[Untitled]

Upside down words

bleed perfectly from pen to paper,

pulsate in the

brain of my heart

signals of

interconnectedness

between your lips

and mine:

I just ran out of ink, girl,

I need some inspiration!

You blew smoke

in my mouth,

it made home

my lungs,

it stole my oxygen,

and you were scientifically

allowed to do so.

You insisted I

x-ray,

I have no problems with

nakedness

when it's your skin

blending into mine.

I mentally write with my right,

I think with my left,

you tell me now

if love ain't ambidextrous?

You had to agree with me,

nodding.

Your silent words twisted

around the earlobes

of my fears.

Mine tingling

the bellybutton of

your certainties...

Who would have thought

we'd ever use more than

8% of the brain in our hearts!?

Trust

Please,

fuck me poem!

Ah,

flipped first verse

of liquid metaphors

in the velveteen

of my skin,

be gentle and firm

when crashing

second verse

of all symbology,

two does better than one

into

me

I'm nailing you across

lines of your third

envoy,

leaving marks on your soil,

you don't gotta worry,

I always find my way

back

to you,

morph

from adagio

to a crescendo,

make me (your) arching mistress,

the maestro of (your) rhythm,

I conduct a whole orchestra

screaming from the feet of

(your) letters

to the phrases of

(your) lips,

you uh mmhmm and huh huh me,

as if you were the author

and not the character.

I'll be the author,

you'll be the character,

I'll be the character,

you'll be the author.

And that's how

poetry is made.

Stand Clear of the Closing Doors

The ambience

is muted,

the vision is

perplexed,

there is no

blinking

on this rocking train.

It does it feather-softly,

it dances a

false

valse,

and I remain,

muted,

perplexed,

unblinked.

Lead my way blinding trust...

Bring me my voice

fuckin' falsetto.

A piano in the

background

where you have

neither my

back nor my

g r o u n d.

A childish melody,

solo piece,

a frustrated

symphony

from finger-long hands.

And that's all you have:

long fingers,

lack of talent.

On the rocking train

we forget

and fall asleep on

one another

(so against the rules).

A blink from me

and you're gone

(just following the rules).

Prozaic Poetry

[Yes, prozaic with "z" ;)]

Why do I keep

coming to these

open mic poetry nights thing?

It's pathetic

how lonely my poems

feel laying down on the

yellowish ruled pages of my Moleskine.

It's just pathetic

how the ink wants

to bleed its way out

of these

yellowish ruled pages of my Moleskine.

Is it really just

my poetry,

product of the void

eating my little humanity alive?

Or is it its author

laying bare naked

on top of these

cold lines from the

yellowish ruled pages of my Moleskine?

Do you really

want to know

why

I keep

coming to these

open mic poetry nights thing?

Dear?

God?

You know how people

go to bars, get a little drunk,

expect a beautiful, tall,

blond, blue-eyed, intelligent,

complex but not complicated,

very affectionate,

wild but not crazy girl,

between the age of

24 and 30,

preferably Aries, Aquarius,

Leo or Sagittarius

to sit next to them,

be in the same wavelength,

talk, laugh, challenge,

perhaps slightly touch,

pretend that it's too loud,

she can't hear them, so she

has to get closer.

And all of this in the

amount of time it takes you

to finish your favorite drink?

Well, that's what I do at

open mic poetry nights thing.

I drink poetry,

I get girls drunk

with my poems,

I talk, I make them laugh,

I challenge them,

I touch them, and it's not

just slightly touch.

I pretend like nobody else does

that it's-too-loud-I-can't-hear-you deal,

so I have

to get closer, I have to

make them feel the warm

air coming out of my

poetic mouth:

I take them home,

I make love, this is why

I'm a poet;

they fuck, this is why

they are just girls.

I feel metaphors

crawling up and down my

spine, there are rhymes

coming in, coming out,

in and out.

In. Out.

Beautiful.

The last stanza

and the climax.

That's what I tell myself.

That it was poetic...

how I turned the lamp off,

how all that remained was

the dull light of a cheap neon

sign reflected on my window.

And you dare to fuckin'

ask me why I keep coming to these

open mic poetry nights thing??

You fuckin' heartless prick,

I keep coming back

because I have not yet found love.

Sometimes Stop, Sometimes Go

[Design inspired by this song by Ms. John Soda and poem inspired by El Perro del Mar]

Don't try

to guess

the way

your eyelash

lands

on the hills

and cliffs

of the moment

when your eyes

are shut

and you're about

to blow it away.

Don't guess

the way

this lotus found

its way

through seaweed and then

relief in my

reef.

Don't guess

the way...

Don't guess the way...

The Prophet and the General

When I chose

belief

you went for

ignorance.

[Title in the End]

I looked at her.
I wanted to listen
and then kiss her,
dive into those
unknown, perhaps
bitter-sweet lips
for she wore
cigarettes ashes
as lipstick
and loved whiskey!
And overall I guess
she's been through a lot;
still I see through her,
her warmth was undeniable
so I just listened.
I knew she was almost
as messy as her hair,
I loooove her hair by the way,
but I certainly did not love her.
I've known her for precisely
full 10 minutes,
time enough to say
I want to see her again
if her words are not
just words but poetry,
if her eyes look into mine
and not everywhere else,
if she just shuts up
and asks me questions
I don't expect, well, at this
point, if she just asks me
any questions at all
(people rarely ask me
anything worth answering).
One hour later
I still want to kiss her,
I guess that means
I'll have to see her again,
to listen.

- The Brewer

[Title in the End]

Exhaustion:

I am in a sauna

of sheer dissapointments,

I'm sweating off

these ridiculous

patterns,

you're complicated?

Really girl, I'll pass.

I like complex,

not complicated.

Equations are fine,

how you deal with

them is (a)pathetic.

I'm wiping off

what seems to be

endless drops,

droping them off

I am,

wiping off

drops of need,

I don't need you,

I never did, I just

chose to have you here,

now leave the door

open

as you leave,

there's much,

much more

to be let into me.

I squeeze

out of my pores,

they spit

out pus zits and

dust-black acnes once

incrusted in my skin,

and I won't allow

any other product

to ever touch my face,

any other lotion

to ever melt into my body,

I swore it before,

like that actress

in that commercial,

now i'm swearing it

as if I was marrying it:

no produce from

a poster girl

to ever touch me.

- The Brewer

Yoga Class, Fall 2009

Candles and incense,
my fears sink

into your mat,
wind and breath,
my balance is found
on the arch of your back.

Our chests grow
high and low,

it's inevitable

to do child's pose.

Stretching

emotions thin,

a drop

of sweat within,

embrace

cushion-heart

in warrior I and II

it's like we already knew.

Lighter and

heavier,

faster than

slower,

so slow it's

fast,

the smoke

of sage

is so vast

it intertwines

the gaps

of our bodies.

We rest,

we reach

Savasana.

History Class, Fall, 2009

Detour of energy:
everything was a mere
c o i n c i d e n c e .

From poetry to prose
in one verse.

When spontaneity
was brought to
psychoanalysis.

Void.
Expiration date.
Check.
Double check.
Triple check.

Dialogues turned into
m o n o l o g u e s,
the time ticking analog
seconds of complete
non-recyclable waste.

As ties break
we're here
to gather, not
t o g h e t h e r;
to gather our old
selves again,
to wear the same
yellowed-stained shirt,
and to be
exactly what we were
before, what we have
always been.

Humanity is fucking brilliant.