and we go whoring at my signal leaving no broken hearts luis pareras
and we go whoring at my signal leaving no broken hearts -44 POEMSluis pareras
- RIEN C’EST DEJÀ BEAUCOUP ‘behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic’ Oscar Wilde - The Picture of Dorian Gray
I watch three pictures of myself hanging on the wall on the left me typing at an underwood typewriter, summoning words, full of booze & marihuana; in the middle with a suit, closing an investment deal & money & teeth; on the right a dark portrait in shadows; this is all there’s nothing more I follow her footsteps inside my mind she left a trail wailing like a wounded animal wailing wailing howling yelling me down like a siren before the bombs the present is thrown through the precipice of the past -right here right now- and yesterday has said all it could I wonder how many lovers will remain unmet, if I place two coins on my eyelids how many books will never make it to my place how many drinks will be left in shitty bar counters where I will never show up how many words from entangled soulmates could have drawn tears from my eyes but no more trembling why no more writing poetry prose with a beard like begging why no more days in the calendar like wounds like scars like graves why no more trips to middle-east cities why no more suitcases full of tragedies why no more sunglasses hiding the holes the tears my own nudity why no more eyes like watching you undress / why no more eyes like hands waving goodbye at a train station / why no more eyes like elastic bands to keep my veins visible / why no more eyes like biting a wooden stick when the truth electroshock hits why no more 23:44PM, August 13, 2014, and seconds coming steadily why nobody here to blame me who should I ask? truth is a boy raising his hand in an empty classroom whatever I do, the ones I love, leave -some are no more, others are distantpoets so blind to sin jumping off the balcony to solitude some pictures where I seemed happy scattered on the wall was it love? not sure, but everything is just a tomb now
rien c’est dejà beaucoup.
the figure in the dark portrait remains emotionless.
- TO THE POETS WITHIN ‘happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know’ ernest hemingway
to the poets, everything’s ruined panties on the floor solve nothing throw at least half of your poems don’t try to drink your way out of old loves -the suckers won’t go, let them live with youwear shades at all times avoiding eye contact, someone might talk to you if you don’t to hell and back is wishful thinking there’s no back from hell get drunk often, it beats being sober a l w a y s if you can’t love tell the world love does not exist treat love as a whore, use and abandon at once fuck w/o taking your sadness off, it’s ok create w/o pause cry often happiness is the enemy
- SO SIMPLE ‘When did the future switch from being a promise to being a threat?’ chuck palahniuk
ahead is ominous but I still can throw a hand into freedom and tighten I talk to Death and I tell her things that I never told anyone I blindfold myself and everything goes but Death remains Death looks at me as if I was masturbating in public everything is the last time the gipsy reads unfavorable omens in the lines of my hand love? bad health? bad friends? bad solitude learns to starve I’m not exagerated in my deathness everything is built upon death food is death sex is death on meth love is a firing squad I’m a fool I should have not taken the women I loved to the movies, but to the cemetery instead and have them wave me goodbye with their cadaveric hands.
- ON LOVE (WISDOM WE HAD NOT) ‘If I’m a bitch and a fake, is there nobody who will love a bitch and a fake?’ Graham Greene - The end of the affair
to everyone I loved, somehow, a mi manera I. we were going to see the world / every great love I had and me / and we finally ended seeing each other wisdom we had not every time so fucking brilliantly wonderfully imperfect loving desperately while love slipped from our hands no mercy but we clinched to it grappling at close quarters before the K.O. sometimes love lasted minutes and every time love was like a collage of old photos of my childhood girls / the green eyes of P. the first orgasm ever of A. the lies of V. the suicidal attempt when I left of T. the beautiful big big big breasts without initial ‘cause I don’t remember her name - all of them being one love was like swallowing sips of us of tongues of cocks of cunts / we breastfeeding each other as the world was a giant breast and we were thirsty and making love was just eating ourselves love was like purgatory to purify our sins / our immense ego / our non caring / our having everything without enjoying anything / our blind solitude / our poor choices / but none of those sins could be purified and then us screaming yelling this is useless! useless!! love was like reading kerouac listening to nacho contemplating basquiat as everything was talking about us and it felt unique everything giving us a shot of its presence when we needed it love was like words / absolute but insuficient / like thinking we were insane until we said things like al venirte me miras empuñando tus 23
años como un puñal y a partir de hoy quien dice cicatrices dice tú
fuck, I said that once and it was beautiful and all the things I said to each one I loved love was like puking on our knees into the toilet of our same-everymorning-face when the sex drive of the last night was gone and it just was us - yes / just us / in the morning / in silence / hands in our heads with despair love was like an eternal je veux sucer le sein de la liberté guidant le peuple d’eugène delacroix / bite it / nurse from it / el tuyo sólo lo deseo hoy, no entiendes - poetry? literature? painting? I’m in it for the pussy, don’t you see babe? love was like poems sliced out of our own flesh and they could feed us for years - o my soul I swear I loved you then / victory felt close love was like new wounds on top of early wounds almost healed love was like tiptoeing barefoot on broken glasses but at first it seemed nothing was broken / where did those glasses come from? from us? are you kidding? / and then we shaking our heads / so pissed off / who the hell put those glasses there?
love was like distant kings / wailing philosophers / a suitcase filled with despair closing the door behind / Nero with a lyre climbing the black steps of rome the whole city of us burning down fuck fuck fuck love was like we saying we can’t confirm nor deny the end of love while all the headlines all the neons with flickering letters all the banners of mercy fluttering on the dark posts of despair / all of them shouting the end of love, love is dead, love is dead, just hug me babe, it was great being with you. II. love was colossal beyond measure and then all the sadness love was orgasms looking face to face to each other you can’t come without asking for my permission don’t you dare babe and then all the saliva mixed with smiles mixed with groans while we kissed desperately trying to make it last one more second but then the sadness love was I promise, fuck I do, and I was telling the truth and then the sadness las promesas y otras putadas, as she said once love was aiming a knife at sadness vade retro sadness you no longer rule if I see you again I will tear you apart you fucker, so confidents so strong so arrogant and then all the sadness sadness why you here? will you ever go? will you close my eyes in the end? at my funeral? love was babel outside us but not within each one of us / not with each other / as we talked and we talked and we talked and our conversation was infinite till one day I didn’t understood what she was saying and then the sadness and then the sadness and then the sadness -fucking sadness- and the horizon is just sadness.
