El Mundo TRAS el mundo

 

 

Hoy.

 

 

Hace mucho tiempo

 

pasó ya el concepto mismo,

del abismo, y de su tino, el umbral;

 

al decirme sin tronar, la duda,

 

cómo las cenizas arderían

 

hacia al final...

Cortamos de la historia:

 

su relevancia de cristal.

Vuelta un adoquín, 

 

botamos el aserrín. Sin fin,

fue la culpa no obstinada

 

de malinterpretar...

 

 

Quizás los páramos,

 

nunca fueron algo igual.

 

 

Quizás La Fortuna

 

nos echó la sal.

 

No hacia al mar,

 

sino, desde la mesa

 

hacia el piso

 

de arena

 

por no saber

 

cómo sazonar mejor

 

un plato que ya

 

conoces.

 

 

Y que sabes bien

que te debería gustar... 

 

 

Al mal, saltan las golondrinas

 

al verme pasar:

 

 

Volando lejos para poder surcar

 

 los valles, ahora finalmente concretos,

 

de Mi Realidad

 

abstracta. 

 

 

Mi trova fue inequívoca:

 

El Mundo

 

en efecto se acabó.

 

 

Se acabó el momento

 

en que 

 

 La vi partir 

hacia

 

praderas que solo

 

El Guión

 

puede describir en

 

pinturas

 

de versos

 

siderales

 

e intangibles

 

para El Cuerpo. 

 

 

 

El mundo se acabó.

 

Pero aquí sigo caminándolo.

 

 

El mundo acabó,

 

pero sigo intacto.

 

 

Quizás, demasiada resiliencia,

 

crea corazas indispuestas

 

a quebrantarse.

 

 

Quizás, mis escasas derrotas

 

me acostumbraron a confiarme.

 

 

Quizás...

 

La falta de odio desde El Mundo.

 

Hacia mi persona

 

me hizo odiarlo

 

con aún más ímpetu

 

que cualquier intento

 

de este por

 

cambiarme. 

 

 

Tal vez, fue mi paciencia,

 

la cual boté sin cuestionar

 

piedades, ni misericordias

 

ajenas a mi ausencia

 

de necesitar buscarle

caos a la vida.

 

 

Sabiendo que Yo era Caos.

 

Todo el tiempo

 

desde el 8. 

 

 

De repente, fue mi esfuerzo

 

y mis ganas de ayudar

 

al todo al que

 

tenía hambre

 

y carecía de fuerzas

 

para arar sus propios campos.

 

 

 

Quizás...

 

Quizás.

 

 

¿Quién sabe

 

al final?

 

 

 

La verdad

 

es que la pérdida

 

cambia la composición física

 

de las células.

 

 

La verdad

 

es que las cadenas

 

son hechas para romperse,

 

no importe su función,

 

propósito

 

o aporte.

 

 

 

Como conclusión final:

 

no sirve la felicidad

 

si no es parra,

 

crecer y sostener 

 

La Narrativa más adelante.

 

 

 

Cada cueva que superar.

 

Cada obscuridad que dominar.

 

 

Cada leyenda por contar.

 

Cada Dragón por masticar.

 

 

Este mundo es solo

 

un espejismo más

 

del humo, que evacua

 

de la pipa de gnomos siderales

 

en planetas solitarios a

 

inconmensurables

 

distancias dimensionales

 

 

 

del Tú

 

y

 

Del Yo. 

 

 

 

Verla partir

 

me demostró

 

que nadie es eterno en tanto

 

se aferre

 

al cuerpo.

 

 

 

Ahora.

 

Ya no es su mundo

 

el que decido

 

seguir trotando.

 

 

Hoy,

 

es Mio. 

 

 

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 -- -

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 -

- -

 -

 

 -

 

 

          

                        

Si sigues aquí.

                                  

Es porque estás vivo.

                                            

                                                                 

Somos cerdos yendo juntos

                                                                       

hacia el matadero.

                                                         

                                             

Pero podemos elegir

                                                                       

con cuál destino caemos

                                                                                            

   CUANDO  SATURNO  LLEGUE   

                                                                                                

                                                                     

 Y tengamos que afrontar

                                                      

la situación

                             

con la que

                                  

conoceremos

                  

      

  El Suelo.

 

. 

 

...  .. ......  ..

... ..   ..

..   ... .

. .

. 

The Offer of The Sounds

 

 

Did anyone

 

ever tell you?

 

A tall tale,

 

never spoken;

 

forgotten by

 

no one but

 

the otters

 

playing death time

 

inside

 

warmer waters...

