Él,
Que se lo cruza, que se lo llama,
del mar que viene pero él
que se queda,
y forma todas las playas
de verdades, turbulencias,
¡que sólo los barcos de dignidad
alcáncenlo, ellas!

Yes, surely I am deplored by
the beauty of destructions’ marking, holding dear
what’s longingly perverted
through the lost.
Ravens’ repulsing cries
are the needed on the shores,
not just on the autumn,
the rotting of the sea tales
their voices hold,
the selection of exquisite
that my preference twisted wants.
And so much else I daze over,
that overlay of the Emerald Land’s
waves and beats that
my distant to the south shore pleads,
that jade,
that shock,
that valiancy of the Scots
which in our sands
and crashing skies
should be,
lusts
to be.

The awaiting
for that dripping glory
in a mellowed casing of a wrecking ship,
it’s in a waiting room
made from a lone standing rock
that carries myths and ventures
to fulfill,
the Young Verter’s
everlasting,
tinting
moment.

Show up on our silver days
at the bays,
El Acantilado,
del Norte, caro,
The Cliff, The Cliff,
Ese Acantilado!

Le matin - En dormant.

J'entends des voix. Lueurs à travers ma paupière.
Une cloche est en branle à l'église Saint-Pierre.
Cris des baigneurs. Plus près ! plus **** ! non, par ici !
Non, par là ! Les oiseaux gazouillent, Jeanne aussi.
Georges l'appelle. Chant des coqs. Une truelle
Racle un toit. Des chevaux passent dans la ruelle.
Grincement d'une faux qui coupe le gazon.
Chocs. Rumeurs. Des couvreurs marchent sur la maison.
Bruits du port. Sifflement des machines chauffées.
Musique militaire arrivant par bouffées.
Brouhaha sur le quai. Voix françaises. Merci.
Bonjour. Adieu. Sans doute il est ****, car voici
Que vient tout près de moi chanter mon rouge-gorge.
Vacarme de marteaux lointains dans une forge.
L'eau clapote. On entend haleter un steamer.
Une mouche entre. Souffle immense de la mer.

I love aesthetically sensualistic men,
elevated and blazingly fresh men,
a **** smile, profound pronouns,
astounding nouns, zestful, distinctive,
magnetic, competitive, complex, charismatic,
compassionate, open-minded, observant,
knowledgeable, and logical, harmonic hues
of delightful affection, their smooth flow,
their deep, equally smooth voice, modulated,
silvery, and soft-spoken.  Ambitious
and adventurous men.  Accomplished
and artistic men. Clean-shaven and bearded
men.  Innovative and inspirational men.
Sophisticated and spontaneous men.
Masculine and gallant men.  I celebrate
all amazing men, their groovy sweetness,
thrilling electricity, instrumentally metaphoric
shoulders and arms, and sweetly scented chests.
Men are so abundantly blessed and full
of heaven and smoothness, coolness
and lucidness, poetically intriguing,
a nouvelle novel of the greatest literature.
The cadence of their masculinity speaks to me,
so vulnerable in this moment, taking pleasure
in their warm and wondrously inviting escape,
their addictive and compelling song, divinely
delicious thighs and legs full of hard muscle
and nasty spitting lyrics.  I think of their great
power, how they intoxicate my mind
with their thought-provoking originality,
utterly buoyant, feeling so close in proximity
to their pleasing existence, every flawless
mural covered in priceless and reflective art,
their bodies a musicality of epic invitations
towards a destiny of limitless love languages.
I yearn to lay on their chests, feel their peacefulness
enter my cells, make me whole, make me forget
about the storms in my past, let their hands caress
me, hold me tighter, kiss me, make me miss it all
when they are so close to me, take me away
into their notorious nation, let me fall asleep
to their soothing voices whispering in my ear, so loved
and protected, invested in this fiery romance.

Compliments compliment a yearning for love
But the leaves leave, like everyone.
Even from earth, space spaces things out

Sullen faces face the rising sun
Eerie silence silently patters the surface
Blue and black suits suit him best

It’s hardly hard to walk among the rest
Seasons season a life of despair
The buckle buckles after years and years

Our clutter clutters our heart and our mind.
However many roses rose from cracks he passed by.
Only his net nets a sense of worth..

Tears welling well into the cold, empty night
A glass of bitters, bitter against the palette
Feelings of dying dyes his kaleidoscope eyes.

Plotting plot notes of a final farewell...
Would his passing pass by everyone’s eyes?

If you ever see me
run over.
kicked.
bleeding.
blurring.
on the ground.
incoherently.
something wrong with me.
or that I’m not conscious,

don’t look for my breath
or heartbeat,
don’t reach for a phone to call
an ambulance that will drive me
to the hospice
to which the world throws you in
when your window sill climbing,
barefoot walking
in the dirt rolling
like child with freeing thoughts drooling
or law-culture breaking
gets too much
of a crime for them.
don’t ask me if I see still fine
your two or four fingers
yet look for the tears in my eyes.

For if I don’t have them anymore
and won’t get myself then or ever again
to truly cry,
it is only then
that you’ll know
I stopped fighting,
I died,
I ultimately ***** myself
and I forgot
there is more Beyond.

and without that
my existence isn’t worth
looking for the pulse
anymore.

I will not be worth
of seeing stars
as a boy
without sanity
or glasses
anymore.

...

I swear on you
upon all
that
heed.

Fascination in obscure
words or sensations
in my deep states,
seemingly insecure or even uncomfortable concepts to some
yet holding a great enigmatic eloquence
in elegance
when looked at through
a different prism of the crystal.
I could even say that my
Deep Stateness
is of the copper-dark
radiating scarlet paired
with lilac,
inky blue
and grey mist
at the Lighthouse Keeper’s shift
when all stories come alive
and what’s seemingly real
turns feeble.
An example word of such would be: “Incalescent”
or
“Evanescent”.
It holds that feeling
independently
from its cognitively
given definition.

Astrality, to me,
if you’d like to ask as a help
for placing it,
may be most probably
the aforesaid
Deep Stateness married
with the presence of My Lover, otherworldly consciences
without words
(as if I were some astral being
embodied
and aware of its misbelonging
to this world
and my moderated
female body)
and my Fernweh
for my Home.
It’s also that Phronemophiling,
like a thing greater
than getting high on drugs.
It is also my endearment
at my antics
or getting Philosophy
in me and what I read
as lovely,
playing naked on guitar
at night alone in silent dark
with trust in my eyes without glasses, looking at stars bravely
without this handicap device
and lonely daring the world
to tell me
I cannot see them without it
on,
using the strong reverberating
of my voice so pulsing out loud
with sureness and passion,
or fascinating at my tears
for more than two days
whilst in commotion
after reading deeply
“The Dead Poets Society”.

Surely you must have felt it
one way or another some time.

There must be a message
in the occurrence that whenever
in a closed-up space of time
I can never sit down
to any mind-occupying activity
yet resort no matter what
to observance,
passing as unrequited passion
of someone else’s (vocation),
shape-o-thoughts and sensing,
being the music the radio is listening to, and tender stupefying approaching
to hurt questions and structures
who hold onto philosophy
and one stance.
My depth darts me over
to finally look straight
into my own eyes
instead of straying,
diverting from the claim of my proper door.
I cannot die and will not,
will not leave my higher stake
for the trash bins’,
among which we live in,
sake.