Upside down words
bleed perfectly from pen to paper,
pulsate in the
brain of my heart
signals of
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
I have no problems with
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,

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!?


fuck me poem!
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

I'm nailing you across
lines of your third
leaving marks on your soil,
you don't gotta worry,
I always find my way
to you,

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
there is no
on this rocking train.

It does it feather-softly,
it dances a
and I remain,

Lead my way blinding trust...

Bring me my voice
fuckin' falsetto.

A piano in the
where you have
neither my
back nor my
g r o u n d.

A childish melody,
solo piece,
a frustrated
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
I keep
coming to these
open mic poetry nights thing?

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.


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
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

Don't guess
the way...
Don't guess the way...

The Prophet and the General

When I chose
you went for

[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]


I am in a sauna

of sheer dissapointments,

I'm sweating off

these ridiculous


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


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.

emotions thin,
a drop
of sweat within,
in warrior I and II
it's like we already knew.

Lighter and
faster than
so slow it's
the smoke
of sage
is so vast
it intertwines
the gaps
of our bodies.
We rest,
we reach

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

Expiration date.
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.


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