 

 

Spill a couple

 

bucks;

 

a burr

 

to stir

 

unwanted critics,

 

forlorn...

 

 

Unto the bottom

 

of the pot.

 

 

I was finding

 

nothing

but

 

constant

senses of loss.

And also

 

the missing links

 

 

in

between

 

 

the ricochets

 

of life.

Quarters

buy the pounder,

naught by weight,

as they say

bye bye

to non

forms of slaughter;

it's the laughter

 

of nonsensical

 

euclidean

 

anticipations.

 

 

Off, wrinkly old

 

souls

 

saying hello.

 

 

Into concave

 

mountains of solitude

 

 

and hope...

 

 

My mirror serves

 

thy filler,

 

the sharpest, not by blade.

 

Knot my entrails,

 

up becoming,

my sensations

 

pity squandered.

 

 

Into seldom

 

portions.

 

As I aspire

 

to create

 

the same oxidation

 

as I breath

 

away

 

into landscapes

 

when I dream.

 

 

Replicating a blaze

 

to burn-freeze

 

the shadows away.

 

 

Walking in cells

 

and polishing reds.

 

I forgot about

 

the pain,

 

again.

 

Of shapes?

 

Its wonder.

 

Alas,

 

the render 

 

of notion,

a path well drawn,

 

and ready to follow

 

when deep

 

in trenches

 

of tainted motions.

The mud of brazen

 

smokes

built views from

 

the crumbles

 

of rusty bases.

 

 

We juggle the hours

 

away, into vacuums,

 

 put coal into

the brazing

 

darken chambers.

 

 

Design your days as

 

brittle as

 

ceramics.

 

 

Find the spot to

 

pull the curtains

 

into fold.

And bend

the improbable

corners.

 

Of our house,

 

left to tempered

weathers,

 

and the force

 

 

of fires left free

 

to wander

 

into the town

 

at night...

 

 

The desert

 

sets new motions,

 

as the emotions

 

voted void.

 

 

I grab the circles

by non-existent

 

ends.

 

 

A pleasantry

to put and end

 

to all dismay.

Too much array.

Too many trains.

So little ways to take

an exit stair to main

floors, up there,

where no sound dares

to eviscerate a light.

We got quasars

burning,

dying,

inside our pockets

next to

 

The Change.

We got sunshine,

 

we got handouts.

 

 

We got reality as

 

a playground

 

left to find us.

 

 

If you can grab

 

your soul into a bubble.

 

 

See your steps

 

as the viewer.

 

 

Leave the controller

 

on the desktop.

 

 

And step into

 

the most proximate

 

of windows.

 

 

Feel the rays of ancient

 

Gods

 

rotting into energy;

 

and leaving tears of diamond

for trail blazers

to encounter.

 

We can live without

 

anything.

 

 Alas.

 

 

Our Rhythm.

 

We'll create everything,

 

and set its path into devotion.

 

A thrill of countless

 

contortions.

 

 

My tender render

 

to greater senses

 

and think of nothing

 

 but

 

my only ambition:

 

C O A L I T I O N

 

 

Walks through Winter

 

 

Colder now.

 

It feels the back,

 

as it slithers.

 

 

A grasp of the

 

unknown.

 

A clasp of forces

 

to yet unfold.

Sometimes I

 

just

feel

 

the clusters

instead

 

of bittersweet mead.

A sweeter

 

realization

as melted honey

 

drops,

into crystals

 

as their visage.

A mirage.

The countless nights

in disarray. My contempt.

The older

I taste;

broader,

 

the noises,

 

that take hold.

 

Bring me

forth

 

the pain and

 

paints to go

round,

our plethora sphere

of hope.

Miles on end,

 

until I made it.

Past yesterday's

missed shots,

 

and welcoming

sensations:

 

 

The face

feels fine,

 

as long as the

 

torso's

 

well covered.

 

 

My fingertips

 

burn the eyelids

 

of sober emotions.

Ashore.

 

 

As I rub

 

away

the scenery

inside my

 

retinas.

Somewhere

 

out there.

A wilder call

 

full throttles.

A mile away

 

from the exit

 

pit.

 

 The sky's

 

never been

 

blacker,

 

and more gorgeous,

 

as it is now.

 

 

Know.

 

 

The moment

 

is nearing

 

each criticality's

 

point blank.

 

 

Only

street lights

 

show arousing,

the toughening,

of a pathway’s

older pebbles

 

left unbroken.

Day  feels

 

the skin of  Night’s

 

unglamorous

 

remarks.

Paranoia,

 

set the stones

into ever motion...

