Symmetry of Darkness

El camino de la inercia

2011-11-25T16:44:00.000+01:00

El título de la canción se me había olvidado y lo importante no era sólo la melodía.

Hacía tiempo que encontraba problemas en el camino de la expresión de mis pulsiones existenciales.

Recordaba su olor pero no era capaz de asociarlo a ninguna escena concreta de mi vida.

Saboreaba su piel y el aroma de gloria carnal en su cuerpo, arrancando la miel de la victoria de entre sus benditas entrañas. Y sin embargo, corría su recuerdo como gotas de agua en el cristal de mi memoria.

Las manos se abrían compulsivamente para recoger entre ellas todo el placer que me había proporcionado hacerla gozar de algún modo. Pero toda ella se deslizó por mi vida y el frío hálito de su fantasmal recuerdo es todo lo que pude recopilar.

Las mañanas hacía tiempo que suponían para mí un lento intento por olvidar lo que no había ocurrido la noche anterior. Mis sábanas se hallaban cubiertas de la obscenidad de su ausencia.

Mis lágrimas se habían ennegrecido, tan vil el sentimiento se había tornado. Los brazos más largos y angostos, el pecho estrecho y hundido. Mi cara era el reflejo del hueco creciente en el espejo, mis venas las grietas formadas desde su interior hacia las esquinas de mi existencia.

Más fisuras sin arreglo que ya no me atrevía a contar. Más miserias sin comienzo y cuyo fín no tardaría en resucitar.

Mi muerte fue un acto lleno de inercia. La voluntad de un segundo empujando a otro para a su vez ser desplazado irremediablemente al olvido.

Antimatter "Leaving Eden"

2011-10-30T17:13:00.001+01:00

"Put the thorn in my side, the coins on my eyes
I'm not awake, I'm leaving Eden
And all her frozen charms lie cold in my arms
Panic went away and left me reeling
It's warm outside but the weather fails to hide
the stinging loss inside
For in the back of my mind I always thought I'd find my way to paradise
On I'd walk to paradise ...

But grace and lies locked the door from the other side
And now there's not much else there
Grace and lies
In all how long can you hide, how long?
The cost of innocence is the loss of innocence
Some may pass away, but some die screaming
When it came to my time, oh it took me by surprise
Was it my mistake, or am I born for giving in?"

Conmigo o sin mí

2011-08-03T10:35:00.000+02:00

Poco a poco percibo el contacto del agua sucia y viscosa penetrando en mis oidos mientras mi cuerpo se integra cada vez más en el seno viscoso de un futuro viciado y vaciado de esperanza.

Casi sin darme cuenta, y sin el influjo de mi propia voluntad, la materia lucha y pugna por ofrecer resistencia al ataque con final más que cierto. Los pulmones se contraen, los espacios abiertos cierran sus puertas con vigor y los músculos se abrazan a la masa ósea en un último esfuerzo por cobijar la vida dentro de mí.

Poco después los pensamientos son la única lógica con sentido que consigue resistir al ataque del agua en mi interior. Al contrario que mi cuerpo, las ideas y las memorias flotan y emergen de las entrañas del Leviatán de mi existencia y me llevan a otros puntos, otras coordenadas.

Ya nada es vano, pero tampoco tan relevante. Quizás nunca lo fué o en todo caso no entiendo por qué lo fue en algún momento de mi vida. La culpa, la agonía y la claustrofobia son palabras sepultadas en un diccionario pesado y maldito que yo ya no merezco abrir.

Lejos de lo real, pero muy cercano a lo que siempre soñé romper y ahora simplemente contemplo y admiro los limites difuminados de la eternidad y me conforta la ausencia absoluta de control sobre lo inevitable. Lo acepto, lo vivo, y la piel de mi antigua putrefacción muere y se funde con el aire que se filtra entre las nubes cada vez más blancas y espesas.

Yo en cambio, sigo siendo un alma oscura que abre sus alas ante lo que pasará después. Aquí, allí o en cualquier parte. Contigo o sin tí.

Conmigo o sin mí.

No more than a bloated memory

2011-07-07T02:56:00.002+02:00

They see you wounded and they pretend you are dead

Forgotten, helpless

They say their prayers, blow their kisses on your forehead

as if you were to care

In vain you open your mouth

the words are bubbles of spit

suspended in the air

a child's play for the devil's heir

They soon forget about you

your name a hole on the stone

without cracks, with no way to leave

to drift away from their idiocy

Forever a liquid contained in the emptiness within

past and present

a lie covers another lie

it flies and cries my rage

never ending my despair

Lęk

2011-06-05T17:46:00.005+02:00

A veces pienso que el cielo o el infierno son dos personas mirando al mismo escenario desde dos balcones distintos. La ausencia de voces humanas, el desordenado pero paciente diálogo de los pájaros en el aire siendo contestado por la miriada de silenciosos pasos de los insectos bajo nuestros pies. El vacío se extiende frente a nosotros mientras nuestra alma se despega poco a poco de nuestro cuerpo hasta que los relojes se desploman bajo el peso regurgitante de los minutos. El retrato se dilata tras las pupilas ávidas de un futuro que se adapte a la imaginación más desorbitante.

Así me siento ahora cuando escribo estas líneas desde el mismo balcón donde alguien repitió este mismo proceso con un desenlace que trataré de explicarte. Verás, ya no importa mucho cómo empezó todo y por qué lo hacemos. Ni siquiera cobra sentido crearse falsas expectativas a estas alturas de nuestras vidas. Lo único que importa es que exactamente una semana antes nos encontramos aquí y probablemente ni lo recuerdas. Seguro que me recuerdas de algo y por eso no te ha extrañado nada que me haya presentado en tu casa sin decir nada. No es que me esperaras, es que ya estaba allí antes de que tu mente percibiera mi estímulo.

Pensabas que todo iría mejor si todo fuera distinto, si el narrador de la historia fuera verdaderamente el mismo que escribía el relato. El personaje principal se debatía entre mil y un temores diferentes, fagocitantes y contradictorios como su propia vida. Querías que venciera, que superara todos los complejos con los que tú afrontaste toda tu vida. Le pusiste a prueba, le torturaste y le convenciste de que todo miedo es real y de que el dolor es algo que no es posible evitar. Pero en el fondo querías que sobreviviera para demostrarte a tí mismo que merecías vivir. Tras tanto navegar por las costas de la pesadilla bañada del hedor de la fiebre, te perdiste en el miedo y dejaste escaparlo. Lo buscaste una y otra vez entre los charcos de tinta que se abrían paso por los poros de tus venas de escritor maldito y maldecido.

Durante siete noches buscaste en la noche y las calles desiertas la manera de posar tus manos sobre su destino una vez más. Tus manos temblaban y el galope del bravo whisky por tus venas no calmaba la sed de tu miserable corazón. Cabalgaste sobre el caballo que no puedes gobernar, te dejaste morder por la furcia que no puedes pagar y visitaste los templos de un dios en el que nadie podrá jamas creer. No tienes más tinta, más historia y todas las musas se preocuparon de sellar su cinturón de castidad antes de dormir. No había ningún otro rincón de este tu carcomido mundo que puedas corromper nunca más. Y ese pensamiento sepultó el hálito de tu conciencia y por fín, caíste dormido sobre el lodo.

Despertaste hace breves minutos y ahora por fín comprendes por qué estamos aquí tú y yo. Finalmente comprendes mi esencia y conoces todo sobre mí. Me buscaste y nos hemos encontrado. Podemos finalizar la historia de una vez por todas. Lo haremos como tu querías y con las palabras que tu elijas.

Veo que recobras la energía. Ven, toma el papel y el bolígrafo. La tinta corre rápido una vez más. Tus ojos se abren y tu corazón se ensancha otra vez. Escribe rápido, más y más. Ya no piensas en la musa que se escapa sino en tu vida que se marcha poco a poco con el contacto húmedo y erótico de tus labios con la verdad de tu vida. Ya nada importa, el papel y la tinta son tuyos para siempre. Eres parte de ellos, un personaje más de la historia del mundo que quiso hacer una epopeya de un poema rancio y belicoso. Fuiste noble pero necio, genial pero pequeño, bello pero fugaz.

Cierra los ojos y siente cómo ahora yo seguiré con tu historia y te llevaré a lugares que nunca lograste soñar.

Duerme.

Pensamientos al otro lado del cristal

2011-04-14T02:50:00.006+02:00

Me monto en el primer tren de la mañana con dirección a Varsovia, aunque el destino me era absolutamente indiferente. El aire está húmedo, henchido y preñado de mi indiferencia. Me vuelvo para atrás y sólo veo formas difusas en los asientos. El pasado y sus protagonistas se difuminan en mi memoria y se desvanecen al compás de los primeros vaivenes del tren.

Para mí, que estoy sólo en este vagón. Me siento al lado de la ventana, pero accidentalmente el tren se mueve en dirección contraria a la de mis pensamientos.

Me dejo llevar, no me importa mucho más.

Los árboles parecen saludarme desde el otro lado del cristal y los pájaros me imaginan mientras vuelan hacia las nubes negras del amanecer. De repente, su vuelo se funde con el brote de lágrimas negras y no puedo diferenciarlos de entre la espesa y vulgar lluvia matinal. No despeja el horizonte y mi vida no se despega del pensamiento melancólico. Pegado al cielo como aquellos pájaros y atravesado una y mil veces por la húmeda daga del viento y el líquido elemento aéreo.

Al fin caigo y me precipito sobre las vías del tren, arropado por la incesante ducha de contaminado vapor.

Una mano me toca. Un polaco tierno pero dormido surge de la boca hermosa y cruelmente lasciva:

-Señor, aquí tiene su corazón. Se le había caído.

Ella sostiene la masa intensamente roja, rebosante del ritmo lento pero intenso de mi vida. Palpa en mi pecho y busca el origen de la mansa melodía de mi pálpito pero no se asombra cuando descubre que la herida está cerrada.

-Supongo que no lo necesita. En ese caso, espero no se ofenda si me lo quedo.

Le respondo que no me ofendo. Es más, me produce una cierta sensación de orgullo que alguien le dé más valor a mis latidos que yo mismo.

Se marcha, la espalda desnuda, bella y eterna, el cabello retozando al otro extremo de mi agonía. Quiero seguirla pero sé que ya no está allí. No obstante me levanto y la sigo, pero pronto pierdo el equilibrio. Mis pies son demasiado duros, los tobillos son dos piedras pesadas y romas. No puedo moverlos.

El techo del vagón se abre y encuentra su reflejo en mi pecho abierto sobre el suelo. El pájaro de ébano me atrapa y me lleva lejos de allí.

Volamos, sus ojos fijamente en mí. El momento final ha llegado. Con gran expectación fija sus ojos en mi ausencia y me devora poco a poco mientras el tren se aleja pequeño y lento bajo mi esperpéntico cadaver.

Poco a poco soy parte del bello buitre de piel pálida y negra cabellera, siento y veo lo que la bella y cruel ave siempre pudo ver. Su corazón es ahora el mío y la sangre vuelve a correr en mí. Nos devoramos y nos regocijamos en el festín de sangre por el inicio de una vida mejor.

Y volamos.

Lejos, muy lejos de mí.

Al otro lado del cristal, en otras vías del tren que nunca sospeché que existieran

End Credits

2011-03-20T00:27:00.002+01:00

You can feel the anxiety growing and there is nothing you can do to stop it. It wants to get out, and there is no exit. It rages inside you, your senses growing in despair, the need to finish it all makes you impatient. It bumps against the corners of your body, the veins trying in vain to contain the fury of the angst pulsing itself out of you with every beat of your heart. You want to bleed yourself out and the end seems so far away. You want to taint it all with the black of your soul, you want the reflection to show the dark within you and leave no trace of remorse. You want the rest of them to bleed yourself outside of you.

