the fires burn
brighter on the sunny
side of hell

now thare's a sight worth seein'

I'm
listening
to
you
breathe
turquoise
river
relief
with
sentimental
razors
dipped
in
Cleopatra's
folly

white sheets of
paper to get dressed up
in heaven

carry on without a(b)solution

exposed bone etching
immaculate revisions
back lit freezer burn

La Francesa

An intelligent woman.
A beautiful woman.
Knew all the variants, all the possibilities.
Reader of Duchamp's aphorisms and the stories
of Defoe.
In general possessing an enviable self-control,
Except when she got depressed and got drunk,
Something that could last two or three days,
A succession of Bordeaux and Valium
That would give you goosebumps.
Then she'd usually tell you what happened to her
Between the ages of 15 and 18.
A pornographic horror movie,
Naked bodies and business deals that skirted the law,
A vocational actress and at the same time a girl with
strange strokes of greed.
I met her when she'd just turned 25,
In a tranquil period.
I suppose she feared old age and death.
Old age for her was thirty,
The Thirty Years' War,
Christ's thirty years when he started to preach,
An age like any other, I told her when we dined
By candlelight
Pondering the flow of the planet's most literary river.
But for us prestige lay elsewhere,
In bands possessed by slowness, in gestures
Exquisitely slow
From dishevelment
In dark beds,
In the geometric mutliplication of empty shop windows
And in the grave of reality,
Our absolute,
Our Voltaire,
Our philosophy of bedroom and boudoir.
Like I said, an intelligent girl,
With the rare virtue of foresight
(Rare for us Latin Americans)
So common in her country,
In which even the assassins have bankbooks
And she wasn't going to be any less,
A bankbook and a photo of Tristan Cabral,
Nostalgia for the unlived,
While that prestigious river trailed a dying sun
And down her cheeks rolled seemingly gratuitous tears.
I don't want to die, she whispered while escaping
In the shrewd darkness of the bedroom,
And I didn't know what to say,
I really didn't know what to say,
Except to caress her and support her while she moved
Up and down like life,
Up and down like the poets of France,
Innocent and punished,
Until she returned to Planet Earth
And from her lips sprouted
Passages from her adolescence that filled our bedroom
on the spot
With copies crying on metro escalators
With copies making love to two guys at once
While rain was falling outside
Over garbage bags and over abandoned pistols
In the garbage bags,
Rain that washes everything
Except for memory and reason.
Dresses, leather jackets, Italian boots, lingerie to
drive you mad,
To drive her mad,
They appeared and disappeared in our phosphorescent,
throbbing bedroom,
And quick strokes of other less intimate adventures
Flashed in her wounded eyes like fireflies.
A love that wasn't going to last long
But that by dessert would have become unforgettable.
That's what she said,
Seated by the window,
Her face suspended in time,
Her lips: a statue's lips.
An unforgettable love
Beneath the rain,
Beneath the sky bristling with antennas in which
17th century coffers coexist
With the shit of 20th century pigeons.
And in the middle
All the inextinguishable capacity to inflict pain,
Undefeated through years,
Undefeated through loves
Unforgettable.
Yes, that's what she said.
An unforgettable love
And brief,
Like a hurricane?
No, a love brief as the sigh of a guillotined head,
The head of a king or Breton count,
Brief like beauty,
Absolute beauty,
That which contains all the world's majesty and misery
And which is only visible to those who love.

-Roberto Bolano
The Romantic Dogs

passport

rig a mortal wire
so that death delivers warm
mother milk, not fire

senile evidence
reaching for a full cup of
blue truth medicine

The fields, the floods, the heavens, with one consent
Did seeme to laugh on me, and favour mine intent.
-Edmund Spenser

jaws of life

black
ice
at
the
intersection
of
Disarray
and
Isolation
where
screaming
sirens
surround
metallic
visions
of
Saturn's
misplaced
wedding
ring

legs spread in a sanctuary

that
human
condition
when
grace
reveals
genuine
affection

lot and his wife are here

in a root cellar
beside a preservation sea
a (her)ricane is weeping

Maruch Méndes Péres

"I am giving you your food
I am feeding you with candles and poetry"

penniless revolutions

ripe
persimmon
sun
greeting
new
factions
of
copper
chrysanthemums

slippery
salvation
cup
brimming
with
magma
daughters
wet
fire
sunlight
syrup
drip

i love mountains

alabaster screams
wet with opium honey
your sound inside me

windy city

foolish girl
done
blew
past
her
breeze

voices wrapped in rainbows

oblivious

a manufactured smile
perched upon a ten carat canary
in a tin cage
just
before
carbon
monoxide
is
detected

and the gasping sunlight is a mile away
tying ribbons in Delilah's hair

mmw

"Amber Gris" Music Video from Medeski Martin and Wood on Vimeo.

laguna waves

suck on the pelvis
bone of neptune's authority
seething beneath me

400 units of pleasure

tell me again how
the colors bend when sailors
kiss the horizon

es su lugar
continuar

dance with them
rhythm
will
cauterize
the
tears
spattering
the
traces
of
these
phosphorescent
ghosts

approaching april 1

listening for her
heartbeat six feet above me
crocus weeps for fools

high coo

draw back the curtains
so they can see what it means
to love openly

boggled by the minds
of frenzied cherry pickers
who don't taste the fruit

homespun
honey
on
a
patchwork
quilt
satisfies
the
bare
floorboards
just
before
sunrise

ramblin' man's moderation

six words in Ernest

Noises. Curious. Door. Daddy fucking George.


Nobody home. Garden hose. Cemetery rose.


Girl. Thirteen. Mommy's lipstick. Bloody sheets.


caught in the crossfire. My child


Family. Tent. Music. Bread. Tea. Hashish.


LOST: Mind. Last seen with LSD.

valentine for his psychotropoetic desire

wednesday's kin

high strung crows
harness the frozen dialect
of self appointed mockery

human belly fire
Pound(ing) heart
bequeathing fertile woman
with phonetic vibrations
upon consummation

honey
drips
from
a
queen
bees
hive
when
her
keepers
instinctively
caress
the
garden
with
their
pollinated
fountain
pens

round the mountain

twenty paces

thare's no sense in squabblin'
'cause Tenne cain't ssee
that i ain't got no use fer Dixie

dream

would
you
take
your
fingers
from
the
inside
of
me
and
slide
them
across
your
guitar
strings
so
that
i
can
come
when
you
have
to
leave
?

tremor

sanctions
our
ability
to
cleave
to
essential
vibrations
beyond
the
plastic
bravado
of
the
societal
antichrist
pandering
his
wares

a
trickle
of
water
from
the
tip
of
an
icicle
wet
my
tongue
with
enough
soluble
truth
to
remember
him