A mirror -double-edged-

so simple!

 

 

So attained...

A watch that faces

North.

Southern.

 

Polarities

 

off shore,

of change,

 

and consequences.

And Reign…

 

 

Fruitless:

The pursuit

of a suit

 

to put on

in order to be

happier,

when staring at

our reflections

inmost deep

still waters

of remorse.

My grandiose

soup of timelines

collapsing,

as particles

 

into vacuumed

polished metal doors…

Just like

before,

the songs of sirens,

feel so real, surreal,

to hear them thinned

so dimmed…

No more

throttles, as for chaos,

a never ending gallery

of galore

and clashes of

amygdala’s

bottomless pursuits;

into blend,

they march

as they scrape away.

The shapes of blades,

that sway away.

The stains.

Of former known

Reality’s Laws,

left unbroken

by The Fall.

The Fallen.

Take Its place.

Unto lonely shores.

I'll search, tirelessly,

The Stars,

around the feeling

of brightly singing

the colours

of the texture

of your voice…

And the weight of meteorites

depend on now

my atmosphere's will

to persist, the veil,

who attempts

to make me quite.

Quiet.

As I quit,

not the quid pro

quotas, left to

fulfill.

There's simply not

enough Human left

to go around

THE ROT

feeding the scared

or the lost.

It's the same patch,

a batch

of attempts,

to suffocate the screams.

And sew them into quilts.

For then, there's

 

 

silence

in The Plateau.

Now,

don't matter all the steps

 

taken

from our garden

of scorched petals,

flowing through the breeze,

turn them into fog.

And of course.

We shall explore The Bog.

To grab Horizon’s by

Its entrails

in the veneer.

Crush the last

foam castle

in which Dracons

choose to hide

and slumber away

centuries to burn

in their cauldrons for a

hearty stew.

And Brothers,

we shall see it Rise.

Into multitudes of Oceans.

We can try to tear apart.

Into mountains of Blood.

We will try to set a part.

Inside plains of Oblivion.

Lion and Beasts alike.

Will try to make a pact.

Forth, our Brothers.

This Time…

SATURN

Comes at Last.

An Exit. A Light. (A Cave too Cold to Hide)

 

 

 

Chasing voices, chasing echoes.

 

Relocate your tempo,

 

and put it into question.

 

Out of question, and garage,

fits the problem: a solution;

too much, too bold.

 

 

To handle.

 

 

My rusted bars

 

that set

 

pretenses

 

on demand.

 

 

Begs the effort

 

to cast investigations

 

and search, deep inside,

 

where no light touches a beacon,

 

but its Founder.

The rupture, now assertion,

the dominance of its trolley.

 

My problem

 

isn't mentions.

 

It's a lack of

 

proper motivation.

 

 

As apparatus, out of  measure.

My demented voices

put to paper... 

 

My intentions.

I want to see the world...

And watch It down my gullet.

Propel myself from

a character in the back

to the Protagonist

we'll become...

 

 

Hollow, nay never,

a morrow

 

of deathless sorrow.

 

 

My solitude.

 

Shapes the paper of a Master

 

to forge the chains around our

 

chances to strike

 

Gold

 

while we watch, nonsensical,

 

the river bleed out

its darker hues.

 

 

I

 

will never feel

 

remorse for the unbroken.

 

But

 

I shall too

cast my empathy unto

the hopeless.

Never watch me kneel.

For Kings of Falsehood.

Or Damsels of Endeavor.

Gaze upon

 

The Threshold.

And lie the guilt

 

of previous lives, ascension.

Into the blazes of growth.

An Evolution

 

will advent.

 

A filthy wave of

inaction.

Dissociates

my inner sanctum.

From the stains of its trail

I draw the positions

of my cards.

And from their shards

I can see into

 

the prospect of

Tomorrow's

Play - Park.

Linking

my frivolous

trials and errors.

I forgot to look into

the meadow.

 

Stare into

 

the endless eyes

of Neptune.

Find the forbidden hexagon

in between the palpitating

tensions.

And tremors.

A shake so surround it

crumbles.

The mass is now on sulfur

living so far the fumes

allow the motion.

All movement.

Can forfeit.

My steps.

 

Will leave burnt marks

 

in concrete.

 

 

I feel the Crimson Star.

 

I see the Ethereal Dawn.

 

 

I watch the Unspoken Hours.

 

And I cast aside my Proper Shadows.

 

 

And yet...

 

 

How come life feels to shine

 

when I'm walking far away

 

from You.

 

 

 Out of time.

And out of order.

It's a shame we couldn't find

a somber

moment

to exist.