You wish someone could free you from the pain of an agonizing egotistic frame that can no longer hold the worst side of you. No one can paint the most idyllic image of your most adored self.

And you know there is no one out there. No one believes in you anymore. You have failed, rather miserably and the all hope has expired. No more expectations, the fears have been spread all over you without mercy. Devoured by your own fate you are slowly waiting for the end that will never come.

Here in the limbo, suspended in the hollow air I wait for the nothing to free me from the something. Useless, hopeless and broken. It will all end, and I can no longer end it myself.

Free fall, talentless wait...at last my heart bleeds out of me. No more I feel, no more I expect.

Blood, just blood is me.

Flow,
dream,
fade

El irresistible beso de la noche epicúrea

2011-01-19T14:00:00.004+01:00

Todo lo que me quedaba era el susurro de tu voz escondido en alguna de estas calles. La ciudad duerme, la noche está bañada de blanco y las paredes en nuestro interior se abren y liberan el ácido y negro vapor de nuestra oscuridad. La sientes y la puedes palpar en las yemas de tus dedos. La puedes beber en el primer bar a mano izquierda. Las sillas destartaladas, las lámparas distorsionan los contornos de tu figura y el calor espera al fondo del pasillo.

Allí estás, esperando el contacto de nuestros labios mientras poco a poco te vacías en mí. Liberas mi interior de la sequedad de la vulgaridad y la rellenas de tu vicioso rumor. Te pongo cerca de mí y me susurras una y otra proposición que no puedo rechazar. Una y otra vez me contagias con tus palabras decadentes, las burbujas de tu encanto se pegan dentro de mí y no se separan de mi sangre. Contigo, mi vacío respira, palpita y se dilata. Mis ojos se cierran y tus manos envuelven el volumen ardiente de mi amorfo corazón. Con cada uno de nuestros besos, se pierde un instante de mi absurda cordura. Y cuando por fín me abandonas me dejas un rastro de tí en la mesa, para que siempre nos podamos reunir una vez más. Aquí, en la última silla, detrás de la última mesa y bajo la luz más tenue empieza mi anhelo por tí. Te deseo y me marchito, desaparece poco a poco tu encanto y me desvanezco con los primeros atisbos del alba.

Hasta que tu luna nos despierte y nos lleve a las calles de la bella locura del sagrado abrazo de la decadencia.

Night Whispers

2011-01-15T09:23:00.001+01:00

Song by Avrigus, The Final Wish

Crisálida Invertida

2010-11-20T10:37:00.004+01:00

Desadherido del gelatinoso agujero del olvido, conseguí agarrarme al último resquicio de la identidad que algún pútrido cerebro perpetró para mí. Mis dedos penetraron las grietas en el muro que me separaba de mi previo infierno. Al mismo tiempo mi mente recuperaba los momentos en los que mi locura me había ido conquistado con el perfume obsesivo del conocimiento. Cual gusano, ciego pero hambriento, entró en mi interior y me lamió lascivamente los ridículos vestigios de pureza banal. Mis nervios se fueron fosilizando y las corrientes desviaron su torrente hacia el exterior. El corazón batió su sangre para el cuervo que, nacido de este bautismo invertido de dolor, ya despegaba el vuelo hacía el grosero silencio de la locura.

Aquí me dejó mi muerte. Moribundo y vaciado de mi mismo, vagué largo tiempo por estos pétreos suelos buscando puertas que me devolvieran a algún lugar donde mi mente pudiera descansar. Todo fue en vano durante meses, años...quizá siglos. La medida del tiempo se me escapó entre las manos que se había despedido sin tristeza el día en que dejé de ser yo. Las agujas del reloj se habían deformado, convertido en una sinfonía que fagocitó todas y cada una de mis emocionas y me regurgitó al averno sin fin. El dolor, el olvido, el castigo de haber danzado con las leyes del tiempo y la física del equilibrio con un dios altivo y voraz.

Ahora mis dedos han penetrado la última piedra en el agujero más profundo que he podido encontrar en este mundo. Me agarro e intento ascender a algún sitio, mi cerebro sigue reglas que ya no son válidas para mí. Por eso yerro una y otra vez en mi intento hasta que algo se ilumina allá arriba. Desde aquí mi visión es como un tunel de seda que se desenrolla así mismo como una madeja de humo hacía una luciérnaga en el horizonte. La roca se ha vaporizado y ahora me encuentro asido a las hebras de una tela de araña que se pega a mi piel. Me cubre y me envuelve, me fundo poco a poco en ella y mis pensamientos se deshacen más y más. El dolor y el pavor cubren mis huesos y corroen el resto de mi cuerpo.

Me encuentro más cerca de la luz, la espesa niebla se ha ido abriendo y me ha devuelto a algún lugar que yo ya he conocido antes.

Livor Mortis

2010-10-03T11:51:00.004+02:00

And yet another bridge has been crossed and still there is nothing on the other side. When there are no more paths to choose, no way back and no shortcuts there is a feeling that maybe this is it. You are alone, hopeless and your tears are stones behind your orbs that bleed your senses through your skull overtures.

Deceived, one by one your illusions and dreams have abandoned you. The memories have been sucked by the tongues of spiteful fate, your words are spit breaking in the cement under your feet. The bones are your only frame, loneliness is the vulture that has so delectably feasted on your decaying flesh.

Your hands are waving like the flowers on a tomb, their fading crimson color is the mirror of your flowing life over your marble carcass. The flame is almost gone and nobody will bring you new light. The bed where you will lay is alone in no graveyard. No cross will crown you, no virgin will watch over you.

Banished and doomed for life, rewarded with the slow death of a waltz created for others and foolishly dreamed by your putrid conscience. You walk, you breathe, you exist because someone lied to you.

All you can see from the fire is the ashes from your wounds, the scars of your dreaming blood now becoming air in the deep heart of night. You are gone. You are forgotten. Into the nothingness.

Manchado

2010-08-22T11:07:00.004+02:00

Como el estómago de un rumiante, su destino le devolvió al pútrido ciclo de todo lo que no podemos evitar. Allí estaba plantado de nuevo, erecto frente a la nada. Sin vientos ni tempestades, los árboles borrados del boceto que tantas veces había tratado de crear en su caprichoso corazón. Ninguna ola del mar llegaba a acariciar aquellos valles que tan intensos y vacíos se habían arraigado en su alma. La ternura de un perfume sutil y bello se había erosionado con la fuerza bruta de la sequedad existencial. Ante sí se hallaba la más árida llanura vital, coronada por una luna que permanecía allí inmóvil, eclipsando con su belleza al poderoso astro de luz diurno.

Caminé algunas horas por aquellas tierras, adentrándome en la raíz de lo más yermo de mi espíritu en busca de lo que en realidad no quería encontrar. Guiado por Selene y su melancólico susurro, imaginé unos muros y una fuente al final del camino, bajo una cruz deforme y rota. La asimetría de su decadencia me invitó a acercarme un poco más a ella. No pude imaginar en cambio el plácido ritmo del agua de aquella fuente entre mis manos cortadas por el olvido. La melancolía era estéril e imperfecta por aquellos lares, y su fruto era un sólido encogimiento en el alma que impedía la alquimia de la triste lágrima que todo acalla.

Mi silencio se hizo más fuerte al pasar ante el amorfo símbolo del sacrificio, erguido tanto tiempo atrás que las verdades que representaban se habían intimidado y encorvado ante aquella tierra tan vasta y seca que habitaba mi corazón. Entré en la capilla sin mucha dificultad, los insectos habían desistido de mostrar resitencia ante la araña compulsiva del eterno retorno a la decrepitud. El polvo y la ausencia me esperaban dentro, posados y amontanados entre los recuerdos que allí dentro yacían. Me acerqué al altar y me senté en la primera fila, en un banco con un número impar de soportes, que parecía levitar en un extremo y hundirse en el otro. Al otro lado de mi mirada se mostraba una sombra eterna que imitaba mis convulsión moral.

En aquel momento percibí el único y solitario sonido de aquella extraña noche, tan familiar como siniestra para mi vida. El reloj sobre la bóveda golpeó una única vez, penetrando en el corazón de aquella sombra que ya se había cernido sobre mí. No hubo sonido alguno cuando su puño penetró mi pecho y mi fuente comenzó a brotar de fuera hacia adentro. Aquel pobre infeliz era un sueño, una imagen de mí formada a mi antojo como cada plenilunio de agosto en el mismo pozo del infierno seco de mi tierra que cobijaba mi tumba para siempre. Mi sombra bebía de mí una vez más, dándole vida durante otro ciclo de días y meses esperando al estío del siguiente vaivén que me traería de nuevo ante otra imagen y otro cuerpo del que nutrirme para no perecer jamás al hastío de la inmortalidad.

XXXIII

2010-07-26T01:20:00.002+02:00

Some days it may look as if I was someone normal. You can think about it and still consider it that way. After all, it is quite established that a certain degree of intellectual internal debate leads you to some sort of madness sooner or later. Let's just say that to me it arrived slightly earlier than to the rest of you. So, don't be afraid of me. Not yet, at least. Sit there and try to focus on what I have to tell you.

On a normal day I don't feel like ripping the flesh out of my randomly selected victim. I don't stare at her eyes while she empties her whole blood on me. The fear in her eyes as she is completely stolen her identity and freed from the burdens of her soul. The brutal need for violence only appears in strange days, like these last weeks. Normally I am more classy. I like to wait on time and space equations to place me where I should be. With the years I have learned to dance between the periods of time, being part of them instead of obeying to their childish designs. I grow my decay in the dark, melting my blackened soul with the eroding kiss of the fog at night. I like to beat the darkness of this world with my superior opaqueness of my inhuman mind. It is the night that feeds from creatures like me, becoming blacker when I am walking among the living.

For that I should say that you have been quite a fool tonight. You were walking on the streets, wondering if you would ever return to the life that you considered so miserable. Before meeting me. You knew you had to run, you were fully aware that Death without solace was waiting for you at the end of the street and yet you didn't cease to get closer to me. I wonder why people are so fascinated with being brutally dismembered of their humanity and dignity.

There is no romanticism in what I do, no gentle kiss, no dream that will become eternal. I bring madness in you, you think it will be over soon but in fact it becomes more painful and increasingly disturbing. I pierce my hate in you so that you will never forget it, I bleed my anger into you so that you will forget all the laughter you may have experienced before. I eat your heart and lick the tears you wished you could cry. You see yourself breaking open before me, knowing that I do not care a little bit about your feelings. This act of brutality doesn't dignify anybody, it is the glory of the unfair, the tribute to chaos and injustice. And yet you always come looking for me.

Now get up and get close to me. Tell me what I am not and swear to yourself that it is going to be fine. It will be long and gruesome, your scream will last forever in the night's breeze and I will be the last image you will keep from this world. After it's finished you will keep me inside you until you wake up in the underworld. In its warm bloody waters you will be reborn. Not remembering the exacts reasons for it, you will live from that moment on looking for me in your dreams, feeding your own hate with the memories of my murder. One day, when all the hate and vice inside you will build a new heart, blacker than mine for I will also grow in it. You will walk your lives just to indict revenge on me.

You will find me waiting for you, sitting by my future grave. You will bite my entrails out, splash my insanity on the voids of time until the world wipes myself from its history. One drop will find its way through the cracks, slowly reaching the soil under the labyrinth of distorted chaotic roads of this world. It will end up joining the other drops, the other hopes, the rest of the lies. In the lake of oblivion I will find another reason to exist, another victim to kill. Another fountain to drink my lack of wisdom from.

