Sin título.

No sé si es el poder de la silla
o el no poder tener más.
No tener piel que sangre,
algún músculo tibio
o no poder hacer más.
Son muros,
con narices y ojos como púas.
Giran sus cabezas,
con sus bocas llenas de razones secas
y lecciones de tribuna.
.
A veces cuesta pasarles por un lado
sin romperles la cabeza.
.
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I wait.

.
My hope is safe,
like a animal pretending to be dead.
Pounding inside a bag of frozen bones
while it rains,
as if God was planning to start all over again.
.
My will,
on the other hand...
I said I was going to stop,
but a lightning just crashed into my window
and I fell like a fly.
.
The bits are scattered all around.
Hail down.
The dream I'm building
is taking me down.
.
In the fog of the unspoken
I wait.
.
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Otro asesino.

Las desgracias no son infinitas
pero a veces lo parecen.
.
Hay luto y fiesta.
Los asesinos tienen amigos,
cómplices que resienten la vida.
.
Hay asesinos que sufren.
Este debe haberse ido feliz;
quienes ríen su muerte
siguen con su desgracia a cuestas.
.
Se ha ido tarde,
después de mucha sangre y epidemia.
.
¿Cuál revolución?
No importa lo que haya dicho.
Lo que ha muerto es otro asesino.

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8

Show's over.
Silence consumes itself
inside the gloomed engines
of this soul dealer airplane I'm in.
I'm flying,
with this popcorn heart of mine,
praying that we get home safe
so that we can meet again,
someday.
The taxi waited for me
while I resisted
just a few more minutes
drawing trees with my hands frozen,
whilst some were walking their dogs
and you were watching the news
with anger,
no wonder
revolted.
I smirked on every station,
now all my muscles hurt.
Is it from laughing?
or the passing of time.
The scenes I rehearse,
the dialogues I recite
as if I didn't know better
that I'll never be that ready.
It all goes so fast,
like a train in loop.
A lovely 8,
like that day in November
when I didn't know what to say.

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Singing whales.

This ship has sailed in the dark.
I can't hear it anymore
and I'm tired of reading fantastical maps
which will fade away
anyway
I'm stuck in a fishing net
of long-stemmed trees
and red roses,
I'm following singing whales.
Maybe it's just my reflection
under a holey sky
or the echo of my words
tearing this piece of paper apart,
begging for answers.
Maybe they're singing to me.
You may be the lighthouse,
I'll just be there.

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Can't help it. / Inevitable.

sometimes I don't think I can take
the sharp side of this page
that's giving shape to our days
the highs and lows
and then
from the tender river of your smile
to the pounding sound of your sorrow
I walk through the maze of your words
with little birds dancing in my chest
because we're away
we're one step away
because I believe
it's nothing
that's all.

/

a veces creo que no puedo soportar
el lado filoso de estas páginas
que van tallando nuestros días
altos y bajos
y luego
desde el tierno río de tu risa
a los latidos de tu dolor
camino el laberinto de tus letras
con pájaros bailando en mi pecho
porque estamos lejos
y muy cerca
porque creo
que es nada
y eso es todo.

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