Alas, Life will guide the furthest shores...

And I shall see you all.

 

 

Arrive.

 

 

 

Come on

 

 

Dawn.

 

 

I'll be waiting back...

 

 

 

 

Outside.

As swords against Masters

 

 

Blaze.

 

The blades.

 

 A night then thus

spells, encore memories,

again. Past ventures, from afar

gas leaks on the surface. Multiple times

a dilemma rises -turned concrete from so much

 

glass, burnt to perfect hot; to make it snow- and whitened

 

it seems, widened. So do my best tries to bend it, in two shapes...

 

As it unfolds. Lies we told no one, but

 

the lakes (our lonely chance, a denature

 

of selves) dentures then a new shape.

 

As those unto the brink:

 

a noble mascaraed, made

 

into gables & marble.

 

A

drop,

droplet,

drips into

the tense

pressure,

 

that surfaces

 

the air.

 

A fissure

for more

precision.

 

Some mutated

new rendition.

Of dimensions.

For connection.

Make them

 

into trees, and

sing the lullaby

of streams.

 

 

Uncharted.

The river shines

as flow goes and

re-discovers.

The voices of the forgotten

 

forest, speaks at no one,

 

but its primal sources...

Replace the light bulb,

as bullfights break amidst,

impeach the peace

 

of inner dialogue

 

at war...

 

at its peak.

 

 

Forget not

 

the faces

 

on the water,

 

that we'll pass

 

as you'll reach.

 

 

Settle for greater

 

heights

 

and lowered

 

than its range.

 

 

Flay the dance

 

on a trance,

 

until it breaches

 

the seal.

 

 

Unleash, as you

 

unsheathe

 

the poison

 

on dead grass...

 

The path to greatness

 

lies

into following

 

its smear.

It's a snare,

for those that try

and gallop out of way.

The way to nowhere,

 

but its forward

 

path, while chasing

 

the shadows

at our feet.

Warriors past

triumphs, and the

teal. A new

sense of grandeur

burn their scar rots,

 

as anew...

The Iscariots,

 

burn the chariots

at the most optimal

of ordeals.

 

So try new means

to make the matter stay.

As clay that grabs

masses on its own

pulse to give

a sense to chaos

out of mesh.

 

 

Some never-ending

 

mess...

 

 

And more veins.

 

An everlasting Reign.

 

 

To crave the penitence

 

that dreads.

 

 

And steel.

 

 

Burn my eyelids off

 

so that I shan't

 

try to cover near.

 

 

A Light that pierces

 

its trail into

 

my marrow.

 

 

A way of blood and forth

 

the narratives of

 

Octavio's.

 Brands new chapters.

 

 

As metal

clashes metal,

 

made now flesh,

from particles of pain

and forsaken impressions

of training

 

a will into

making it

 

make sense.

Choose the violence of

esteems, and don't ever

 

let it the better

 

of your bleeds.

 

 

Too much

 

and it's over, the whole

 

mischief.

Darken frequencies

 

are on the rising.

 

And as they'll try

 

to make you steer,

your will's the compass

 

to your deeds.

 

As the purpose,

 

as the water

 

and the waves.

An Endless Ocean

of discovery

of self.

Drips a droplet

 

worth

a thousand Universes

of the constant trying

and the failed.

 

 

As The Flayed.

 

 

Blaze new

 

ecosystems

 

out of train's.

 

The discipline

 

as you'll make it

a disciple.

 

 

To your mends.

 

 

Fit the stamina.

 

And your grip.

Forge the prayers

unto sheer.

Forget the noises

as you crumble;

 

shattered

senses of regard,

and the maintenance

 

 of identities

and images

of past beings.

The body is a method.

 

As thy spirit fits the beat.

Choose your weapons

only lightly.

Choose your villains

out of will.

Pick the curtains for

the unfounded.

Call your ending.

A chance to steer.

 

The ship that never lays

its fangs on land again,

 

in fear of meeting

 

 

its Rend.

 

 Dine

 

with me

 

in an coveted artifice's

vow. Galore,

but flashes crumble

the phylum of

my swords.

Stain the fires well.

And promises The Keep.

Of the tentacles veneer.

An Ancient Rite.

To burn marvels

out of hardened touch.

To cut the air around.

To pierce Reality

inside the bottom

of its Core.

Tender notions of rewardment

 

 

Lavender senses

 

seem to notion

 

new lotions -its motion?-

 

a locomotion

 

towards

 

 

perfection,

 

made as clay

 

from shards

 

of Oceans

 

floating

 

as comets,

 

dangling particles

 

of hope across

 

our dedicated

 

entitlements.