Beating down the doors of Hades

2010-07-20T08:40:00.001+02:00

My eyes open still enclosed in the last fading spasms of the sleeping lives just passed. Your naked flesh is the first image my senses feel, your soft skin the first and last dream my lips will touch. Your heart beats deeply, it makes you real. You are now somewhere else, walking through the doors of the chimeras, blazing your soul into the ripe floods of eternal life. I sense your warmth, my hand trying to cover it all in order to fully take you with the pulsing nightmares of my soul. I lay closer to you, I kiss the perfumed canvas of your voluptuous beauty, sculpted patiently by the darkness gods of Hades. You feel me then, my rising heat and my hedonistic soul melting with you. We are sitting there again, you and I, contemplating at the river where we first met. Selene's spell is now a thick comforting rain, covering us, entering our souls, driving our minds insane. We share the same pulse, we dance with identical cadence, we pass the realm of life to become one. In eternal lust, in a one perennial flow of blood.

Turning blood into stones

2010-06-11T01:30:00.002+02:00

The sound of nature woke me up. I must have been sleeping for way much longer than expected. The long sleepless nights were far away and I found myself amidst the smell of green in my nostrils. How could that have happened? I never set my goals to leave for a foreign country, I didn't really buy into the prospect of meeting an exotic land. Somehow the idea of spending the rest of my morning wondering about the circumstances of my current situation seemed out of reach, and in the end I really had no choice.

When I was someone else I really feared everything that was surrounding me at the moment: the silent fauna walking slowly on my side, the closing nature feeding from me, licking me as a dog welcomes the new acquaintances. Laying on the ground I could glimpse the trace of spiders and snakes on my body from the night before. The night creatures had crawled over me and didn't leave any trace of menace but just a sign of bereavement. I was not foreign there, quite surprising thought when you realise that I had never stepped a foot on such a land.

In any case I stood up and studied my surroundings. At first, all I could see was thick branches of future anguishes and their leaves creating some nauseating dizziness in my sight. They polluted my balance, disturbed my self being by deleting any foreseeing future. All my life my focus was on dreaming on and continuing discovering new worlds and new faces and yet this new situation was starting to dwell on me and driving me into some sick whirlwind of self absorption. I asked loudly to be let free from this idea and the dream just fell on my knees.

It was dark at last, and the trees and the wild plants around my bed had finally freed me from my slumber. I felt my hands burn and my heart stop when I scanned the old stone stairs buried under the grass that was my bed. I followed them quite quickly considering my lack of physical motion in the previous days. Everything was invaded by the grasp of green nature, the savage growth of the present covering the ruins of our past.

At the end there stood a door without the support of any wall. I somehow thought of me as the door, and the emptiness as the symbol of my loneliness. I let myself grow slowly through the space through the door to walk inside another parts of me. There was no light amongst those ruins, no noise or no wind spacing the stones within those silent witnesses of my distant past. It was all stone, motionless and hopeless signs.

I found myself whispering to those ruins, kissing the cold stench of decay and slowly recovering all of the dreams that had been mine. The youth, the love, the fall...it was all back into me. My body stood still, silent, in peace. In the middle of all that ever growing rhythmic growth of life among the jungle, there was a hidden passage in which I had found my way back into the meaning of my own self. I had fixed my senses into what it was not evident and made my life back into the dreams of a nearing past that had completely covered me into the mesmerizing tides of eternal life through my physical death in this present world.

One day my ghost will wake up again and leave the cracks of my solid wounds, inducting a kiss of breath into my carcass heart. Until then, I will dive in my dream, sleep until the bleed soars and time becomes a legend too. Just as me.

Absplitterung

2010-06-01T07:26:00.002+02:00

Entras por la puerta y ves que ya no estoy. Te preguntas por qué tardé tanto tiempo en mudarme de piso e intentas olvidar que alguna vez estuve allí.

Más tarde vas al trabajo en tu coche y descubres mi foto en la guantera. Durante algunos minutos la miras fijamente e intentas escudriñarla para decorar con algo de lógica la memoria que de cualquier otro modo es enfermiza.

Por supuesto conviertes los plieges rectos y equilibrados de mi identidad en un amasijo de papel colorante en el interior de tu puño. Luego me tiras a la carretera para que me pierda bajo las ruedas de los otros.

En el trabajo, te preguntan por mí y tú ya sabes qué responder. Mi memoria ya está rota así que no te importa arrojar más agua por la superficie de la foto para borrar los elementos que me componían.

Y finalmente llegas a casa, y mi olor está por todas partes. Tratas de quemarme a través del fuego sobre mi ropa, pero las cenizas nunca se desvanecerán y su polvo se fundirá con el aire que respiras.

Abres la ventana para que yo me esfume, y te acuestas en la cama donde nos dejamos de conocer. Cierras los ojos y suspiras el resto del aire que queda de mí.

Años después descubres otra foto, otro olor, otro sabor y en vano intentas recomponer la imagen que se desvaneció de mí. Me imaginas más bello, menos real y mi retrato es mucho mejor que el original. Abres el cofre de tu corazón y en él conservas el sueño de alguien que yo pude ser y nunca llegué a ser.

Por último los días pasan y en su agitado caminar el corazón se abre, se limpia y se llena de aire nuevo. Por fín, yo ya he muerto

σφυγμός

2010-05-25T14:28:00.006+02:00

Te levantas y sigues tan nervioso como la noche anterior. La cama ha amplificado la melodía del eco del vacío en tus entrañas. Piensas que tus ojos siguen cubiertos por los párpados pero la realidad es que están cubiertos por finas telas que no dejan ver el exterior. Igual que las nubes que pueblan desordedamente el cielo, tus miedos se ramifican progresivamente en tu interior.

Tienes más hambre de lo habitual, pero compruebas cómo ningún alimento que engulles puede provocar un cambio de rumbo en la cadencia de tu pálpito arrítmico. Los sabores son iguales, el amargo tiñe de color al dulce y le quita relevancia. Tu lengua es una capa más que adormece tu boca y bloquea la asimilación de todos los acontecimientos que te rodean recientemente

Nada importa demasiado, y todo es demasiado relevante. Cambias el orden a tu alrededor y la compulsión que ataca la decisión atenaza el desenlace de la coherencia real. Todo es distinto, pero el día es calcado al anterior, tu cuerpo está vivo pero tu mente está estancada en el ayer. No puedes avanzar, pero ansías el momento en el que no te importe estancarte.

Finalmente buscas el dolor, la fuente eléctrica que acompaña el recorrido de las garras nerviosas con su cálido fluido de oscuro temblor. Buscas entonces un rincón que te fagocite, una forma geométrica que te esconda en el seno del espacio, una sombra que te mezcle con ella y te transporte a oscuridades pasadas. La unión con lo que fuiste y lo que serás. La decadencia y muerte del presente, la fusión del ayer y del hoy, allá donde los sonidos son más bellos que entonces y donde las sonrisas volverán para siempre.

Lloras y entonces respiras con el aire que no está en tus pulmones, existes con las venas vacías del experimento vital que no funcionó del todo, amas a través de las grietas de tu cuerpo caído desde el cielo corrupto que rechazó tu agonía en flor. Vives porque supiste vivir los momentos que para siempre debían perdurar. Superaste el las horas en punto y los sesenta segundos de cada minuto. Serás lo que fuiste y encontrarás de nuevo lo que ya tenías, pero ahora ya no se irá de tí.

Esperando a la noche de espeso rumor

2010-05-07T22:00:00.003+02:00

Hubo una vez que soñé que no despertaba y me encontraba encerrado en la misma habitación. Entonces pensé que si debía vivir el resto de mis días entre aquellas paredes, debía al menos conocer los más mínimos detalles de lo que iba a albergar mis pensamientos por el resto de mis días.

El receptáculo de mis ilusiones sin eco era de un tamaño no especialmente dramático, pero al menos no tenía el poder de agarrarme entre sus dedos y asfixiarme existencialmente de un modo más rápido de lo que el destino hubiera deseado.

El color era pálido, pero no blanco, leve pero grave en su influencia en mi espíritu. Los días intentando comprender el sentido de todo aquello que me sucedía eran una dura tortura a la que yo no podía evitar someterme. Dócil, cual necio enmudecido por todo aquello que te asusta pero al mismo tiempo fascina, dirigía mis ojos al vacío creado por aquel obsceno exceso de blancura existencial.

La noche en cambio traía el bálsamo ideal a todos estos males diurnos. Las paredes entonces se oscurecían y la noche salpicaba aleatoriamente su bello fluido corpóreo sobre la superficie pétrea de mis miembros. El oscuro perfume de lo perverso y lo vicioso llenaba la habitación de si misma y me cubría totalmente con su caluroso infierno letal.

Hipnotizado y totalmente henchido de los impulsos nerviosos de la luna me situaba al lado del agujero negro que la noche había abierto para penetrar en aquellos muros otrora inexpugnables y me daba un reflejo de lo que mi vida sería si estuviera al otro lado. Bajo aquel espejo deformado encontré un asiento para mi esqueleto y una copa de vino para el resto de mi espíritu. Bebía la sangre contemplando la riqueza de mi vacío, disfrutando de cada una de las gotas de decadencia que se fundían con mi perdida identidad. Gozaba una y otra vez con la memoria de cada una de mis derrotas, venciendo al infinito y a la mortalidad de todo con lo que no merece la pena soñar.

Un día, el día no fue tal, me abandonó cobijado en el seno de la espesa ola de viscoso beso nocturno y allí nunca más necesité despertar.

For You

2010-04-27T14:04:00.004+02:00

Deep inside the looking glass,
there where the spiders' tissue is black
I swam alone and never looked back
looking for you, digging in me

You opened your eyes once
the world cracked over us
the moon raining itself
bleeding forever
melting us in one

Walking silently over the frost
Feeding darkness with new blood
Tasting the night and drinking its fate
Feasting on our kiss and pouring ourselves
as crimson wine

My dark corners you saw
in them we shall dwell
in yours I will dream
with you I can finally be

In the summer river where it all began
I will join you at last
embraced in joy, smiles and tears
for heaven I finally found,

In you

2010-04-05T10:52:00.004+02:00

It all went out and nothing left to be tasted afterwards.

You dropped your clothes at the entrance and left the rest of your inhibitions hanging from the other side of the door. I was already down on my knees and your scent was already clouding my senses, propelling my blood in all directions, still not where it would rise and grind.

You let me drink you first. A crimson line was drawn in your left thigh, a second one painted your breast with ease. I learnt from both, feeding from your heart drumming and finding it's rhythmic compass in my sex. As you grew more eager, the fantasies aroused and took control of me.

I tied your wrists, locked your motions with the rope I once used to slay my former selves. Then I forced the blade on my chest, and my blackened self filled your mouth. The wine was bitter but you did not cease to feel the thirst in you.

I dropped more of me inside you, watching right into your eyes as the pleasure increased the senses, polluting them, breaking them, becoming one with them and fading under them.

In the White

2010-04-02T09:44:00.004+02:00

It fell on us as dust on furniture, no one really felt a change. We could all see it coming but we did nothing to avoid it. It caught us guarded, but the effort to repel it was completely futile. I will always wonder if it would have been better to just continue ignoring the facts just as everyone else did.

Samuel got up as usual, reached for the coffee and the tv remote and joined the sofa in the room. It was a cold early spring morning and the sun looked terribly white that day. He tasted the first sip of coffee as the channels started to shoot their empty lights on his eyes. At first he thought it must have been a reception problem, someone must have been fixing something in the attic. The lack of television signal annoyed him, but nevertheless he managed to do what he had to do to get ready for a new day at work.