- AUTOUR DE MOI, LES FOUS a juan, mi amigo, hijo de la gran puta adorable y eterno, underdog de cojones, q ayer se suicidó en medio del verano invencible (escritura automática, 15 min, todo lo q pueda escribir sin cambiar nada, deprisa como tu muerte, pienso en ti, cabrón) ‘en los desechos del mundo, un nuevo mundo’ pier paolo pasolini
autour de moi, les fous
those who drink to own everything those who talk girls down to have beautiful sex with them those able to get inside of their loved ones but only till the bottom of their cunts, as they’re not allowed deeper than that, and they suffer because they can’t get deeper into their souls; terrified as not even their cum is allowed to remain inside, their cum dripping from every pussy, always feeling fucking rejected out of them those who would talk for 40 days and 40 nights in plane seats / in windows in the seventh floor of cold flats with their feet out in the air & about to jump smelling of sex and fear / in the crowded whorehouse of their dirty minds / with wide-open brilliant eyes dripping wonder like crying like tears those who hear a good friend has commited suicide and think an infinitely sad te suicidaste en mi lugar and feel guilty those who are smiled to, while they fake a smile after impossible ‘I love
you’s’
those who don’t go to ‘sleep’ because they’re not able to, but rather need to ‘pass out’ full of vodka every night those who vanish in a bar stand in sunsets in madness in tribal dances in nowhere leaving a trail of ‘u should see this’ postcards and kisses full of tongues leaving no broken hearts those who only care about poems or sex or soup or now those who never think they know right from wrong, those who never judge, those who never meddle those who hate drama seeking bastards and just want naked truth in their beds those who don’t know where to go inside of themselves in sleepless nights, but they know where the bottom is as they’ve been there those who never knew the word ‘wait’ those who yawp loudly insanely in shock during orgasms as begging for mercy and scare their girlfriends with their pleasure and piss neighbours off those who bond with nothing, those who love, love, love, surrounded by holy countdowns -travelling from person to person- and it hurts those who love astonishingly / honestly / burning cigarrette holes in their own forearms protesting the end of love / and are always scared of love / every fucking time those who in the end only believe in tenderness and would like to stay in tenderness
those who sink in confused alcohol and pills without crying for help -as help is shit & shit & just more shitthose who see with the eyes of incomparable angels high paranoid confused in shitty bars full of smoke kissing someone those who never attend formidable funerals -you’re dead, won’t go there to see you turned into nothing, pal, because you are nothing now-you are nothingthose who make me rage asking / why you willing to die? / why you dead? / when I already know why and I’m scared. (La Garriga, #94)
-ON WRITING(extremely drunk) ‘je n’ai pas d’ennemi sinon l’enfer lui même’ antonin artaud
‘deshechos en llanto, los vientos soplaban de popa impulsándonos con hinchadas velas’ ezra pound - canto I
literature is not a continuum, it is more like a series of frightening dislocations, rage moments that can’t be summoned by an act of will, literature is born out of necessity; being always extremely improbable as if my thoughts had come from nowhere I place myself between things and the name of things I write on the margins of other books where there is barely space to write as I write precisely when I have no space suffering, but only because i’ve chosen to suffer, i’m never more than one step from collapse usually too weak to write steadily I can rarely finish the pieces I have begun, you know I’m so full of literary abortions so full of shit you just see the finished things but never the pain & suffering of abandonement ‘heavy the weeping’ as in the first canto from Ezra Pound thinking I am worth nothing and drinking a bit more and getting high just to see if drugs can write out of themselves and forgive me for my mediocrity, and sometimes they do.
-YOU WANTED ME TO FILL YOU AND I DID AND YOU WERE DRIPPING ALL THE WAY FOR ONE YEAR AND A HALF-
*
I filled you with language I filled you with ruined moral landscapes I filled you with your own ego to show your poetry to the world, and that was the best thing I’ve ever done for anyone I filled you with filthiness & obscenity, but you were already filthy and obscene, and our obscenity was awesome I filled you with intensity and whispered songs I filled you with boxing clinches sometimes, and we were always covered by our own blood & exhausted, embracing one another, waiting to be saved by the bell, but the bell never rang I filled you with immense unimaginable love I filled you with orgasms and cum, and my cum dripped out of you even if every time you tried to hold it inside -the same way you tried to hold me-, but you couldn’t I filled you with toys while being tied with your legs wide open and you asked me for permission to come and many times I was magnanimous and granted it I filled you with the gas of freedom, but you never lighted the match I filled you with entanglement that felt like being high on heroin I filled you and you were constantly dripping out everything and asking for more I filled you in a way that even if you had me now right there forever fucking you between your legs, some inches inside of you, you’d still miss me
*
(I filled you and it wasn’t enough)
-ON POETRY-
a real poem exists only while you are writing it, in fact a real poem moves, changes like the sea, it keeps on changing at the same time; once you write it, it becomes stone it can’t change anymore, the ‘everything is possible’ is no longer true as it has a beggining and an end and it fucking dies as everything else so sad
-ON SUICIDE-
suicide not a decision but an uncontrollable need death transformed into a heroin addict preparing a quick fix a pederast raping a boy a sunflower turning to the sun fire reaching to the top
- LIKE A SHOT OF TEQUILA -
she brings me a book from enrique vila-matas I say ‘choose one of my books’ in return she chooses a small book from anne sexton we have dinner we get high we read poetry we play games we bite our lips and we go to my bedroom the balcony is as wide-open as her from my bed I see the building in front of my place there’s only one window lit scary cyclope it sees me longing for the joy of a fuck-buddy O love, my mouth against a poet’s* cunt! she comes and I’m fucking stoned freedom feels devastating and then finally I shout my orgasm out like a shot of tequila like being beaten like begging for mercy *
destiny is not random
- INVINCIBLE -
back then when we were creating reading poetry singing songs to each other fucking like crazy we were invincible like gangrene like a poem like being drunk like happiness in a picture but some antibiotics are fucking great nowadays there are poems replacing other poems every new book I read and hangovers should let me die and leave me alone there’s still happiness ‘frozen’ in pictures, though and I understand ‘invincible’ only looks fresh in the past everywhere else rots
- WE ARE THIS ROOM -
the straps all the closed doors the silence sign -as if the order could be obeyedthe echoes of us begging -even our egos cracked at the endthe smell of urine -we pissed our pants, we were so scaredand no ‘us’ we are an empty room; and its emptiness will remain suspended in time forever -frozenas a beautiful memory of the best-of-what-could-have-been not having a single hair out of place
photo:
electric chair (red), 1964 andy warhol
- OUR PHONES OVER THE TABLE -
para A.