 

 

Another turn

 

-invisible-

 

of spirals

 

points towards

 

moments

 

of starlight.

 

 

Impulsive needs

 

to register

 

the occurrences

 

of whatever

 

Cosmos

 

whispers

 

into the fingertips

 

of my tendrils;

 

an all being

 

told me to wait

 

and cheer

 

for clustered pulses

 

of railing tensions

 

within a

 

store to see. 

I drift

 

apart

 

The Sea

 

and drip

 

as magma,

burning pits into

 

living plasmon

-we gotta try to make it glitch-

as the aspect ratios,

 

match intentions

 

of damnation.

The rations:

Emotions turned

 

to spirals;

 

overspent

of lumen

 

and cadence.

 

 

While the fumes lower us.

 

 Into sentiments of glory

and the pain of losing battles

on Yesterday's squadron.

A proud accomplishment

of dumb ameba, abeam

a beam of funny particles

 

extinct us...

A ritualistic trance

just dance, burnt,

turned now

 

into waves

 

of friction

in between us.

 

 

More choices

 

yet, here we eclipse

 

all vision.

 

 

Chasing lines across

a pasture of intangible

 

conscriptions,

my blades of grass

 

caressing

sense of self

 

and continuous

 

impairments, prepayments

of tools to forge a destiny

fit for Throne & Fortress.

The state of being

 

to create, it becomes,

a parody of itself.

 

My own portion

 

of the cosmos.

Waits and pulses

new partitives

 

of departure...

Thinking about, now,

the nothingness

 

that comes

behind the last

 

door that closes

 

once my scar screams open

and all ears are chosen.

 

 

Nevertheless,

seeing the solitude

of drifting giants

 

across and front

 

 

The Endless Ocean.

I drift

 

apart

as part

 

of chances

become ethereal,

once it's reached its prime.

 

 We have to forfeit to see, the material...

Becomes a sense of wonder.

 

On its own,

try to stay on grounds

while lighting the torch

down. Upside

 

The Chalice.

My Second Try

at malice...

 

A sword loses

 

its value

as it weights less

 

than choices

to speak a nature

 

into people's

comber. Encumbered,

all stages of psychosis

 

entangles lessons

 

from afar the temples

of polished marbles.

 

I reminiscence

across the

 

forbidden seas,

to travel along

on a lonely raft.

Solitude

 

holds secrets

that Matter wants

 

forbidden

 

for the sake of

 

ancient totems.

 

 

And the moths that can't wait

 

anymore...

 

 

Surely comes

 

unbecoming

 

a Monster that

 

devoured thousands;

 

more screams that spell

 

plethora,

 

burns my memories

 

like no atrocities

 

exposed as

 

  us try and try

 

to better the craft,

but pointless

 

it's to try

to attempt and turn

the shadows

into weapons

of mass

 

deconstruction.

Propaganda gallops

as the last Pagoda

 

lights

itself on flames

waiting for a solider

 

to come

bearing news

 

of settlement

instead of plague...

Holds the key

 

in your purple arms,

and lock to protect

us and as

they shall stall the

times to come

unguarded.

 

 

Prepare a feast for the

 

unfounded.

 

A treasure so

hidden, deep it crashes

the stability of Reality

 

once its cries

 

are heard again

across the Andes to the Alps.

A burning chariot

tints its fires, into darkened

shades of blueish green and

bloodshed

 

red,

 

try and

 

decipher

 

a codex made now flesh.

 

On the back of a turtle

 

traveling south

 

west of shores,

 

its hacks to machinery

 

forever unspoken...

For better terms.

 

Unleash your whip

 

and front them.

 

 

Stay still

 

to perceive

 

the cloisters

 

 

of crumbling souls

 

across the boardroom.

 

 

A ballroom

looses its carpet

once its stains

 

can't come clean about

 

- from whence, the water deep,

a prattle of mysteries, yet perceived -

but certifiably

can grab the cards

and try again

 

the newest spins.

All devotion

shouldn't go

 

to me,

there's holes in places

where The Timeline

forgot to clean its peace...

Try and come with me.

To shadier planes

of severest green...

 

 

Remember try

 

 to choose, correct

the assumptions

of wherever the floor

doesn't crack to show

its portion

 

of the teeth...

Ignore my eyes to let it

rip. Them apart,

from sides it seems

that they try to see you bleed.

 

 

More...

Become immortal

 

in a way.

They never seem to gleam.

.

.

.

Stage the perfect sentence.

And finally succeed-

 It's time to try and see.