The stairs had been cleaned, polished and perfumed as never before. The porter has standing still at the entrance and for the first time appeared to completely ignore his presence. When he finally hit the street he noticed something weird, but far from disturbing: a soft fog was covering it all and still you could perceive the light of the sun through it. The effect was that of a white thin layer on a lamp, morphing the effects and color of the light in the whole room. Samuel was concerned with environmental issues so he thought it was just another consequence of the huge traffic jams in town.

It was Monday, and as usual he thought of starting the week by looking at the prospects of the week in the newspaper. He arrived at the newsagent and started looking at the different gazety. The headings were all the same, but shockingly all the pages were left undone, blank, all mirroring each other. He tried to clear his voice in order to address the shop assistant. When he asked him, he realized his voice sounded far, as if it wasn't him who was uttering those words. Not surprisingly he didn't wonder why the other person didn't even seem to care about what he had just tried to say. He just thought he had got up too quickly from bed and that his head would start to hurt from one moment to another, making him dizzy and completely destroy his day.

He left the shop and walked towards his work, fearing a tough day considering his strange state of mind. There weren't many people on the street and the few who were there looked extremely pale and distant as if in another world. Their eyes were even bluer, their skin so white that made him remember all those vampire novels he used to devour some years ago. He noticed a woman's fingers while she held her cigarette on the bus stop, the circle of smoke was of the same colour as his nail polish, and her lips had no different tonality than the rest of her face.

He thought he needed to drink a new coffee as he crossed the door at his work. The boss was looking at him from her desk, her eyes dressed in white too. The school had been refurnished, the ornaments were scarce and the posters and pictures had been removed from every single room. When he arrived at the teachers room he was welcomed by an astonishing order in the whole place. Everything was perfectly ranged, the books were all left as if they hadn't been touched, his things had been cleaned and now looked extremely professional. He prepared another coffee as he decided to enter the classroom since no other teacher was there to chat as usual.

Nobody came to the first lesson. Samuel waited in his desk, looking through the window still amazed at the strange light effects from this new day. He thought he needed a change, holidays or just something to come back to reality. He started to feel alone, but despite the lack of noise in the school he ignored these facts by taking his last book from his bag. 920 pages waited and he had been anxious to start reading his next horror novel, filled with mystery, thrill and blood. Nothing really shocked him these days, and he soon got bored with almost every book he started to read, but this time he thought he'd found the right one. He opened the pages and discovered in anger and disgust how every single page had been erased, each of them filled with that same white despair that was coloring his day.

He felt an urgent need to tell someone about this strange and already disturbing day. He reached his pocket for his phone and discovered that it was off. He threw it on the desk, realizing he must have left the phone all night and now the battery was off again. He was starting to feel a mix of anger and depression. He could not engage any conversation, the school was empty and even the boss had vanished again. There were no students coming in the next three hours. Finally he fell asleep on the desk, hoping that when he woke up everything would have returned back to normal.

When he woke up it was already very late, the clock marked eight o'clock and still it wasn't fully night. He must have slept too long but the room looked quite light even for a mull moon night. He looked through the window and was welcomed by a powerful moon, seemingly bigger than ever and so bright that he couldn't stare at it for more than two seconds. He was feeling cold and lonely, in complete fear now. This wasn't right. He wore his coat and left the school as fast as he could.

On the street people made queues on every single shop that should have been closed by now. People were silent, their clothes matching their skins and their eyes mirroring the moonlight. As he walked amongst them he noticed how those eyes weren't really looking at him as he passed. They seemed to look inside, or rather nowhere in particular. When they left the shops they all carried white cans, white packs in white bags. It was frightening to see how they all carried the same objects and how all looked and him and yet seemed to completely ignore he existed.

He ran home as fast as he could, trying not to look at the bright light that was flooding each of the elements of his life.

When he arrived home, he started feeling some relief. His flat looked normal. He left his things on the sofa and decided to take a long shower to relax from such a weird day. As he got naked and entered the shower he felt determined to call a doctor the following morning. There may be some brain problem, maybe his chronic lack of sleep, the long hours at work or the cold winter had really affected him after all. His body started to feel better as soon as the water ran over his back, finally a pleasant feeling in the whole day. There was nothing better than a warm shower after a long day.

Then his heart started to pound heavily inside his chest: there was something odd in the shower too. The water smelled... he tried to open his eyes under the shower but the liquid got in his eyes, blinding him. He stopped the water from running and reached for the towel to clean his face. When he finally opened his eyes there was a huge amount of white liquid covering his feet and lower part of the legs. The liquid was thick as milk but when he tried to taste it in his mouth it had no taste at all. It smelled of some lactic product but it had no precise taste at all.

In complete desperation he cleaned himself with the towel and got out of the shower. The bathroom was all covered in steam from the shower so he could barely see anything. He got out and went to the wardrobe to find some clothes. There was nothing there that wasn't light colored, his black shirts and trousers were just not there. In awe, he put the phone to recharge as he prepared some tea in the kitchen. Then he finally got back to the bathroom to leave the wet towel and comb his hair. When he passed before the mirror he was shocked by what he found in it. A man, completely bathed in whiteness was looking at him. His face was even paler, the eyes milky white and his lips and tongue tainted of the same tone of desperation. He tried to scream but could not hear his own voice.

He left the bathroom naked of all answers of what was happening to him. He wanted to know what was possibly going on outside so he entered the balcony and looked everywhere. Under him people stared at him, white beautiful statues. The light of the moon was everywhere and the fog was a curtain of soft thin white rain that made everything shine. The more the rain fell the more he had the feeling that nothing mattered any longer. He didn't feel desperate anymore. Somehow, he started to feel absolutely nothing. The people started to vanish in front of his eyes at the same speed as his emotions.

Finally he started to feel something inside him. He looked at his body and he could see it all covered in white liquid. It was coming from his nostrils, ears and from his eyes. He was all covered in it. He felt in peace. His last look was at the white moon, so beautiful and never again lonely.

Levitation

2010-03-31T17:56:00.004+02:00

All the chains
the dead weight,
left abandoned

Free, frameless

Unscathed, left apart
broomed away
from all that used to count

Tears have flown
the traces shown no scar
voids are not sewn

Left open

the air in my blood
my life raining under
over our cloudless minds

What once was mine
is now a part of the nothing

feeling almost nothing
knowing even something

the flood in my lungs
the mud on my eyes
the ground above me
the rain under me

Losing myself to
finally find me

March Sadness

2010-03-26T11:43:00.002+01:00

Sujeto Elidido

2010-02-24T08:45:00.000+01:00

Sólo la había visto una vez. Sentada en algún lugar, sonriendo al horizonte poblado de montículos metálicos con ojos de cristal parpadeante sobre el vaivén de caos motriz de las calles de la ciudad antigua.

Tenía los labios húmedos, de haber pasado su tímida lengua por ellos y habérlos recogido en su sonrisa una vez más. Aquella vez había sido solamente para ellos dos, la mirada compartida durante unos instantes que a él entonces le parecieron eternamente luminosos y a ella probablemente no le hubiera importado repetir.

Sus uñas estaban pintadas, de violeta o un azul muy distinto al de su percepción del mismo. Los dedos habían acariciado el pelo que tejía un veloz manto entre los dos entre las ráfagas de un viento no bienvenido en aquel día. Eran dedos que él tantas veces soñó después que acariciaban los suyos y rozaban intimidades que para ellos él designó como habituales y gozosas muestras de complicidad largamente adquiridas.

Ella se marchó después, el aroma que nunca pudo olvidar se quedó con él y se introdujo en su cuerpo como el veneno de la fe en un converso, atrapándole en una espiral de ilusiones cada vez más lejanas de la realidad.

Los días siguientes a aquel instante fueron redundantes, para él todo lo demás en su vida sobraba. Se pasaba el tiempo buscando su cara en la poblada arquitectura facial del vulgo, lo femenino era escudriñado, ordeñado de su líquido existencial para devolverle las sensaciones que él creía eran fundamentales.

Visitó otros lugares, inundó sus sentidos con otros aromas, buscó otros dedos con los que ser tocado y acarició rostros que se desvanecían en su alma. Rozó su boca sobre labios que ya no podría humedecer con su amor porque poco a poco él mismo se iba deshaciendo.

Los ratos pasaron, las calles se hicieron cada vez más largas y los lugares que buscar cada vez más extraños. Los perfumes, las miradas y los roces se fueron mezclando progresivamente con el caos de la putrefacción de lo cotidiano. Se hizo amigo íntimo del escepticismo y se rodeó de pesimistas augurios y derrotismos abanderados de vanguardia.

Lo mundano le llevó al último lugar que no había visitado en mucho tiempo, su propio hogar. Tomó las llaves de su bolsillo y se dispuso a abrir la puerta de su propia intimidad. Cuando entró en su casa vió que no había nada, ningún mueble o efecto personal que lo relacionara con lo que él creía que le pertenecía. Todo era blanco y limpio, y no podría distinguir aroma ni texturas excepcionales. Olía igual que la propia ciudad, pero con un aspecto mucho más nítidamente opaco. Se sentó en el suelo, cerca del balcón y se deshizo de sus sueños para sumergirse en el pausado ritmo de vida de su propio Leteo. Nadó y se meció en el agua negra de su alma buscando el calor del fin de los dias sin término.

Cuando finalmente sacó su mente del líquido de Hades no le hubiera sorprendido encontrarse con el mismo Infierno de sus lamentaciones. En cambió sus ojos se encontraron con la mirada que tanto había anhelado contemplar, su cuerpo fue rozado por las manos que albergaban el poder de calentar aquel cadaver ya petrificado por el azote de las agujas del reloj. Sus labios fueron humedecidos por la lengua de una musa que por fín le había encontrado.

Muerto o vivo, él sabía que por fín todo tendría sentido. La abrazó y la volvió a soñar

Rootless Rebirth

2010-02-09T12:11:00.006+01:00

Surrounded by the stillness of the a day that expects no night, I can only feel the melodies inside my frozen body, the microdermal cacophony inside my cells.

There is almost no change outside these caves. Sometimes a gentle kiss from the frost on my cheek, but it is another dead weight on my carcass.

I wish I were something real, something that could actually feel like a living creature. Memories walk even slightly more apathetic than they used to crawl. I can hardly think, sunk into the ice, driven away from any contact with reality.

On my knees, for the rain has become a part of me, forcing me to rest on my legs...my fists cracking a wound on the careless soil...and island resting over the support for my own self. Before I will finally drown.

Forgotten, I may have been born to live just a few days. My time a continuous blinking of the eyes towards a past that never existed and a future that will have more than one end.

Before the dark one comes to take me, I will have bled my own hopes over this whiteness, my thickness transpired through your cruel womb where you conceived me. Giving myself back to where I shouldn't have digged into, scorching my way back to another world. Warmer, I hope...meaningless no more.

Pensamientos bajo el manto de hielo

2010-01-17T10:12:00.001+01:00

Los últimos días del verano parecen tan lejanos que vagamente recuerdo su aroma y mucho menos su sabor. Se ensanchaban los días, sueltos, libres del abotargado pulso de la sangre en el ininterrumpido vals de la rutina. Fría, calculadora, dictadora del universo de la divagación intelectual.