red lips red hair dark soul the taste of your sex is a needle in my arm everything feels true & harmless when there’s no love your awkward kisses drip like I.V. heroin they’re everywhere our phones over the table keep on beeping now and then while we come there’s nothing to understand reality is strange
- LIKE A SYMPHONY
she blew me like a symphony she blew my poetry my ego my screams my cock my pouring semen & fragility and swallowed I’d love to step back into that blow and disappear sometimes I felt noble with her sometimes I felt ugly eternal stowaway of imagined futures she took away all my morphine in sad nights I will moan her name (Barcelona, 19/abr/2014)
para carlota
- BJ -
it always felt like a thousand voices screaming 500 days long* she kneeled and gave all she had for some minutes she never flinched while I was coming, not even once, she swallowed calmly then she ceased to give when crawling back next to me her face used to be somewhat absent she was always weeping for something but that something wasn’t there while she blew me once, she even whispered a song to my ear immediately after ‘era un juego y ahora es real’ (...) smiling and when whispering that song that something wasn’t there neither we shared love & lies for 500 days, give or take (Barcelona, 14/abr/2014)
- TEARS IN BLACK EYELASH
para mi
it all happens in a second I am dressing in women clothes red dress purse big circular earrings red lipstick -the tone is a bit different from the dress, will work on thata big ring in my middle finger I’m even wearing panties white cotton ones, with a pink lace they’re comfy, but I find it difficult to accomodate my sex on one side my three day beard looks awkward didn’t find women shoes of my size I look like a she-male, like a queen I kneel facing the mirror now I kiss myself in the mirror viciously traces of lipstick on the mirror tell the limits of she and me I was having problems in differentiating which side was which and suddenly she bends and sucks the sadness of me as if it were a huge cock a complimentary BJ to my misery tears in black eyelashes
- DEICIDES -
I commited all sorts of deicides in the past a few gods still remain, though poetry love, when bound to a timeframe the entanglement of twin minds maybe some drugs the rest is long gone -useless golden calfswhat sins have I done to be banned from believing? why peace is so difficult? I strip voluptuously for all my demons while undressing I lay on my bed I close my eyes and drift to wasted loves I smuggle pleasure to my bed with my own hand I wipe the ashes of pleasure off my belly and I think about this poem taking comfort in knowing my best poem is still unwritten -everything else in my life islater I hear a clock ticking my whole life reduced to that tick
- WHEN I GET DRUNK ‘me being no one in the air, nothing but clouds in the moonlight with humans fucking underneath...’ ginsberg
when i get drunk i feel tragic resentful superior arrogant and ridiculously full of mariachis and the world is a gigantic gossip and it goes on and on rambling about itself and i say ‘good for you’ i am so not interested when i get drunk youporn becomes la meca and i pilgrim stroking my cock religiously and my sordid fantasies wave their hands under a rain of conffetti as heroes coming back victorious from the war against dull souls when i get drunk everything becomes insanity herself and full of teeth the noise of my neighbours during sex is insane and full of teeth the pictures in my wall are full of teeth my bitterness is full of teeth when i get drunk the waste of furious intensity of the universe makes me so sad so many things could be happening and they don’t and it is such a waste and destiny dressed in dust forgets all i was and all i was meant to be when i get drunk i see la jime looking to sabina and all the love in her face and all the truth in her face and i wonder how they managed i just wanted that just that life lied to me and then i see carl and ann and jean paul and simone and humbert and lolita and i want to hit them hard as they are a mirror and i want it shattered because i just wanted that just that life lied to me and all the ancient wasted loves bully me in the unforgiving patio of memories like the one in my old school and when the teacher comes my loves pile up over me and I am suffocating beneath them life lied to me when i get drunk every emotion is a she and i am full of questions to what she will i go next? will i be safe? will i love? will i be loved? will i need to run away -again- from love?
