A horse can barely remember walking a cobbled path
The roar of toilets from upper floors and green fingers on windowsills
When all the orifices were oozing with gregorian chants
All obscenities in the tiny world repeated endlessly
But I am sure the thunderheads smelt of broccoli and roasted almonds
And the wine didn’t smell at all nor did it leave stains
After being spilt on tablecloths pants and carpets
Now that all the eggs have been eaten and the bunnies transformed
Hens and taxi drivers finally relax and go to unfinished limbos
And beggars bring out the collections of mute piano keys to sell on the sidewalks


ghost on the brink

The best creatures choose to live fragmentary lives in novels and dreams
To crawl across pixelated ceilings on an average day
Impossible for a cumbersome ghost on the brink of a greasy fork
Meanwhile all my shoes are afraid of the sky
All my money abhors shopping malls
I believe the scars of the air dissolve
Into trees and torn soccer balls and angel’s wings for breakfast
Antediluvian birds dance around a dying dandelion
Asking each other how many days their stomachs could hold



Something always hides between the wind and the voice.
There is always a mask under the face.
The soul of a red-haired mannequin quickly loses itself
In another one, impossible just a moment before.
The dirty shell is supposed to shudder, as if
Being eaten by a tiny transient cloud.
The flesh of a tree giddily catches wisps of cold.



Never trust a country where the graves of the poets
Have been devoured with the stones and flowers
Never dream of the motherland touching you with her poisoned fingernails
Smokestacks, clouds stabbed with screwdrivers
Missed traffic lights are the beauty of the landscapes
Rats wipe stale words from teeth dictionaries and tinfoil hats as a matter of routine
They can’t hear the screams they eat
After a subway train has passed



The ocean is a lone huge eye and those who
Have never learned to swim, who cannot cross it over,
They can just walk along the shore replete with dying monsters,
With dying sirens, dying sailors, dying jellyfish,
Indefinitely, without end, without any sound
Imaginary creatures can perceive, they can
Just timidly pick up discarded shoes,
Discarded toes, discarded songs, discarded wood,
Discarded sails, discarded socks, discarded souls,
Discarded moons that tremble
Half-buried in the sand.



Archaeology becomes less tactile
Than a language you don’t care about.
Winds belong to the trees and the serpents now,
Dilapidated train stations are nothing but a hoax,
Passengers wait for the ties to rot, tomatoes
Climb to the moon buried in shopping bags.
I am telling you, let’s grow rails in flowerpots.


Whatever you’ve overheard
Walking drunk in Babel,
The passersby don’t
Need it anymore.
What you have seen on
The crumbling screens of
Anonymous reality
Remains in the spirit
Of an itinerant goddess
Forever. Feel the calm to think that she hasn’t
Composed any music, whoever she is. The calm
Of spiders that stay awake
Even in winter.


They hang mirrors on the walls, one upon another,
turn on all the TV sets they can, try to repeat
the words after the singers and talking heads from
the guts of a blue sun, follow the dislocations
of the dust up to the very end of disguise,
tap at what they call random keys and look for
people with the names that show up on the screen.
Sooner or later lost gloves, fallen hair, expired
credit cards are going to bury them with the rest of the world.


Your imaginary pets would let a paper napkin flutter
over the mountains destroyed by snow and clouds.
Mirrors are everywhere. Mirrors reflect the eyes of God
dissolved in tequila: one, two, three, four, twenty five,
sixteen, ninety seven, fifty eight… Sometimes mirrors forget
about everything they own, sometimes they sell it wholesale
to Hobby Lobby. All kinds of creatures disappear, mute.

for a while

From time immemorial
obscure universities of the Plains have
trusted the professors from the inner Earth
regardless their background and countenance.
Faces are just irregular spots, after all,
buildings are just rectangles in the air
if you are not going to dwell there,
to rent a room, to stay for a while with
relatives and friends, to teach them
how to spend the years they probably
don’t have ahead of them; naturally,
all things change except those we don’t see.
They drink wine to make the footsteps lighter,
but the ancients knew how to make
the fabric of the universe threadbare,
how to hide a robot in the soul,
an assassin in the empty streets.


The bottom of the sky is garish
For stars to dip their prosthetic toes
And the tips of the ears long like the beards of hermits that don’t pray
It’s the broken light of the lampposts and distorted songs
Of the inane and inanimate taking imaginary showers
And cracked shoes the prototypes for teapots
And boats to cross the rivers misplaced by a substitute
For the old soul the natives call granddaughter


Moths take baths in wine glasses
and fly away invincible spreading
long tales of havoc

By noon construction workers
begin to sing and talk drivel because of the heat
which makes the places they work on
look like they were shit out by pelicans on Aquafresh

They say mornings and evenings don’t exist at all
Time barely goes by in the absence of petulant
rigid gods and mosquitoes

what for

The residue of nonexistence beguiles
like neglected flakey skies with
angelic duplicity. Loaded dragonflies,
trying to epitomize stout by-products of hallucinations,
sleep on the wing. Animals sleep too,
covered by their hearts, words ashamed of
paper and speech.

as if

Revenants walk carefully as if
the earth were smiling at them.
Too much wine and music had
made them disgustingly beatified,
and saxophones laugh.
They follow the numbers
inside sweet puddles and
thrown stones. Out of thin air
into nothing float countless
curses of mythical animals.
Dreams don’t fit
passenger seats anymore,
but if mosquitoes can dream,
they dream of eating a saxophone,
and every feather lost by a bird
instills fear into the real McCoy.