El sol brillaba sobre nosotros y parecía que el día nunca acabaría, marcaba el terreno para un nuevo desencuentro que encontrábamos ingenioso en su perezoso acabar y sonreíamos ante la trivialidad de todo lo que ocurría. El agua, el sol, la arena...todos ellos esculpían nuestro despertar y nos mecían muy esperadamente durante el día hacia la añorada noche tórrida de los días de mi idealizado mes de julio.

Tanto me dejé llevar, que no sentí el paso del tiempo, la mutada naturaleza del sedimento temporal que maquilla este cuerpo sin provocar desesperación aún. La fina arena del Mediterráneo fue barrida por las melancólicas caricias del otoño, sus bellas manos apartadas de mí más tarde por el lento y pesado manto blanco que absorbe toda la luz que puede albergar un invierno largo y profundo. El hielo hace todo más lento, más doloroso y a su vez más profundo.Todo es relevante en su irrelevancia supina.

Dentro de este limbo helado personal de circunstancias sin motivo y sin fin me encuentro yo, buscando y no encontrando, encontrando sin buscar a veces soluciones a enigmas no planteados y a los que nadie importa su desenlace. Aquí, un día, la nieve me dejará y despedirá mis pensamientos.

Quizá entonces todo se dilate de nuevo, el amor, el beso y el cielo entre tus piernas. Y sólamente entonces soñaremos de nuevo con lo que echaremos de menos y nunca tendremos hasta que dejemos de bailar al son de los caprichosos elementos.

The Crow flashback

2009-12-12T23:49:00.001+01:00

This composition would always be a nice company to the writings in this blog. The vid and the music blend successfully and it suits perfectly the universe described here. Enjoy:

Blackrope Heights III

2009-11-29T10:39:00.004+01:00

She was still waiting. There were some roads that she may have considered taking, but in the end she decided to stay inside the old house at the left corner, hidden behind the oak at the end of the hill.

Nobody had seen her in a very long time, and yet she could see no one approaching her door. At first, her disappearance had been just a rumor suspended in the midst of the words whispered ear to ear in the village. The grass had grown outside her house, reaching the path towards to top of the hill, but you could hardly see any soul crossing that spot in the town to reach the top. There where the mystery still lied.

Her house was majestic, its roots carved and settled inside the pit of the rocks of the mountain. It had once been the first reunion place in Blackrope Heights. People came in and left their blessings, shared their hopes, drunk with pleasure. It was back then when they were two.

One day, he left. In the night, silent, stolen from the bed where he had hugged the love of his life for countless nights. No word, no written note, no trace of footprints from outside. He just vanished and she never had any news from him.

Months, years, and a decade followed and she was still alone.

The window used to be her mirror, day and night. She would spend her time diving into the images of her brain mixed with her own reflection at dusk. Slowly her image faded, erased by the rusting weight of her thoughts in the sands of dusting time.

She forgot the light, and embraced the dark. Her bed was always open, and yet she never got back to it. Her lustful body remained intact. White and soft, naked under the spell of the moon's embrace. She gave away her desires, her dreams and her happiness to pay the price to keep all the melancholy inside her. She fed on the anxiety and learned to be one with her. Present and Future dissolved under the acid touch of doom.

And finally she ceased to breathe, to care, to move. But her eyes did not close. She stared and glanced through the window outside the world that used to be hers. Inside, all was dead and black, forgotten and abandoned. Lonely and mourning, her organs gave up and remained motionless too. The pulse slowly fading, the blood drying under the last sounds of drums from her heart.

....

And one night, the legends say some neighbors could hear a horse walk up to the last house, on the left corner behind the old oak. And old woman still says she swears she saw a black shadow emerge from the own oak's reflection under the full moon light. The shadow knocked on the door, and after some minutes of wait it finally left on the horse again. Instead of returning downhill toward the river, the mysterious knight continued his path uphill towards the cross on the top where nobody dared to go. And then all became as black as it had once been. The woman claims the shadow eclipsed her vision of the moon and that no trace of light could be seen any more during that night.

"The shadow swallowed the moon and didn't return it to the sun"

A man was there on the river side the following morning, listening to the woman's words about the events of the previous night . He listened to the story and then let his horse drink some water while he walked towards Blackrope Heights. Nobody had seen this man before, and yet he seemed to know where he was going. He ascended towards the old oak and entered the blinding light that covered the space beyond it. The door opened to him and he got in finally, leaving all that he had lived behind him.

He entered the bedroom and found the bed just has he had left it. He could smell her perfume, the sweet essence of his love that he had always kept in his heart and soul during the enduring moments he had been forced to live. He followed the trace of her beloved to the window. There, right before the window glass he found three red blood pearls, the last tears from her wife resting solid as a witness of her presence.

And finally he looked through the window. He touched the webs that collapsed his vision towards the outside landscape. When he'd done that he could finally see her, arms stretched and loving eyes looking at him from the outside. He cried and touched the image from inside and stayed like this for the rest of his time.

.....

The legend says that during the night of full moon in November, if you dare to visit the last house in town, behind the shadow of the old oak you will see the beautiful statue of the most gorgeous woman Blackrope Heights ever had, next to the right side of the abandoned mansion. Her hands are placed on the window glass, her eyes looking inside the house...

...if you dare to enter the house at your own risk, you will see another statue. A man is standing beside the window in the bedroom. His hands are touching the hands reflected from the other side of the window. If you stand there for enough time, right where the lovers touch, the moon light will entirely disappear into the surface of the lovers' stones. And maybe, just maybe, you will disappear too.

2009-11-12T13:48:00.003+01:00

A veces soy incapaz de traspasar con mis deseos la fina tela de piel formada alrededor de mi cuerpo. Si la miras en el espejo, te asombrará no encontrarla allí. Cuando la buscas bajo tu camisa descubres que se ha evaporado, y sin embargo nunca te ha abandonado. Sabes que está contigo y que nunca se despega de tí.

Se ha formado día tras día, impulsada por el tejer de las agujas del tiempo, movidas estratégicamente por la araña gigante y repulsiva del tiempo. Se fija en tí, se amolda a tus latidos y traza sus pasos en tus párpados, en tus manos, en tu cuello. Poco a poco se apodera de tí cual sopor nocturno, visible únicamente en la oscuridad espiritual del individuo.

La mirada se empequeñece, los abrazos duelen y los miembros se endurecen para no volver a suavizarse...como el rostro de una joven esperando la promesa de un mañana que nunca llegará. Las lágrimas ya no tocan la cara, se deslizan por el cuerpo sin dejar huella que te haga sentir tu humanidad. Te mueves con pereza, bebes con fiereza por hacer pugnar tu cuerpo bajo la esclavitud de la capa de indiferencia.

Luchas, pierdes, sufres, y no obtienes respuesta en tu interior.

Finalmente, la capa se cierra, te ahogas y desesperas. La ceguera te invade y desconoces la diferencia entre el día y la noche. El año se convierte en mes, y los días son tragos de odio que no puedes vomitar. La agonía continúa hasta que por fín notas un cambio. Tu nueva piel ha encontrado un hueco, un abismo desde el que te llenará de oscuridad, la conexión entre tu alma y tu cuerpo, el cordón umbilical de la hecatombe se ve reactivado.

Los órganos la sienten, la brisa de un soplo de polvo esparcido sobre las vísceras...la ceniza de un pasado se posa por dentro y no puedes toser. Ya no hay mañana, ni ayer ni los quizás y tampoco. La oscuridad ha penetrado en tí y te ha desposeído de toda tu humanidad. Tu alma es negra, viscosa, pestilenta y moribunda.

Una noche te miras al espejo y tú tampoco estás. Te has marchado y no has dejado nada.

Darkness

2009-11-09T07:39:00.002+01:00

I will start talking since I don't want to lose my sanity. I woke up in this darkness, alone in an absolute darkness. There is nothing around, at least I can't see it. I don't even know if I'm standing or if I'm lying somewhere. All I know is that I am alone in a place I have never been to, and in a situation never experienced.

You may wonder how I have arrived to this point. I wish I could tell you that. I wish you could tell me where I am, and what am I doing here. My name is Allison and I am a 21 year old girl from Bath, England. I am a student of Art and I dedicate my life to the paintings. If you want to know me the best advise I can give you is to go to my flat and look at my drawings. Don't worry about the keys, you will find them under the rug just before the door. I've never feared any burglars since I don't really own anything, and I doubt regular thieves will appreciate any of my inside world.

All of these things don't seem to matter much since I have no connection to anything here. I cannot tell you how I am, since I ignore if it's cold or warm in here. In fact I cannot trust most of my senses any longer since there is nothing I can relate to here. All I can know is that I hear my voice when I speak, that is why I have decided to look out for a friendly being.
You may think I am dead, but if so how come I can speak? That means some of my organs are alive. I am unable to verify some of these things though. I have tried to move and touch myself to aknowledge some of these basic truths...I have touched something but I'm not sure if it's mine...that was the first moment I felt some fear...It wasn't me, but it was human; I felt someone's nose, I apologised and talked in that direction, but i didn't get any answer. Some moments later I tried to touch that nose again and it wasn't there...that's when I felt I was alone. I moved my body in all directions and realised there is no gravity here. I could turn in all directions but i didn't find anything physical. Somehow I started losing my fear then. I started feeling free...I could even feel some fresh air caressing my hair...but I am not sure of it either.

Some moments later -the notion of time here is unknown to me- I started seeing something in front of me. I drew my body towards that blurry point in the space and tried to get closer. It was a ladder. I tried to climb and I could ascend in what it seemed quite a fast pace...But it never ended. The air seemed cooler in that region, and I felt lighter with each motion.
I spent quite a long time over there, trying to meet someone, in an attempt to know where I was. I got no answer and after a while I decided to go down the ladder again. The descending part was nicer, and I could even feel scared I could fall into the darkness...
The lower part of the stair had no end either. At least I couldn't find it. The air grew thicker down there...I felt warmer and I even started laughing without a reason. I decided I was going to stay there then. It felt nice over there, joy invading me and making me feel so good...

I could still see nothing, feel nothing...but my memories started coming back. I could remember Sarah, my girlfriend. She had that perfect smile...Oh God! I wish I could kiss her again, feel her presence around me...she makes me feel at peace with myself. She's always been there for me, even when things started getting difficult. When the cancer got me she didn't leave me. She came to live to my appartment and made me feel everything was normal, everything was all right. Sarah made me know how love is within a smile, in a sweet morning kiss with the sun erasing the mortality of the human flesh.

I started feeling lonely in that moment. Sarah wasn't here and I started crying. I don't know how long I kept on sobbing...But somehow I wasn't scared at any time. I just felt I needed someone to be with me in this darkness. That desire to avoid loneliness made me climb the ladder again.
And here I am, back where I woke up. I left the ladder and I didn't fall into anything, so i decided to try and fall asleep again...maybe it was all a dream after all...I would get up and Sarah would bring me some hot tea to bed and tell me we were going to get dressed and go to a new gallery exhibition. I would jump towards her and we would make love until she would ask me to stop... I would take her hand and we would walk next to the seaside and hear the seagulls talk into the shore...

I think I fell asleep at that moment. But I woke up and I knew this wasn't a dream anymore...I was here again. This time I could see some more. It was still dim but you could see something. Now I can't see any ladder but I can see my body. I am suspended in the air, if you want to know. I am wearing a beautiful white dress that I don't remember having bought...
I heard a sound and that's when i decided to talk to you. I wondered If the sound was coming in your direction and If you would take me back to light. You haven't done anything yet. I guess you would do it if you could, and maybe you will at some moment.