when i get drunk i jot down strange ideas such as ‘a zebra does not need to run faster than the lion, just faster than the other zebras’ or other things like that, and i don’t underline the best quotes in the books i am reading, only the ones that justify myself when i get drunk i stare at the merciful vodka labelled as ‘absolute citron’ in front of me and i wonder when absolut is going to market one labelled ‘absolute pussy’? you fuckers that’s the one we are waiting for all your market research is wrong when i get drunk beat poets sleep under my bedsheets and we wake up in sudden barcelona and we crave for cunts for poems for interesting minds for the-mighty-lightening-bolts-of-sex and we go whoring at my signal leaving no broken hearts we are all One and i see the tormented world through their heroic different eyes and my imagination of a beautiful naked mind woman wearing no pants hugs me and sings me nacho vegas songs after blowing me and coming in her mouth nude souls seeking each other out in the impossible when i get drunk sometimes i wanna die and i wanna send you my tears from the ecstasy of drunkenness surrounded by perros barking and guarding the entrance for no one without having suffered is allowed there when i get drunk i am indecipherably sexed no man no woman just the noise of an immense party full of marihuana and mad people reading yeats surrounded by the noble ruins of love o love, what have you done to me, love? when i get drunk i fear the horror of forgetting and i fear happiness because after so much pain happiness is terrifying and i speak my mind out and i say ‘to love is to lie’ and i promise the unthinkable like when i promised i would drive a local girl home safely w/o fucking her but her name was Weakness and i couldn’t and she loved it when i get drunk i feel like destroying everything a golpes con mi polla while growing my beard of wisdom because nothing deserves to go on nothing
and i hate everyone looking like the needle of a broken compass -everyone looking like you-, because you did nothing, babe, because you will never dare to live -unmovable like the needle of a broken compass- and sometimes you point in the right direction but it’s just out of luck o my twin soul i loved you immensely and you did nothing and now i fuck other women when i get drunk i am possessed by the spirit of ginsberg whitman pound corso blake cassady meltzer ferlinghetti burroughs and we all feel like shit and so not loved and abandoned and we all think the same unfathomable thoughts of the soul and no exorcism will get them out of me as we are One when i get drunk i read poetry written in the toilet walls of nearby bar dumps with cocks and cunts sketched amid used condoms amid parched cum amid beauty herself when i get drunk i see the lights of the firemen truck revolving orange in the debris of my bed everything a casualty because i won’t fuck you anymore the defying past raises its fist amidst the debris - can barely see it, sadness is so dusty and now i am so full of drugs - lsd marihuana alcohol please take me away from here- i dunno how i got that far the flies of suicide buzzing around me when i get drunk angels lick my cock never lowering their gaze and they look like an inbreed between neal cassady monica bellucci carlota roby and i feel their warm breath mixed with their saliva while they whisper ‘come baby come’ to my ear vodka, are you my angel? do you love me? do you see the unstoppable train of death coming? will you try to kill me? please don’t be afraid when i get drunk i crave for tenderness holy tenderness the only thing that may never wear out i touched you in the past i touched you please do touch me i beg you do touch me again please do my underwood portable typewriter and I are wrecked and i love her and what if she’s the last thing i love? and i am crying helplessly and i fear what if this has been my best year my best love my best poem and then my best poem is already written and now there’s nothing left for me here and i can die?
defeat lifts the veil and failure no longer matters because only when i fail i see truth and then i am a poet i am beautiful i am imperfect i am this poem a puppeteer a junky i am jealous and i am jealousy! i am love! complexity! dreams! i am my cock! a story-teller! a skeleton! a pendulum! a neurosurgeon! i am baroque! i am all things! O pain get your clothes off we’re free! and i am i am i am and i dance (Barcelona, 27/abr/2014 04:00 AM) (escrito de un tiron, sin cambiar nada, sin dormir y drogado)
- NAKED ‘old moon my eyes are new moon with human footprint’ ginsberg
in my mind we are still fucking she moving up and down on top of me she still goes on in my imagination like this, like an echo of us, never stopped we owned each other sexes and souls for one night her cunt never belonged to me her cunt belongs to mankind you can’t privatize something so beautiful there would be riots death revolutions i pulled down my shorts and she pulled down her pants the same, obedient and ready the fear of we-are-unknown-lovers ever present in her eyes so cute she was nervous and suddenly she dived on my cock like a bomb and said
fuck me with all your books watching us and don’t wait for me just use me animal my soul and write it down make this moment eternal in a poem and i just did and here i lie naked, dreaming
- ONE DAY -
one day things are taken from you suddenly there’s no more fun no more women no more applause no more dream of course there are little things going on but the big game just stalled all your wrong choices coming back for vengeance they just needed to wait to see your dead body passing by in front of their porches just like the game of life passes you by you become just your memories you have the memories of when you were great but no future memories to keep on feeding you you starve of meaning the tricky part you don’t know when it starts you don’t know if it’s happening you know at the end
- OUR STORY ‘no one has loved perfectly no one’ ginsberg
