Tag Archives: surrealism

Immaterial feelings

Trying to remember a dream, a feeling
Trying to catch it, to chain it and never let it go
But it resist, and, like a moving train, it goes … and goes … and goes … and disappear,
Till there is nothing left
Only the shadow of a feeling, remote, away
And reality hits
And this world where I was free
Is only the memory of a dream
But in this dream, I could feel
New sensations, feelings only existent in an immaterial world
My body disappears, and my mind expands
My soul fly free through the forests of Morpheus
I’m the wind whispering at the ears of the Oblivion’s trees
I’m the waves exploding in Void’s waters
The air are tiny, microscopic crystals
(alive)
The world shines, this world shines
And I’m surrounded by thousands, millions of new emotions …
… But reality hits
The alarm , riiing-riiing-riiing, to come back
I try to catch some glimpses of the immaterial world
As it falls through my fingers
Like white, pure sand

The laugher of a mad God

It happened,

the void mutate in reality and

all around us

a perfect white-blue.

Silence filling the air, like

thousands of pianos crying

for the dead

of the perfect pianist.

We, the people, and everything that ever existed

became abstract ideas, smoky something

like the last cigar.

And the poetry and the songs, all started to fade away.

De pronto, 

a laughter started to fill the space,

the laughter

of a mad God.

That being

(translated from spanish)

 

That strange shadow,

that lonely child

playing with broken toys

headless robots,

in his shoulder sits

a crow without eyes

and in the depth of his soul

a wind-up orchestra

a simphony of night

whose fallen star

with it’s music appeases

the salty scent of the sea

Infinitesimal words of a tick without legs

You know how hard is to maintain the pose of a tick without legs ? It’s not like seeing stars falling from the sky in a night where meteorites don’t want to arrive. But I think everything is posible. To grow legs, I mean. And the soul fly in the astral plane. And the bottle of whisky awaits patiently to be open, for a tired working man. What is this life about ? Is not about fishing sharks in the sea, or whales. Is about follow dreams to a neverending land. Drink that bottle. Eat that cake. Grow, grow like a tree, open your wings, fly in television skies. Dream. Observe the destruction of a world that is just falling apart. Observe. Take action. Be alive. Live. Life is to be living, if not, what life is worth for ? Enter the circus of passions, the theatre of shadows around your house, in the garden where the children plays. Enter the pscyhodelic passion of eternity in words that never end. Crawl in the floor, like a worm. But at last you will find the gold that all your life you were searching for.

to Jazmin … (very old poetry II)

Blood roses your body

your words submerge the sea

(art of lover your essence)

poetry of sex

surrealism.

 

Psychopath

black candles nymph

the sky is on fire to your steps

impending madness

literal pornography.

 

(I wish to enter there

in your demon womb

melt in your bed

between your hair

photograph with poison your eyes).

 

Addict to acids

orgy of psychedelic spirits

(will we run naked in the forest of light?)

 

With your red hair

dyed with blood

undress in front of me

take off your silk

 

sacrifice to Poseidon a winter night :

waves will impregnate your body !

drowned maybe

in white fluid.

 

The mark was made

there is no come back

you incarnate poetry

between the wind your smile

 

you howl like a virgin of marble

and my crystal sperm

in your red hair

submerged maybe

in my poetry of distance.

 

 

 

(note : the original was in spanish,  this is an attempt of translation)