Can you tell me why I can't see my feet any more? They're slowly dissapearing...Why is there a light above? Why is it that I don't feel any pain in my dissapearing legs? My flesh is burning and melting and I feel so good...The darkness is swallowing me, grabbing my body with its grasp, staining my fancy dress of fortune...
I can taste the darkness in my mouth now...it tastes like Sarah

One of the most beautiful songs I've ever listened to

2009-11-03T15:13:00.002+01:00

2009-10-14T10:42:00.008+02:00

You take my clothes off. They won't be of any use to where I am heading to. I shave my hair, exposing my skull to full view. No more need for aesthetics, no more care is needed. I can see a crossroads of veins born on my temples and following their roads all over the surface of the head. We are the roads we follow, and ultimately we come back and forth until we get bored of them. Difficult to admit, but there is always a dead end old road in everyone of us.

I later proceed to erase the rest of protection for my skin. The face loses expression as the brows fall on my chest, the marks of youth appear over my naked self as the intimate becomes unveiled. Hard to remember how one looks when we are children and we can barely see what we are diving in.

Then the knife, sharp and shining like in old times. The surface is cold as the veins it cuts, but the flowing soul runs warmer than I ever thought.

I paint with me all the mirrors in the room. In no delicate manner I fill them up with my ink until they vomit me, writing no love stanzas but a single voluminous spit of doom over my identity they can no longer represent. I cover them all, black from the rotten wounds of decay and vice, showing some crimson blush that soon fades with the venom of my older truths finally shown

Then I call you to where I am, and you lick me up. There is no need for rush, but you must take it all. As you swallow me, I can see in your eyes that you finally understand me. No need for words, you take me in and accept my will. Then you leave, and I stay a little more. I touch you for the last time, leaving your deep perfume on my finger tips. The same fingers I turn my last pages with.

Finally I lock all the doors that I opened all my life, sealing them with my last hopes that all I ever did was crossing them without leaving anything there. I wished I had created new doors, opened new gates and destroy all the ones that proved doomed. Nothing I ever did was worth being mentioned except these last lines.

The final door is opened by others, or by self impulse. There is a long corridor without walls. As I try to put my step on it I realise there is no floor, no ceiling, no door in itself. Then a splash of light hitting my cells, bathing me in a dream that should never end.

When I open my eyes, I watch the hand of fate turn into a fist and digging its way into my chest, splitting my past life in two and taking its heart out.

Then...only long time after that...this same heart is buried on another chest, nailied all over it through different veins, under another skin. Another body will be there again, more blood will make it move and feel once more. I will get up and walk again only to find new doors to open, old roads to take. At the end you will be there and this time I will drink you. You will empty yourself in me and you will leave. I will cry over my mirrors and the black paint will wear off. My hair will grow back and my own self will reach the angles of my face to make it live.

The clothes will be there to cover me again, waiting for you to take them off once more

Dedicado a Mil

2009-10-05T15:36:00.002+02:00

Cuando tú estabas siempre aquí, me gustaba mirarte de reojo. A veces sonreía y tu me respondías, siempre atento a todos mis movimientos.

Me respondías, dabas vueltas en círculos que sólo tú sabías descifrar. Pero me gustaba ver tu danza al lado de la ventana.

Si te hablaba desde otra habitación, tú siempre respondías. De manera más o menos explícita me hacías ver que me oías, me sentías, me esperabas.

Pasamos mucho tiempo juntos, muchas tardes y mañanas de campos verdes, música estruendosa, voces, ruidos, olores, aromas.

Tu siempre mirabas al cielo, al suelo, a las piernas de las chicas, a lo más bello de la vida.

Mi ilusión era sentirte siempre, como te siento ahora.

Muchas veces soñaba contigo, y tú eras aún más pequeño. Tenía miedo de perderte, de que tu identidad se desvaneciera, de que resbalaras de entre mis manos y no pudiera encontrarte.

Ahora que te has marchado, te busco por todas partes. A veces te encuentro, te apoyas en mi hombro y haces todos esos ruidos que tanto me gustaban.

Mi pequeño amigo alado, tus alas siempre abiertas, tus ojos siempre abiertos. El sonido de tu pico entre tus alas era la única melodía que destacaba entre los días más duros.

Tú siempre estabas ahí. Conmigo.

Siento que te he fallado. Confiabas en mí, y yo no supe protegerte del roce del negro manto de la oscuridad. Quería pedirte que me perdonaras, si puedes. Siempre torpe, nunca supe hacer las cosas bien. Muchas palabras y las acciones no me acompañaron.

Te marchaste y te echo de menos.

Necesito verte y hablarte. Que me cuentes qué estás viendo, qué forma tienes ahora.

Necesito que estés conmigo y me sigas acompañando.

Hasta que yo también cambie.

Me ofreceras la mano cuando yo también me marche?

Gracias por estar conmigo, gracias por cuidarme

Te quiero

Siempre

Mi pequeño amigo

Otra vez

2009-10-01T18:22:00.004+02:00

Y aquí nos encontramos otra vez.

Tú y yo mirando desde el mismo lado del espejo. Tu te bañas en su profundo abismo real, y yo bebo de las ondas que tu movimiento origina. De arriba a abajo, de manera gradual y envolvente, el agujero del tiempo se hace más lento e intenso a medida que subes a la superficie. Entonces vierto el aroma de la soledad en círculos de viciosos humores corrompidos por el aire gastado en la celda de lo etéreo. Rozo el sueño de una vida sin dueño y un collar con espinas se me adormece en los miembros.

La belleza es horizontal y el amor es un contorno oblícuo que esculpe las rosas con cuya sangre, fuente de vida, me fundo y el sostén pierdo de la cordura sin fe. Ya no siento las telas con las que vestí mi miedo y desnudo ante el cielo caigo ante tí. Con la espalda despierto, la mirada rebelde hacia el musgo de hielo que yace ante mí. Allá estás tú, rota y hermosa... En tu cuerpo se ocultan los versos dormidos en hojas de esparto y tinta de piel. Escribimos las prosas con sabor al aire que nunca sentimos rozar los caminos de nuestra pasión.

Y ahora siento que el olvido es un trino de un ave furtiva que escapa del yugo de la vida sin tí

The death your dreams sculpted

2009-09-21T23:18:00.008+02:00

I climb out of the window, leaving the warmth wash the stains under my corpse. My head creeps out of the wall, hands extended on the horizon, arms unfolded in grotesque manoeuvre. From there you can only see the black sky looking back at you, receiving the disdain and detached glance on your ridiculous face.

My legs are completely broken from the bottom to the waist, the tendons out of their joints so as to suffocate their desire to remain stagnated in the swamp under the bed of routines. The skin as white as the orbs around the naked eyes, my pupils as black as the liquid that used to make the heart pump. The tongue is hidden somewhere under the cellar of solitude, doomed to never vibrate in harmony with the corrupted vices inside.

I move backwards, the blackness inside me revolving, agitating on my head, leaving the numbness in my legs fold and crawl in waves as the neck grows and heads onwards on the illusion of an inverted prison escape.

Finally, the muddy soil sucks my feet in, reinventing new gravity laws for me again. It is amusing to see the organs shift and turn, relocating my soul from the Hell where it laid, to the Heaven where it will bleed until the first lights will smother the power now rising in my veins. It used to be a painful process to rediscover the sources of your nature once and again. At first, the gluttony of absorbing the heat of the magnetic feeding over a victims sanguine roots, climbing my orgasm as I claimed the whole victory over their fatal decaying sexes. Their tongues twisted around the fist of lust, grabbing their own dagger into a final goodbye to all that is futile and banal.

After a while, ripe and blossomed like a crimson young heart I digged my vanities in the dark voids of eternity and slept my nights out of the sounds of a deceiving future. The grains of sand managed the way through the pores of my softened skin, opening my eyes from inside to never let them see the mortal death beyond the realms of doom. A whole monument of perversion was being sculpted underground, a monster trying to help itself out of the madness of the invulnerability to the victory of the rotten idol of peace and love.

Reborn, reshaped, broken and drawn back and forth the soul always found a way to disguise itself as a walking figure again. To be seen, to be spoken about, to be admired and feared were now the only drama I hadn't taken pleasure in killing my way in. The nightmare in your sleep, the pain in your chest when you see no way forth, the solitude in the street while you are surrounded by superficial mouths, the glass of absynthe in the lonely balcony beyond your suicide bed... Your tears make me grow, stronger and certain that your call will be answered soon.

Now you look at me and you know I am even better than what you expected. Your embrace is obscene in its absolute purity. You know you want me to do this, you can't wait to know how your body will lose its identity in me, as I inflict the unclosing wounds of truth and death in you. I will enter you slowly, letting you feel the pleasure of your hunted life bouncing its way wild out of your cells, dancing with my scorching lusting cut between your thighs. You rise and fall on me, breaking your way out of yourself, my teeth on your breast, unmasking a heart filled with the beauty of the love I will never have. I eat you all, as your loves sucks me in...back to the ground, back to another restless sleep.

Betrayal

2009-09-15T07:27:00.006+02:00

Standing alive but shamelessly still,

Your winds rise in vertical leap,

Hoovering you outside of me,

Blazing my blood in painful creep

I can't resist, I'm dying within,

the night I blame, the dark in me,

for you have failed, my dearest veil

in covering me from scariest fears

And now I stand, my back on you

my painful eyes, my nightmares true,

I hold you back and nothing breathes

you are vain and proud, but dead you are too

Amaneceres opacos

2009-08-15T09:50:00.005+02:00

Esta mañana levité de mi cuna en ovalados giros de incongruente vacío. Miré hacia abajo y ví que no había nada, mis pies flotaban en el aire liberados de la cadena del equilibrio físico a los que habían estado sometidos durante tantos años. El pecho que me oprimía al descender mis ojos ya sobrevolaba como mis pensamientos actuales. Intenté mirar adelante con el fin de bautizarme en el presente del horizonte virtual de un nuevo día y descubrí que ante mí no se presentaba ninguna figura ni representacón que habitara en mi cerebro con anterioridad. Todo parecía una foto de algún lugar en el que se había ido la luz.

En vano me acerqué con sigilo hacía la habitación donde solía comenzar el día y a duras penas conseguí distinguir la mesa donde el vaho y el olor a café dormitaban esperando los labios cortados por el filo del sueño corrompido. Me senté en lo que era mi silla y esperé que mis ojos recobraran alguna de sus facultades perdidas. Durante horas medité con aquel café entre mis manos y la mirada al frente esperando al fantasma que por su naturaleza blanquecina y espiritual podría despojarme de la tela espesa de la oscuridad eterna. Añadí una dosis de la olvidada lógica conceptual al momento que estaba viviendo y removí con ella el pesado líquido de la memoria para hallar acontecimientos que anticiparan esta situación tan elocuentemente absurda. La cuchara se partío y apenas ví nada que pudiera ayudarme, ningún alma apareció ante mí, ninguna voz se cruzó con las cavidades internas de mis oídos.

Finalmente me levanté y entré en lo que siempre había sido mi balcón. Las nubes eran un mero volumen aún más denso sobre las pinceladas de un horizonte asfaltado y lúgubre. La luna me miraba, pues sus ojos eran visibles a pesar de la confusión sensorial. El suelo bajo el balcón reflejaba la misma ausencia de color que al fin divisé en mi interior. El mundo finalmente se había mutado tan negro como la vida que yo había vivido en él y sólo faltaba que yo me entregara a él para finalizar el proceso tan temido del fin de la vida. Suspendido en el vacío otorgué las llaves de mi energía a los designios de la gravedad, y poco antes de besar el negro abismo me ví reflejado en él. Los brazos negros, la boca abierta era una apertura hacía los huecos internos de la soledad buscada y tantas veces negada. Los ojos se cerraron con la convicción de haber besado el infinito en mi piel y sobre ella.