we never bought cocaine in the alley two blocks away from my place looking over the shoulder for cops guardian angels monsters we never yelled at each other naked we never hosted a poets party and ended the night drunk and horny we never saw each other fucking with someone else we never cried together we never lost a suitcase full of our own memories -ours by right- and imagined the suitcase was maybe going round and round forever in a baggage belt at a tokyo airport while we were smoking opium at a turkish whorehouse our pockets full of strip club passes we never had a beer at cafe de flore in paris and visited simone and jean paul at their empty tomb* * we never tattoed together and i must confess i was willing to use your own handwriting as a font, fuck, i wanted you -a loved poet- to write down ginsberg on my arm forever we never went to princeton university and kneeled we never had that modeling session where i was going to photograph you naked with boy’s underwear and a latex dildo beneath -strutting your stuff, pavoneandote- as a magnificent shemale sad contemplative loudmouthed looking the ugly world outside through the window we never let ourselves wander in our feelings as stray dogs what a waste of intensity, babe but i did tie you up over my kitchen table with your legs wide open and ’use me’ written in your belly with your own lipstick and made you come several times i did see the elephants purity amidst the chains with you smiling at my side in deep sri lanka and the chains reminded me of us i did experience extreme jealousy knowing you were sleeping with someone else and i came back from there victorious i did write countless poems for you and you did write countless poems for me i did prepare you a coffee in the morning i did had five vodka shots in minutes and then walked stuttering to our hotel room to fuck you helplessly i did help you out in anything you needed i did love you perfectly for seconds, once, i really believe i did -the first night i came inside of you and i saw you dripping all i was-
and now the days of the future that were once a possibility are like relatives waving goodbye at the train station but it’s ok *
they fooled us all
they’re immortal
- TO THE WOMAN WITH THE RED LIPSTICK -
08:17 AM saturday 3rd may she looks really fucked up & gorgeous & absent night dress red lipstick still in place the evening went obviously wrong shitty loves as quick fixes the cock is the needle bjs given just because you run out of things to talk about can’t understand why she didn’t find someone to love her last night tired as 2014 and facing her morning coffee which like my morning coffee is the god of small things she asks what am I reading looks to my lips not to my eyes and i see her little breasts sticking out god she’s cute
isabel viendo llover en macondo
stinks of alcohol and sweat late thirties she lost it years ago but she so attractive running with the hunted luchino visconti would have made her a star her eyes are the eyes of one of those rare women w/o guilt eyes full of pity for everything around eyes falling on everything as a curse in my imagination she yells at me naked upset drunk barely able to stand up leaning on the wall with one hand but beautiful and i see my desire is literary i don’t feel like willing to fuck her i feel like writing about her which means certainly a lot more to me her self-pity gives me a hard-on - my cock in an awkward position and now it grew and it hurts she is the banner of defeat she is true i think she knows
- LETTER TO MY DRUNKENNESS ‘the more powerful and original a mind, the more it will incline towards the religion of solitude’ aldous huxley
dear last night drunkenness, we need to talk what have you done to my barcelona/my nightbar-around-the-corner/my visions of naked girls that i presume are not really naked why the cunts talking to me at all times why you/lights/music/smiles/everything betrays me making me think i forgot and i’m happy where is pain will he come back with its loud hammer the guy on his forties behind me does no longer sleep with his wife same as mad eternity who broke free and has been always cheating on all things why the fun while young people in kiev venezuela syria died tonight partying with their lost future and it was no joke while dogs slept starving caged skinny tortured by people going to church and nobody cared but a few while dreams of love dissappeared through the black dreamhole of the egos and were wasted as nothing can escape the egos and nothing will ever bring nowhere everything repeating itself endlessly insanity winning the strip poker of life we all bare-skinned fate telling big lies and you covering her up with the blanket of false happiness why the nonsense the false thrill the dumb ecstasy when i get back home chatting with someone and i send a selfie of my cock -an unwary playful messy cockselfie- and she does indeed send me back her beautiful cunt caged in a screen and i swear to lola we touched ourselves and her cunt was beautiful is this a message/do you wanna tell me something disguised in a beautiful non-fuckable caged cunt/why don’t you talk to me now is the world full of possibilities again, answer my question i tear the recommendation-letter-for-Death pain wrote for me, and its hundreds of paper bits will become confetti amidst empty tumblers and chairs tomorrow at midmorning when an immense hangover sieges the city
- ON FORGETTING* ‘I’m going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become’ sartre - no exit
when i say i’ve loved you more than anyone before in fact i mean you’re the highest idealization i’ve ever made colossally unimaginably ideal but what’s love other than a sick idealization of a potential, always fighting with the stubborn ugliness of the real you weren’t real baby you were a construct of my mind and i was a construct of yours but so astonishing so magnificent so loved this doesn’t make you any less wonderful and unique no one no mind no sex had ever triggered such an emotional high the uniqueness of a perceived unsolitude that could exist after all no drug would compare to that it was violent i ‘almost’ had it -the taste of the impossible the nonexistent the unrealextending my hand like a bum in vain ‘almost’ is the closer you can get to anything but what a magnificent view from there!!two minds a cock and a cunt screaming with joy like a ginsberg sailor being fucked up the ass! and now the memory of its intensity will fade out it will vanish like a tragic fallout like wood to ashes like light at dawn into complete darkness i mean i will understand the language architecture of ‘it felt astonishing’ or ‘the biggest emotion in all my life’ i will remember who we were and smile when reading ‘the underdogs’ written during those magical days - forever frozen and preserved from time-the-mighty-acid and i will acknowledge something immensely beautiful was going on but i wont be able to recall it’s full intensity i won’t really feel again how it was forever gone into oblivion and strange as it may be in the coming years back to sadness i’ll think of you as the horror of forgetting i loved you and it was unimaginable
*
- ON SADNESS ‘those who escape hell never talk about it and nothing much bothers them after that’ bukowski
