temple of the stations

one music on the bordering skin
also has deserts of incident light
tranquility rivers of dreams
and wastelands
consumed in the noise
of the acid heart fields
temperament of storms
slowly sleep in the body
and despite the discoveries of the sun

one of any day
I give up in one railway
of these temporary trips
abrupt salt mines
a sun rush of fire crosses
the places that music saw

some places within
are borned in the ample
crustacean
temple of the stations

Mirage colour
 
your
mirage
it comes between
the dawn and the perforated
transparent seaweed of the heart
it comes at a certain step close
to the barren wind of steel
between a classical beach
where the vagina is
tempered with
the goal vapour
of the vision voyage
 
a beach
of skin and foam
is underneath the lips
 
I leave the fingers
in sweated beam
a fish of velvet vibration
in a tranquil temperature
 
I recognize the silhouette
my knife shade perpendicular
to the delimited desire
 
a red cloud
of napalm remembrance
parallel to the stillness of love 
  
  
 

A rhythm of strawberries


I looked at a moment for the perpetual window of the trees, I thought that I had found an idea of a feeling drowned in the innocence.

A soft brown music tempers the volcano of your lip.

Now you are not. A sonorous and classic juice distracts the desire.

It was only my heart that thought, while the mind felt the rhythm arisen of your strawberries on my skin.

In short I feel the lack of your presence. The food that your perfume penetrates slowly on the ash of the three days.

The lack of a pillow to the side can light a storm in the body.

A light music tries an eddy for your lip in lack.

Now already you are.

A poem.

The steel of time


A flag disturbs the emptiness in the dark of the room, leaving the chairs in the perennial interrogation of the future. A quiet sound remembers the dark colour side of the blood.

I am going to seat myself a little in the hands of the time.

I found that still I am waking up in the way of the life. I found that I make a road of this liquid silence that the hymn repairs.

I am a second in a foam sea, over your flower road.

Repairs of a stop sign flows from the step stairs. I count cents that I write while I know myself in the steel of the time.

A soft leg allows some luminous joys in the roses.

A victory to cover grass is enough to me … it comes to me from your gold lust.

The body of the flower


There where fifteen minutes of soft waves. You where the legs if the mix of the hair, the memory is the volcano of the sea.

A light of air flies away from here.

I remember the pollen that burns the avenues, the places where the blood adventures. When I had nothing, I walked the garden of flowers.

There was a perfume.

With you it was a limpid fire within.

An abyss was known inside the path of disclosure, I had to close the windows. It was a love vanished in the blade of secret wounds.

It was then that I found you, within the tree of the waves. You wake me up, for the body of life.

Then … I am obliged to everything else.

Some tears are smiles

Your body of unquitness extends the hand of washes on the life of the night, a universe that transforms itself into a sudden vertigo of cream.

Your quiet but drawn out hand, soft but delayed, does not leave the moon to die in the cradle of the stars, in a light tablet of air.

Because there is a secret trip on your skin, that still does not belong to me.

A milk mixtures in the blood, and does not leave me to rest, this night. A seed originates color strange trees, that kills the laziness of the feelings.

The sweat of some words is born on the light threshold of the volcano, it remembers me why there is no heat beyond the thought.

But somewhere in the memory of the future, there is a countenance of stars that originates itself, there is somehow any tear of you, that is changedded into a smile.

It has a candy madness wine on the table. It has a little of life that you keep as a prismatic treasure.

Sex is not totally justified with the friction of the skin.

I loved you still

I loved you in a life
that still thus died in
as when I saw the refined
knife of whitewash shining
the penknife of your look stream
I already knew
that you were offering
your destiny figure of a salt bridge
and sugar chest, still I went
in a mud wagon but already knew
that you were shinning in
inopportune and disfigured hand
you still had in balance on seaweed leaves
they were summer nights we tore together
the milk of a sensual bell shinning a memory
still thus I loved you in universal concept
when we looked at the time that
brooked the bones of love
thus I always loved you in
a wheat seed