...

Ahora abro mis ojos y el agua me impide sostener la mirada por mucho tiempo. Me hallo sumergido en el mar del mediterráneo, cálido y suave envolviendo mi espíritu. La luna y el sol son uno más de los astros que sostienen mi existencia. El cielo es líquido, mi alma se fundío sobre las olas y mi aliento se confunde con las corrientes marinas que golpean la playa donde alguien se mirará y se buscará. El tiempo dirá si otra mañana seré luz, playa, astro o piedra sobre la arena, pero me conforta pensar que nada es como yo predije, y que nada fué como yo supuse. Todo es, lo que nunca imaginé que pudiera ser y eso, para esta mente tan dolorosamente mecida por la imaginación fértil de lo imposible, es mucho decir.

Unknown letter from unknown man

2009-06-28T14:26:00.003+02:00

To whom it may concern,

Writing a letter to someone you haven't met is not as dumb as I thought. Nothing makes any sense any more, so I don't expect that what you will read will differ. I only want to open a hole in this wall and breathe while I can still do it.

Today I may have killed thirty or forty bodies, I lost all count. Captain M said I did a great job. My mother used to repeat the same thing when I came back from school with a good grade. I could easily grab those marks about history or maths. Now I can do it better with any shotgun. It is clean and fast, my ears don't hurt, my fingers are stuck on the trigger and my eyes only target the rest of the heads I can see.

They taught me to respect the others, to obey a system of rules based on the justice and fairness. While I speak, I still smell the last sighs of my last victim on my neck. I had to bury my knife to put an end to his motions. A.S were the letters written on his shirt. Normally I keep some belongings of the last victim of the day. I feel as if I owed them that. When you kill somebody you feel as if you took something from him, and i try to keep that in mind to remind myself that I am still sane.

So tonight, I will be AS for you. I live in I. and I have two kids and one dog. Not very original? I am happy, that's what's genuine about me. My father was in the army too, defending our country from the dangers from abroad. They tried to harm our innocent people and I dedicated my life to help the poor ones. Now I am here in the sand, helping my countrymen defeat the enemy. I wish I could see my wife again. She must be waiting in the dining room, with a cigarette on her mouth watching the sunset. I wish I was there, between her blouse and her heart.

Too bad AS will not be back to her wife, neither will I. This is the end of all the things, when you know that you've lost your humanity, the trace of nature in you has disappeared. It's funny that you become the devil they preach, the enemy is yourself because no one is as fierce as you. In this system I am one of the best. I work hard and my boss respects me. You pay me for doing this, a system that salutes the cruelty and the lack of humanity. If I come back you will feel ashamed of me, you will cross the street and ignore me as if I was one of those drunkards without a job.

At first I thought of that door home, open for me to come back. The smell of a nice meal and the great company of those who love you waiting there with a smile on their faces. But then i realised that my face will have changed, my mind and soul will have made me a difuse figure in the doorway. A face marked by crime, a mask covering what you called myself, a hideus portion of doom drilled under my ears, preventing you from seeing me. The new face so real and terrifying that you will not be able to separate it from my previous identity. Your fears will make it last forever on my face, even if the mirror still lies to me.

You will all close the door on me, you will kick me on the sides and make me bleed on the street. You will put some blanket on my corpse and label me unknown soldier.

As i think of this, I ask you to please understand that tomorrow I will kill again, here in this place that is all the hell i could ever think of. I will meet another A.S., B.G. or K.J. I will meet their wives and kids, I will feel their lives in me. And at the end of all this ruin of a past life, there waits no peace for me, no heaven or hell. My life will be taken by other, and maybe he will write about me too.

Regards, U.S.

Antes del sueño

2009-06-28T11:21:00.012+02:00

Las palabras escaparon por la ventana por la que ahora me asomo.
El espacio se abre ante mí, aunque los ruidos se encojan y el alma tirite ante la imposibilidad de atrapar nada en este vacío negro y sucio de la noche.

El libro sobre la entrepierna, la copa de vino se mueve en el fino contorno de mis labios y deja escapar las gotas rápidamente en el fondo del laberinto de dudas internas.

Sollozo alterno, corriente contínua de barbaridades con cerrojo, llaves escogidas al azar de entre el amasijo de vidriosas ilusiones de edades varias y vicios cortos.

La silla es frágil, más vieja que el dueño, más ligera que los entresijos albergados por su jinete, cabalgando entre los balcones de la ciudad elegante y voluble. Calles sin asfalto, perros sin ladrido, comida sin plato.

El libro es eterno, el agujero del tiempo se centra en su interior y toda la sabiduría cae y reside en el torbellino de impaciencias vertidas con mesura y atención por el bohemio autor. El lector introduce su mente en ellas, cual cuchara de metal agitando el humeante líquido de tensión aguda y dolores crecientes.

La noche estival no es sino un ruido, frío y hábil que penetra en tus oídos y remueve tu conciencia a su antojo. El rítmo es variable, pero fértil en su humedad creativa, te mueve y te atrae como la marea en la última costa del remoto país dónde esperas reposar tu cabeza y recibir el descanso al fín.

El sueño, la palabra nunca recordada, el beso nocturno apenas sentido en la mejilla maquillada por el sabor del viento y el dolor interno de las noches sin día

The book that never was

2009-06-14T19:30:00.007+02:00

It was the same day, just some hours later.

It was dark again, and just some steps further from your view,
there were still some souls willing to ignore the noises above,
coming from the sky torn into pieces. Or so they wrote wisely
in the old book we could all read later.

Deep down the hill, there was a man walking under the rain. It was one of those humid and fetid displays of water sprayed upon the dirty land. Stained by the vices of lie, by the wine of remorse. Yet, to some nothing had changed. The man in rags proceeded his hard path to the top of the next montain to the broken bones had melted with the first traces of the Holy Grail. The sun had been buried forever on that old symbolic wood to where the nails of doom had been glued the pages of history to the same authors, the same characters and different visions.

But on this very uphill road, from where the smoke of the burning ashes of human depictable nature had been blown, another man was enduring the limits of physical pain. If there was a soul inside this languid flesh, then it might well be about to leave. The water had entered the pores of the cross, swallowing the evil spirits of the men that had concieved such a creation.

The weight was heavier, the man was hollower and there was no eye from a distant god gazing through the clouds. The torment was greater when the nails were inserted carelessly between his tendons, the blood around the holes was already a scar, a nasty and cruel smile closing on the metallic needles. The wood on his back had been erected and now was one with his spine. Soon his whole flesh would break and he would be another cloth devoided of truth in the Eastern lands of quenched sin

This would not be written on any book that people would refer to in big meetings, infesting buildings with gorgeous ornaments over sacred stones. His sufferings were not to be drowned in seas of human greed like the ones that were scattered from the tears of blood of the sacrificed hero. The blood would stay forever, deep inside the rock under the cross, a fossile of neglected fame, laying besides the feet of defeated glory.

And yet, on that very same place, just hours later, another man had been crying out loud to the Heavens. The mistery was there for everybody to be seen, but he was the only scent of humanity left in the area. Silence, ravens and a gluttonous moon would suffy to embrace the covers of the book you will never read.

Those letters, chapters and words could have changed the lives of many. If only someone had written the book that never was. The words were there, the truths designed by the tongue of peace, fighting to be spelled by stuttering hands, the odes to secret paths contoured by the lips of the owner of language. The real names would have been resting over the lines on the pages, in symmetry with the laws portrayed. No man would be able to manipulate, corrupt or alter them, such was their strength and unity.

But there was no page, no book, no writer. They had all left. And yet, one had a feeling that even Death would forget about this man, laying tortured on the crossroad of wood, the broken and twisted tree arm saluting to the wind but no breeze coming from North or South. The desert sound, the vultures satiated and engulfed by their previous feasts, the worms all driven out on an underground procession towards the lands of fools.

The last sigh was deaf, the last glance was mute.

Silent conversations from her side of the room

2009-06-12T18:04:00.010+02:00

It's 2 am and we are sitting around the same subject, flying over our thoughts as pirates, ravaging each other's words. Conversation is the only pray for the loyal partners. You can keep it in your mouth for much longer than you could even think, and nobody would even dare distract you.

Laura sat at the end of the couch, her right hand holding the penultimate cigarette in her pack, her face clouded by the rising heat from her skin's breath. She looked directly in the eyes, as if she studied any single detail in yours. Her arms are bare, and so is her back on the fresh curtain of the night.

She pours herself another drink, carefully choosing the space between the ice in her glass. She stares at the yellowness breaking into the dark surfaces of the cubes and lets it rest inside them. She needs to swallow more of this moment, but she waits until the brain stops locking up her motions. The real deal is in the fiber of her organs, in the deepness of her soul asking for some more venom to her morning dwellings in solitude.

We listen to them, they seem to be talking but the mouths are so empty. I realise that they could very well be masks trying in vain to shift the muscles through the nerves beyond their pretty features.

Laura seems to be reading my mind. Her smile is genuine and filled of me. I feel her entering my thoughts and I can't disguise myself in any single way. She touches me where no other woman could ever touch me. And yet we are so far away. I look at her legs and they respond to my glance. They absolutely follow my wish and open gently to let me feel the heat that makes her look at my crotch throbbing. She smiles again, and I am alive another night.

She lights the last cigarette with the blazing taste of my lust between her lips. She breathes hard my passion and lets it slip out from her mouth with my full spasm of madness pressing numbness over her face. Her hands are on my back even though she is still in the same sofa, on the same flat, under the same summer night.

The mouths continue to open and close at the same vivid rhythms, but our lullabies are sleeping inside our chests now. Her feet rest on warmer stone, her clothes are laying on her boyfriends lap and my fingers continue to unveil her thick pieces of love. It's her who opens me wide, the razor splits the skin of my desire and enjoys the pleasures of seeing my insides. I cover her body with all my pain, but it is her who holds my depressions, angsts and decay. She moves through all this chaos and makes it braver, faster, meaningfully lustful.

Another drink, 3 am. They all leave, we still dream.

She is there, I am there too. The shadows are leaving the flat, and we still look at each other. Until the next night, under the summer kissing rain.

Looking into the fluid mirrors of time and space

2009-05-27T09:59:00.012+02:00

Silence

Your ears are just blocked between the fluid's hands. The element prevails in its softness, welcoming into its womb your thoughts, cradling them for an instant. So fragile that your head emerges to leave the embrace of a sudden death.

The air welcomes you with the sound of the navigating birds into the breeze.

Summer morning, your body is still numb. You hardly remember yesterday and you surely cannot bear in mind your ideas for the new day to come.

Your skin is soft and swollen by the intense kiss of sleep, the dreams that were cradled into that head have just been erased by the maternal hug of the sea.

The fire in the light god of the sky is falling over you, envelopping your innocent skin, protecting you from the darkness in your previous thoughts.

You look into your mother's eyes, deep beyond your own vision of yourself on her surface. You can see that you move onto her, she modulates you and creates whatever forms you can portray about yourself. Stay longer into that image and you will be able to see her there sustaining the whole substance of your life.

You get closer to yourself, hands almost reaching the ones on the water, lips closer to your own mirror, your heart touching gently the heart of the perennial reservoir of love.

The moment you kiss the image reflected on the wavy element, you get into a different realm of thought. The truth is that you no longer see yourself in there, but somehow it doesn't really matter to you. It is so comfortable in here. You let yourself free into this womb, protected by the liquid of love.