under the sadness that claims me like a vast sky always spreading like termites inside i am full of ants i begin with nothing and i end with nothing but the truth my life now reduced to fuck & masturbate drink my way out write and cheat everybody -nobody knows meby being succesful at work long ago i found out truth is important / truth is a prism showing sadness infinite spectrum allowing me to understand myself long ago i found out sadness at lies lasts forever, sadness at truth never lasts been desperately seeking truth ever since being surrounded by it is the only relief possible -and it’s not muchtoday sadness calls me by my name and somehow i know my name is in danger in its mouth please end the pain, i beg you
- PORNO (SEX IN THE XXIst CENTURY) ‘j’ai toujours préféré la folie des passions à la sagesse de l’indifférence‘ anatole france
skype is a bed every selfie is a fuck me internet becoming poetry and sex poetry and sex being just an ‘is it safe, here?’ and it is like death, they both taking everything people fucking people w/o giving them a piece of their freedom holy escapism the world full of smart houdinis the world full of ego-driven spoilt narcissistic tyrants wanting attention for ourselves and just ourselves - bless us and in the middle of all this I found you and I loved you and I fucked you and I wrote about you willing to make you my beatrice even more than that willing the world to talk for centuries about julieta, beatrice, you but dirtier, dirtier
- THE END WAS A WOLF ‘if you want a happy ending, it just depends on where you close the book’ ― Orson Wells
the last moment I saw you you were heading the taxi cab in front of my place and I was at the elevator watching you go you never turned back and you looked beautiful I never told you, but I was certain this was the last time I would see you it began as a whisper ‘this is the last time, luis’ and soon the whisper turned into an animal the end was a wolf ‘do not lecture me, wolf, and be quick with your words’, I said ‘she does not want your freedom’, he said, ‘you offered freedom with consequence and responsability
and she wanted freedom without them you played the dangerous game of love and you lost’
the wolf left and I lied in my bed telling to myself ‘no, this morning I just came inside of her, we will find a way’ meanwhile our future was packing his things to leave with you
- AHA, I’M GONNA WRITE OR PAINT OVER MY WONDERWALL BECAUSE THIS WAY IT WILL NO LONGER BE BUILT WITH PICTURES OF HER BUT WITH PICTURES BELONGING TO A WORK OF ART THAT WILL NOT BE SEEN AS A PUNCH IN THE FACE BY ANY OTHER WOMAN - my wonderwall so full of pictures photographs as graves in the air stalled in a wonderwall larger than death memories like jews cramped in gas chambers - sad to die but too tired to fight back heading to the crematorium of time; you know my wonderwall may seem incomplete but it is not for no work of art remains unfinishedç not even the one that has been abandoned
- ON PULLING UP THE HANDBREAK ‘the worse form of despair is not being who you are’ soren kierkegaard
i want to ask poetry to forgive me for having used her for other ends than pure truth i want to ask wonderful one night fucks to forgive me because i used them just to cheat sadness and i should have known sadness was way smarter than that - don’t regret them though, they were all using me for the same reason i want to ask everyone who loved me once to forgive me because i never knew how to stay, there was always something missing that made me run away, always chasing something, and truth is i never found it i want to ask you to forgive me for not having found the way, pain was a bitch, but i tried, you know i did; maybe my sadness was not enough for you; besides that no regrets
- FIFTY-SEVEN ‘what does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?‘ jacques lacan
you stabbed in the back all my relationships of the future and now my scale from 1 to 10 of vice/madness/mind/potential/immensity no longer applies
- DAD WHAT IS DEATH - ‘love never dies a natural death, it dies of blindness and errors and betrayals, it dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings‘ anais nin
dad, what is death i think of you these days i wanna know what will happen when i die because i’m dying now my mind is messy i can’t think straight i masturbate and sadness won’t go, dad i’m sick of sex, it’s overated and gives nothing i’m jealous i’m invaded by a mob of jealous termites eating me inside out i fuck just to exterminate them but simmetry does not help, never did i don’t wanna write because i turn into a son of a bitch calculating hurt as if it were € and i know about € and words fuck, dad, i can’t control myself dad dad dad dad what is death, please tell me it is an answer it is a we it is coming it is coming it is hidden in three scary cuts in her left wrist it hums as an old microphone announcing herself it is not the elephants in sri lanka it is a photograph showing i was there and i am not now it claims me like a vast sky it wants a rest it is me going back to my room drunk stumbling on my walls tonight it is a blake vision it is rimbaud’s leg being cut it is walt whitmann without the beard it is carl solomon rotting in rockland it is sadness calling me by my name and somehow i know my name is in danger in its mouth it is forgetting and i won’t kneel dad, i swear i won’t it is asking for forgiveness but to who it is a cunt i can’t fuck it is steps at reverse motion it is the siren of a police car in a raid to catch the lies around me it is fallin’ like manna from heaven it is you dead it is you dead it is you dead please end the pain, i beg you
- RESERVOIR LOVES ‘for darkness restores what light cannot repair’ joseph brodsky
like the madame of lies in love’s whorehouse poetry will one day bleed havoc! mayhem! like a tired prostitute love will one day gnash its teeth and close its legs desperate barricades full of endings! deathtoll on the millions! -reservoir* lovesall in the same graveyard of insane hope i won’t pray for them a population, tissue, etc. which is chronically infested with love or the causative agent of love as a disease and can act as a source of further infection *
- I WOULD NEVER LIE TO MYSELF IN A POEM ‘what does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?‘ jacques lacan
I I I I
don’t need an audience don’t need no one’s approval could be in a wheelchair tomorrow loved twice, the first time it was pure tenderness the second time pure mind, both were inimaginable I really hate most of the people, and my hate is pure I am an alcoholic but would never admit it outside this poem, I consume drugs very often sadness, sex, alcohol, any of the three makes me write, nothing else really works I have really sordid sexual fantasies, should write something about that I lied big time when I was younger, now I try not to, never
- LETTER TO ME ‘bright was the light of my last martini on my moral horizon‘ norman mailer
