie la venera, es solo una ilusa y triste espectadora.

Odiseo es uno de los diez fugitivos más buscados. Está familiarizado con el cruce ilegal de fronteras y se le ha culpado de la última epidemia de gripe.

Medusa todavía anda por aquí. A veces se le puede ver en las pantallas de TV o detrás de una idea nueva. Está hecha de terror: tenle miedo.