Exclamo en un decepcionante tono, que el mundo una porqueríase había vuelto. Luego recogió con sus manos los huesos verticales de la garganta para exclamar la rabia.

— Lo material ocupa más espacio en sus corazones y en sus riñones.

Sin embargo, las casas están vacías —
el porque es simple, se dijo; sus hogares repletos están…eso no implica que estén habitados de cosas que si importen -que el tiempo traspasan. Los pasillos son de plata exportada y la mente habitadas
por cucarachas dislocadas.

— se ha vuelto una porqueria el mundo. Ha muerto el mundo— se resignó.


Photo by yours truly.

De medias me canse en lo cotidiano. Mitad felicidad/amargura media.
Yo que todo lo entrego me harte de reducir la espera con migajas.
Si vas a querer,  un pino siémbrame. Intenso. Sé intenso como el sol cuando se despoja de los pantalones en la madrugada
si así no…con el veneno quédate. Ofrezco yo con toda intensidad del universo lo que soy, y la mitad rehuso…
no quiero tu medias naranjas que nunca serán pares.

Poem X

(This poem was co-written with a talented Dominican writer)

The flames of the axes from Earth are stationed in his eyebrows.
He kisses with his feet the unconscious mind.
I’ve seem him in the foam of the wind, naked as a hurricane.
He is one, inside of millions of thoughts.
The mirror is his age without
a flesh tissue from an orgasm with an expiration date. I want to hug him…
unnamed in the tentative curves of his existence.
Him — unreachable and fleeting, without a body and a breath from the universe.
One who lives in a jail inside the abdomen of the horizon.
He would be the intense desire
until he stops being what he will never be.

— F.P. @mujerconvozpoetry

And perhaps it never will be.
But in his attempt, he has given me everything that can be given.
Torrents of stroking caress down the
backbone of the Galaxy.
Illusions of having his sight embodied
in my horizon, and let the sea foam alone embrace our bodies.
Merge into one.
And wake up in the gusting arms of the wind,
which encompasses with the rapidly beating of our beats.
While the crystal clear reflection of his eyes shows me the infinite tortuous
pleasure that lurks in the womb of desire.
He — volatile as the wind, faceless
name among millions of thoughts.
Meanwhile,he offers me the world
without being.
And maybe, it will never be.

— D.C.M.F. @dcmf3

Photo by Oliver Gonzalez-Santos