when the music stopped you went mad it is so hard to dance w/o music and in the cold, you drunk yourself a river since she tore you apart but now you are doing better you have always been a words guy but writing was destroying the quality of your suffering, you should write less for a while, you’ve been full of words as martinis as amphetamines, words as tools to hurt, words as tools to fuck, and they are all the same kind of words actually words aspirin/words to wet cunts/bigmouthed words that could do pussies all night till they came no more/why words/tender words/napalm words stop the words mate, just take off your skin and dance in the bones! you always trying to ‘preserve’ things by getting other people to read what you wrote and feel what you felt; they simply can’t/you need no one/you need no audience time is just the combination of memory mixed with desire, time is made of that, time will freeze if you stop both, pain will freeze welcome to luis, population 5,000 listen carefully, no one truly loved you, alejandra can be loved nacho can be loved, no same-face-every-morning can be loved, there’s nothing wrong with that, pure truth is electroshock, bite the wood, it heals, remember carl solomon in rockland, not even allen loved him truly forever, he did love him truly for some seconds but try to ‘almost’ love, even for seconds, keep on trying, what if what if you never know the horse chariot wheel of love might stop for a second and you could be able to jump in and give a few rides and touch a wonderful mind again love is always the same wood horse going in circles but the ride is always different! dance in the bones! you’ve been acting very eccentric lately, amoral I would say, but life never had nothing to do with morality just with its consequences, a bit of madness heals madness, you can learn a lot about women by getting smashed with them go break with them hurt them let be hurt by them in any case, sex means nothing -just the moment of ecstasy, yellow roman candles fireworks pirotecnia firecrackers, it dies in minutes, minutes luis, never stays only the mind stays the entanglement stays the rest is fast gone into nothing
all the things you’ll not remember will secretly tell the things you’ll never forget it was the best time of your life, o god she was, you know, but forget is a blanket, it protects you from the holy cold of absence, time is a mighty acid for a reason, nature found a way to ease pain by creating forget, smile & welcome it there’s no more useful prayer than desire, desire is god, desire helps, but remember the price of love should never be bullshit, too expensive, don’t buy, never forget your last year here it is/here it is/your fiftieth mental nervous breakdown/a golden breakdown anniversary love & you, party and go back home tell love we must part, there’s been too much self-pity, love was never the answer anyway dance in the bones! this year is dead, time transfigures truths into untruths, you a fresh start! true freedom is having no past, burn away your past, animal your soul animal your soul champagne & pussy $400 some of your last poems were written under deep hate and severe depression -not this one, finally- I know you’ve been tempted to eliminate some of them but you won’t, as they are you as they are life as they show you how fucked-up you are and how insecure and that’s helpful tame the uprising of your crooked ego antes de que asome el rencor antes de que reine la culpa ariel rot sings to you and he won’t stop, let him sing sex is bubblegum, hate a swarm of mosquitoes, guilt is dirty fingernails you’ll die anyway of ginsberg, sartre, camus, nacho vegas, dylan, polaramines mixed with alcohol /// avoid boredom & fury
thank you terror thank you disillusionment thank you frailty thank you consequences thank you silence
most things never happen, this one did, you two will always be entangled, maybe not entangled by love but entangled by something else something unnameable unspeakable thank C. she’s wonderful, your pain is not her fault, it’s only yours, you loved love is the eyes of the dead karma is true, life gives back what you give to life bomb the past best, L (Barcelona, 10/may/2014)
- LA FOLIE (LETTER TO ALL THE MAD ONES) ‘j’ai toujours préféré la folie des passions à la sagesse de l’indifférence‘ anatole france
don’t lie to yourselves, you’re in love with your sins, any repentment is a fake to help you feel better, if you’re addict to sex you’ll keep fucking if your addict to drugs you’ll keep hiding behind them if you’re addict to lies you’ll lie forever, there’s no redemption poetry is just another form of despair gentlemen, let’s not start sucking our cocks yet inside of you unspeakable cities live and endless deserts and mean thoughts, evil and death
- FOR MS. DEATH WHO NEEDS ME LIKE PROFIT NEEDS A FUTURE ‘cuando yo muera, no me vere morir, por la primera vez’ antonio porchia
I dreamt you, death you were many things in my dream you were a bone and i was a dog and I craved for you you were memories swallowed in a mouthful you were not polite you were standing up and I was on my knees and I thought of biting your immense frightening cock while I blew you/fistfucking you crossed my mind too, i must admit you were a distant hero you were methedrine happiness you were ‘if i knew 20ys ago what i know now i’d have tried to find love even harder and the result would have been the same: no love, but what a ride’ you were unspeakable cities and endless deserts and mean thoughts and an invisibility cloak you were evil and fake you were no redemption
- THE SUITCASE AT MY DOOR THAT NEVER WAS ‘hay suicidios que son obras maestras’ roberto bolaño
i miss when there was still hope for us even if we were meant to die no matter what but there was hope hope, baby! the maybe of a sudden suitcase full of sadness at my door the fear of failure begging for a quickie insanity flashing its biteable tities for us hope looked back then like the possibility of redemption like if the waiting meant something like if your existence promised defeat was bearable like if our pain was loud but real and it was more than enough *
el nuestro lo es
- UNICORNS (BUT YOU ONCE WERE HERE) “dear anyone who finds this, do not blame the drugs” ― Linda Barry
when i think of you i see wind blowing with no apparent reason making sound in tree tops i see the slowness of the sun crossing the sky i see the hand of the mother greeting farewell to the soldier at the bus station i see a non-fucked-wet-cunt fed up with masturbation i see polaris the book i just got through postal mail makes me think of you, as all the books i get do make me think of you a unicorn makes me think of you because it doesn’t exist tonight i walked out my block muntaner night falling slowly like you and i kept on steping on your feet as you were my shadow, babe why tomorrow keeps on coming back? i already want to forget what will come you once were here on earth on my most sordid fantasies on beautiful orgasms, in the present where now?
