El Perro del Mar

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OScxklFZ4U

Happiness won me over
Happiness won me over
Happiness won me over
Happiness won me over

Won't come for those who wait
Won't come for those who pray

Happiness, happiness won me over
Happiness, oh happiness won me over
Happiness won me over

Won't come for those who wait
Won me over
Won't come for those who pray
Won me over

Will come for those who love
For those who love

Deep in the heart
I know it is love
It is love that's the answer
Cause love won me over

Deep in the heart
I know it is love
I believe it's the answer
Love is the answer
Come with me over

Lady of Justice, Unfolded

R: I just had a whole brow and I'm almost at Webster and for some tingling reason I wanted to text you while I giggle and jiggle with the trance in my earplugs.
It's so funny... I'm having these narcissistic moments as I'm walking lol everyone is looking at me with passion and desire... like this woman just now looked at me, up and down and slowly bit her bottom lip. I felt it in the bottom too. Very bottom. Even knowing I'm clearly a top who enjoys variety and being put into place.
Censure me if I'm getting too sexual.

C: Whole brow? You know I was typing as you wrote that, and now... Well, I just don't know what to say, lol. Did you read your horoscope?

R: This Chinese man on his bike just grabbed his bars. His little rice and shrimp boxes swinging around: the pendulum of my life. The repetition and endless patterns of shyness before the new. Where's that woman who can handle who I am in my purest essence, a woman who doesn't find in my perfectionism the perfect excuse not to give back, to abuse the generosity in my hands, to exploit the depths of my emotions, to enslave me to an eternal unbreakable pattern...? HA, I'm feeling so Shakespearean! [I think she asked me if I had read my horoscope?] Wonder if she'll be all about Derrida and will deconstruct me in every line and touch, she'll read my chapters as if every single time was the first time... TO HELL with running. I know she's a marathoner, she's got warrior legs and a mind control that goes beyond the finishing line. But she'd rather walk by my side. She's not a libra but she's got that poise that not even I can hold so well...

C: Hey, my mom just looked at me and said: "I don't have a whole other world here. No one's contacting me!"

R: I swear C, hope is a fucking curse and a blessing. Nietzsche strongly advised me not to lose hope. If he didn't why would I? My horoscope. Yeah. It says: "LIBRA - Considering all the changes you've been through lately, it's fitting that the new moon on the 7th falls in your sign. Since a relationship abruptly evaporated in May, you've been quite a rollercoaster - and it's time to not only get off, but to also walk the heck out of the entire amusement park. Your ticket to a healthier, happier life? It's not unattainable and it's not being held by some grumpy ol'gatekeeper. It's free and right inside you.".

Libra

My hands are heavy
and tire-skin.

I carry that weight like
a Northeastern Brazilian woman:
strong to the very end, why?
I don't know, she doesn't either,
but we both are.

We accept the inevitable.
Nothing is permanent.
We accept it so well I start to wonder
if we have become
too wise
or too cold.

I carry that petulant pose of
a Paulistana who knows better
than fuckin' Wasteland Northeast:
overachiever, the way to be.

We accept nothing less than
perfection.
And when you deliver less,
well it's time for you to leave.

My hands are white
and porcelain-skin:
I doubt anyone's worth
of holding them.

memories of my present

"It's funny, I feel like I've watched this movie before. Like I know the ending of it."
"What's the end?" I asked, almost instantly regretting it. The answer was a smirk and a look so still I saw my own apathetic face mirrored in her eyes. I knew it had to do with me. To do with her. That's what she believed. I believed it had to do with ending.
It's ironic because just a minute before this whole conversation stroke I had wisely mentioned how things never end, they just change, like a cycle that needs to be completed... I think I had finally experienced what the root of ending meant vs. my Pollyannaistic vision of ending. Its originally meaning states the opposite side. And there was I. Watching my end from the other side of the street.
I thought of how we were sitting on a bench. I remember writing you a poem where the bench was just an excuse to put into paper my thoughts for you. Sheer poetry. I don't really remember how it feels. Poetry. Or you.
During the conversation each phrase started to slowly fill my lungs with liquid emotions. Soon ideas rushed in so violently I am surrounded by water and I am drowning. I am blundering about the memories of my present. I am in and out. I am completely in, who am I fooling.
I have no.
I.
air...
CPR kit: 8 missed calls from you and your texts of where r u? or when r u coming home? or something like you cared for me and not who I was with. They reminded me why I am writing this. I swear, fate is just inevitable. She would think my introspectiveness had to do with the anticipation of me understanding her ending for this movie. But all I sank into was how you were not part of it.
It is indeed inevitable and it's crushing my every belief as my waiter crushes that juicy orange for my OJ and I just swallow it. I dare not taste it. It stings my palate, it corrodes my throat, the lack of understanding.
There is nothing deep about this little girl.
And when the clock ticks within me, nothing, nothing about that bench can be saved. And there was I, back to the same side of the street. I thought if I just talked to you about it, things would make more sense. So I did. I said à bientôt to her movie, at least for a while.
I am reading this to you and anticipating my fate. Anticipating you'll lose all the science and defy the gravity of things. So you tell me absolutely everything I don't want to hear. You wear your white coat and speak to me about how nothing is guaranteed and how what matters is just now.
Like I said, absolutely nothing I wanted to hear.

Role-play

I wonder how she tastes
past her waist,
how her red hair is
much more red due to
the desire to commit
adultery (if I was married).

I wonder how her lips
suck onto the tip of
my tongue: she corrects my English,
and how she moans when she forgets
the possessive pronouns.

Do her marks and bites
bleed differently for those
she doesn't kiss?

"And when you kiss me,
I wonder you're just
not fucking me."

"And when you kiss me,
I know you're just
not fucking me."

I blink the circumstances away,
it must be temporary,
and we breathe it all
in and heavy and
out and light because
otherwise we'd be dead.

Literary Asthma

.

.

.

.

[original pic here http://browse.deviantart.com/?q=choke&order=9&offset=168#/d2d462v - a little manipulated by me].

Death to the poet.

Half words in between

ashes of strangers'

sweat,

there,

lies her tomb.

The crumbling

cultured posed

falling off

a white horse,

its hair fluttering

with the breeze.

The poet has no air,

cum

Pale & in Absolute

porcelain.

The poet is dead.

Blood

until the color red

read finally dead.

One less poetential.

What's the use of sun

when it's always covered

on clouds?

second chance

[ pic by http://browse.deviantart.com/?qh=&section=&global=1&q=mud#/djggfo ]

On muddy
bed I think
how to change myself
with hands of charcoal,
your face on my walls
with lungs of smoke
puffing the call.

Shadows creep up the roof
into pulsing veins,
the streams with moss
across my arms
follow spiderweb tongue
hanging from your branches,
and I watch,
I watch close
the fangs upon my skin
breaking rib cage free
to dust only
and soft
and nails
piercing
perfection across my eyes,
eyes drowned in powder
and suffocated by tears
of constant lingering
in the house of absurdity
where I was beheaded,
where I rescued my own.
I, and no one else.