- I DON’T FUCK MUCH WITH THE PAST, I PLAN TO BE FORGOTTEN WHEN I’M GONE (RANDOM THOUGHTS ON PAST AND ON DEPRESSION) (ANNOTATED) “I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour, because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance.” ― Beryl Markham, West with the Night Beryl became the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic
many partners lovers girlfriends have told me it is always shocking the way I write-off the past and change course, like stabbing history in the back how it seems I don’t suffer abandoning something beautiful behind how commited I am with the word ‘no’ they are right, i am a psychotic drifter, and as lonely as that can be, it is also amazingly freeing, those who can forget the past are way ahead of the rest, there’s no ego in what I just said, just truth freedom is made of turning points freedom is a gigantic ‘no’ the past is a graveyard of experiences to whom I said ‘enough’; and they are wrong, I suffer deeply is just that I choose -every fucking second-, and choosing is something most of the people don’t understand, they are not used to choosing, they talk write sing about freedom as if they knew the bitch, and they don’t really know her, they don’t know how cold-blooded she is freedom is as emotionless as depression, she does not feel anything sleeping with her is not for the faint of heart, I’m afraid I will never define myself in terms of anyone else I will never feel the pressure of others and truth is the easier it is for me to choose my future, the more scared I am because living has become me in a burning window and if i jump, it won’t be because i am not afraid of the jump it will be because of the flames of life don’t tell me ‘don’t jump’ because you’ll never understand the fire i once put a real gun in my mouth and tasted it, it was cold and greasy, there’s no way to know that w/o doing it the rats of no-meaning infest everything around me, that is all and when they come only sleep, alcohol, lexapros -or death- will do the trick I run away from past because I know from the nights of coldness, I know the past will drag me down & back because at the end of the day your past is not my past, and your truth is not my truth because I have no time for doubts because I have no empathy whatsoever, I lost a chunk of it with every patient that died in my hands, and they were thousands, I am no longer moved by anyone’s pain hell, I won’t be found in the arms of pity and lost in the world of my own mind, I write,
as writing is the best psychotherapist ever, and here’s why I don’t write ‘about’ things, writing is so much more powerful than that, I ‘write-in’ things and I ‘write-out’ things, I make things happen and I make things dissapear inside of me just by writing them eat this, pal, it took me a long time to understand it and now I know it’s our mistrust of the future what makes it hard to give up the past as the past is easy, there’s nothing to lose there in the past everybody is dead, old selves no longer the same, such a lonely place the past corpses sitting in dress suits, love and death together love and death always so fucking close, the tone of a love letter is so the same as the tone of a suicide note, don’t you think? and then there are even love letters that are suicide notes at the same time as the one written by virginia woolf
‘if anybody could have saved me it would have been you’
virginia I love you I love you I love you you knew about love and you still chose suicide poetry just another form of despair one day you understand that past is just words even sadder, past is the words we choose to remember, so it is never true by definition, it is a fucking lie, it is the truth it failed to be every label spitting on its face because the label is nothing but a pathetic shadow of the real experience words are fucking nothing, a fool’s errand; the real past knows the underdogs know we don’t know no more emil cioran once said that a book is a suicide postponed then the underdogs must be a suicide postponed the book shows we were craving for happiness at the risk of finding the void and we found it the blameless void you cannot blame ‘nothing’ and no matter how many times we want to bury the truth, the past is usually about ‘I did nothing’ every minute we lose possibilities, we build regrets and the future is death, always, for certain after some time no love is worth it at least not in my experience so far it always ends in indifference, hate or even loath and as of now I offer no reward for nothing happening to me as soon it’ll be gone forever as everything else has gone ‘listen to me’ being the most sought wish in the present, as ‘we were special’ is the most sought wish in the past who cares what we were if we are not ths sadness of all this betrays me I plan to be forgotten when I’m gone (Barcelona, may/2014)
amidst the bewilderment amidst all the things we left unsaid there was an unhappiness that made sense a helplessness that declared that even if love did exist, that would change nothing we were a contradiction like desire and the future like poetry and the end like two enemies in love with each other
who cares who is she? she is now and she will cease to be she will be different every time love is not a face love is the hands! the hands!
- LIKE THE ONE I MADE ‘Je devrais avoir mon enfer pour la colère, mon enfer pour l’orgueil, - et l’enfer de la carèsse; un concert d’enfers.’ rimbaud
thanks for staying off the grid these last months thanks for being the only one motherfucker i can’t figure out thanks for all the contraband love -smuggled in your immense visitsyou were always a shadow a black bottomless well until we fucked thanks for all the songs whispered in your audios thanks for helping me with lola - thanks for lifting me up when I fell to the ground thanks for asking me for forgiveness for you coming too quickly while we made love - bless you thanks for showing me the illogical conflict of loving someone and then hating the things she’s done thanks for all the silences thanks for all the disillusionment thanks for all the freedom thanks for making me understand the word ‘absolute’ thanks for the clarity you brought to my life thanks for the sex, it was awesome thanks for showing me pussy money weed work is nothing - is not enough thanks for uncovering the pain and making me write - for turning my soul into a monster thanks for the poems for the guitars we never learned to play for the belzebuths together thanks for all the cum dripping from your cunt thanks for the hell of not reaching thanks pour l’enfer de la caresse que ne vient pas thanks for all the minds I’ve been able to touch because you’re no longer inside filling everything, and for all the minds I will touch - they won’t make you disappear, but they are human and fragile and beautiful and they are in pain too - maybe I could learn to love thanks for stopping being the white knight and starting being the dragon thanks for showing me I can let go anything - that nothing is beyond my will thanks for the need to see you to touch you always thanks for the truth thanks for showing me there are two kinds of mistakes the light ones like invading russia in winter and the big ones like the one I made at letting you go like the one I would have made if I had asked you to stay. -can’t remember who said it, but poetry exists only to allow us to express contradictions-
- BECAUSE IT NEEDS TO BE NOW ‘the illegality of cannabis is outrageous, an impediment to full utilization of a drug which helps produce the serenity and insight, sensitivity and fellowship so desperately needed in this increasingly mad and dangerous world’ carl sagan (bless you carl) (and robin williams just commited suicide, after years fighting against depression and alcohol and cocaine -talent, sadness and drugs, the holy trinity-, farewell oh captain, my captain)
para María
marihuana mon amour maria mon amour both of you high as a tower on top of you I see everything on top of you I feel like an apache waving a blanket over the fire to transmit all my poems high as year 2014 - my last my eyes look like roadmaps saying goodbye to things I have long abandoned writing this poem on the margin of an old newspaper because it needs to be now.
- NOTES ‘hazme llorar’ cris
NOTES I WROTE IN THE DARK TONIGHT CAUSE IN THE MORNING THEY WOULD HAVE BEEN GONE INTO OBLIVION AS I NEVER REMEMBER THEM AND IT PISSES ME OFF/ in the end. only heartbroken people with
unpredictable personality flaws. cinism-shaped shields. intelligent beyond measure. speaking slowly as they know words are the source of real pain. who dream at night weird dreams like they are a corpse ripped off by coyotes in the desert their bones scattered through all the place. who ask themselves ‘why create?’ as if they could stop. who love to make moderates bleed. who are more concerned about how blood tastes than how it got out. who will never see themselves beautiful enough to anyone.
*