You fall progressively into the tide's dance, and the rhythm of internal music leads you to the bottom. The sand is your back now, and you can look at the other end of your image, there where you thought you were. Your mouth is open now and new ideas flow inside you. The notions of time and space are now yours, but there is without any sense to try and use them for anything in particular. You just want to feel them forever inside your throat. You are being filled with all that gives any sense to your life.

Those watching from the blue roof are dry of any divine life. Just as you were, they poured their hollowness onto the surface of the sea in desperate call for nurturing.

You watch them ask for help, as you always did before this july morning.

They think they know what, they are drown to ignorance and decay. Their teeth are polished by the stream of the desert, the sand performing a ritual of tribal trepanation inside their minds. Desperation is a needle, and no blood can quench its thirst for erasing the sole foundation of our minds.

The sea is your bed, the water your mattress, your solace in times of death.
.
.
.
Satiated, inflated, swollen by the ecstasy of life you will slowly flow back to surface again. One day, one life, one night the moon will be your only mirror, the water will drop out from you and the night will welcome you into her own womb.

And there, free from everything you ever were, you will tell me all the secrets of our existence. Calm, full, and inspired by your rebirth.

Watched,
from the touch of water below
and the kiss of the dreamy moon above

The dusk lullaby of the Devil's dreamed shadow

2009-05-22T08:54:00.009+02:00

Approaching the walls of oblivion,

chastity torn in rags,

sanity flowing through,

pain escaping through the cracks

Arriving to you for the seventh night,

morbid passions, bloody stanzas sang,

pleasure sculpted on your naked breasts,

feeding the rage of my delectable murder

adding colour to the ruin of your canvas

Hands tied tightly to roof chains

skin pierced by fate,

legs stretched, feet lost

whiteness stained with lust

dust and crime new extremes

Hiding strongly in my cobweb,

sheltering hideousness in the dark

building my lust in my pervert heart

drinking from the fruit of fatal decay

becoming one with your defeated flesh,

sleeping away from your the weight of your bones

Your secret stays with me,

abominated lust, famine forbid

i am the thief of your bloodiest dreams

the silent horse of a screaming death

See me there while you die

watch me crawling over your shadow

matching its motion

knitting its ends to my fate

folding your funeral shroud with your tears

Saying farewell to your innocence

locking yourself up

to the tastes of Hell

a profuse wound drenched with the holy grail

of your neverending blood quell

bathing my black hollow soul

with the sour burning scent

of your melting love in my veins

Breve diálogo con una sombra nocturna

2009-05-15T12:29:00.006+02:00

Toma todo lo que quede dentro

sintiéndo alivio con cada parte

desprovista de su raíz

desprendiéndose lentamente

acariciando dulcemente mientras me abandona

Arráncame algunas flores más

no dejes nada para el final

tienes tres días para irte

y dos pasaron ya

Besa un poco más

ama, abraza, llora sobre mí

la tierna melancolía te embarga

déjala tomarte una última vez

No me vistas,

no me digas adiós,

no vengas otra vez y te acerques a mi lado

ya no podrás

Ahora toma todo lo que puedas

llévate todo lo que echarás de menos

y deja atrás lo que pensabas cargar

lo nuestro, lo suyo y los demás

Mira esta cruz

acaricia sus huecos entre mis dedos

atrapa los silencios entre mis labios

respira el vacío de la inercia en mis brazos

Atrapa mis piernas entre las tuyas

lame el flujo entre mis heridas

abre mis cicatrices una última vez

y luego no mires atrás

No llores, no sueñes, no apliques telajes

a espacios más amplios

ríos más caudalosos

mares incontenibles en tu distancia

Deja que me consuma solo

cierra las puertas con llave

entierrame entero en el cieno

límpiate de mí

Yo me alejo, me río tras el fuego

me cobijo en el pasado

anclado en la raíz del miedo

en la oscuridad vencida del olvido

Umbra genesis

2009-05-06T23:08:00.009+02:00

I think I promised not to dance with death again. Last time I checked things were not so different than now, so this conversation should have never taken place.

My lips left the numb mouth of life long time ago and I still keep the last seconds of your breathing loss in my mind.

The last note was very clear on one aspect: we would never meet again. At least it shouldn't be in these circumstances. We were to be surrounded by other walls, furnished by experiences of an inverted dimension of values.

Don't blame this on me now, I had no choice but to open my eyes in the same room we said goodbye and if all of this seems redundant to you, I kindly request you to stop reading at this moment.

For this what I am about to tell you is nothing that you and I don't know already. We were part of this insanity together, and then we abandoned each other to all kind of perversions in order to avoid the void in it all. The blackness of our hopes had penetrated places where the mind escapes its voluntary prison and becomes a fragile toy in hands of no one sensitive enough to be called human.

But that, I insist, you are aware of it by now. Or you would better be...

I was closing the door, leaving us alone in the air of a sure death. Not sudden, not unexpectedly I looked at the corridor before me and I could feel relief and delectability for hope for the first time in years.

There you were again, or should I say me? Who could know what kind of phenomenon could this be about, only deciphered by the strange and twisted pages of insanity?

The same face, the very similar copy of my own features sent back to me in singular grim: the eyes shining, the mouth open in a cruel way, the predator looking at the master knowing that no more wait can be taken inside the cage of time.

I could not avoid staring at that image on the other side of the particular hollow mirror, my fingertips glued to the metallic door handle, my feet sealed on the wooden doorway. The horrible vision was slowly breathing from the very source of my air, squeezing my lungs and piercing my throat swiftly, nothing could seem to stop it. It was all clouded, the roof started to move and shriek, the window panes waved to the symphony of the rain clapping on my ears. I thought I was swallowed by the cold waters of a distant black sea, merciless and ruthless under the monotony of a severe storm night. The coldness was stronger, grabbing my back, shaking my ribs, pushing the liquids inside my caves. Pain was long ago gone, replaced by the comfort of a death you know that it would arrive one day. And finally, the void...

.....

Some time later, the blood in my eyelids drums against my eyes, provoking a sudden awakenening to a different reality. You know what I am talking about, since I have longer referred to this in our talks. There i was, out on the street again, clad in a black...perfuming my suits with the scent of murder. My body was filled with a different cover, somehow penetrating smoothly through the pores of my skin, pouring all sorts of evil into my insides. My soul was been bathed in the new moon's decay, kissed by all the horrors always imagined. My heart was drawn in all this blackness and could not hold the bolts of sanity for much longer. Sanity was a toy in the hands of an old wise man, a minimalist searching for the deconstruction of human truths. Love was under the scalpel of a divine death, throned and sheltered by the collective horrors of the human fragility.

My old self was still there, clipped to the shades on its home, nailed to the memories of the past. So was its purity and values. His body was pure decoration, devoided of all colour...the flesh hardened and plastered onto the building, like any other gargoyle scaring the birds of peace away.
He was no longer man, I was again the monster I always feared to be.

I looked once more into the scene of death, with no signs of pity or remorse. I knew that this time there was no turning back, the paths of life had all directed into this one and the future laid clearly before me. I was born to haunt, to feed on shadows and live into the blackest realms of life. Searching for the roots of the human kind, studying the meanings of every move of each cell in my fellow beings. Breaking into their minds, sucking into their existential wounds to open other scars in me. A life dressed to portray all the poison of society into the air, its frames the own city streets, and the witness the crows and stones that will quietly stand by me.

You and I know what will be next, you can imagine that you can now leave me and try to escape to what it will surely happen. I doubt you can go very far, my voice is too tempting and so is my story. I am sure you want to forget about me, folding your blanket on your eyes and hoping for a different vision on the next day. I invite you to do it if you can... but i wonder if you really desire to do so. After all, you are as guilty as me. You could have tried to prevent this from happening but you finally did nothing. I think that deep inside you there is a thirst of knowledge, no matter how evil or dark this may turn to be. Maybe there is no option for you either, no way back to innocence. Perhaps...we are not so different after all.

Follow me and we will discover it

Oscuridad Vertical

2009-05-04T14:43:00.004+02:00

Ascendiendo cada vez más,
abandonando todo en la ciénaga del vacío
volamos, dejando en el viento aquello que nos perteneció

Formas, vicios, llantos
dejan paso a la inmoralidad del destino menos sabio
más corroído que la máquina de nuestro tiempo
lamido por el hálito de las vísceras sociópatas

Vuela, olvida, intenta
que todo lo que te atenazaba,
la vida que tu guardabas en tu memoria
murmura en el viento de tu olvido
señales de los que otros recordarán
estudiando en enferma melancolía

Alma en pena,
vértigo que vierte barro
sucia realidad deja paso a la verdad
máscaras enganchadas al alambre agudo de tu miedo

Y nos liberamos de la vida
untándonos con la angustia de la irrealidad
los sueños son un bálsamo escaso
cuando tu cuerpo tiene demasiada piel
y tu alma ya no tiene sentido

Suspendidos en el espacio
mordidos y lamidos por la bestia de la inmortal fealdad
la presión de la muerte no tolera igual

Es aquí donde me quedaré
bailando entre las demás luces del invierno,
robando horas a tu intenso sueño
celebrando la muerte de la vanidad

Inmerso en la placenta etérea de la muerte
agarrado a la memoria del futuro incierto
batiéndo mis alas contra las fuerzas del destino
comiendo los restos de tu gloria

No sé por qué pero no sé quién es
tiritando en el jardín del ensueño
la locura habita en su encierro
llora, ríe, gime y muere

Aquí en la negra e inerte soledad
de la oscuridad vertical

Y si los días...

2009-04-27T11:47:00.004+02:00

Y si los días hubieran durado unos minutos más
me pregunto si la medida de nuestro amor
cobraría dimensiones similares
el odio siempre es susceptible de engordar,
como pez henchido del vicio líquido de su egolatría

Si en el reloj de tu vida
hubiera espacio para una nueva unidad,
allí donde creías que el espacio era inmóvil,
donde la ciencia pierde su sapiencia
y tú y yo encontramos abrigo para la fría noche
de la pesada losa conceptual de la eternidad

Ante todo debemos preguntarnos si todo es así
como alguien nos dice que debe ser
¿la mañana trae siempre los mismos aromas?
¿el día tiene siempre el mismo brillo en el reflejo
de tu vacio de memoria en tus ojos?

Porque si podemos dibujar nuevos relojes,
las horas pueden crecer en su tamaño,
diámetros dilatados cual metal bajo el calor,
de la nube espesa y ardiente de nuestros deseos

La muerte cambiará de aspecto,
quizás más cercana,
pero menos ténebre,
aquejada de nuevos dolores,
de nuevas dudas existenciales sobre la nueva víctima

La guadaña será recubierta de pesado plomo
la alquimia invertida ya no será tan entretenida
Forzada a pensar, a dilucidar,
la muerte se tornará nerviosa, frágil, indecisa

En ese espacio de tiempo entre ideas vagas
en mente infame y anticuada,
quizás tú y yo podamos vivir
para siempre,
en nuestro reloj del tiempo

The room in your death portrait

2009-04-27T11:45:00.001+02:00

Resurrection

The way to the flesh under your skin is fractured and filled with imperfections. One always wonder if there's a divine creature flying over there when we meet these little holes of brutal error in men's fragility temples.

Depression

Everytime my hands are inside you, exploring the last pictures of life stopped under my fingertips. Time protects us from self absorbing ourselves, the mirror of self control is long ago a portrait of a lying whore. Not that we ever wanted anything different

Convulsion

The last sparks of hope are over now. I can feel them around me. I am the only blood bleeding inside you and for some reason that makes you shiver for the last time. Intriguing to know this. I never thought you could feel any emotion while you were still inside your body

Regret

I can see it in your eyes, scanning me from the ceiling as you watch me perform my art. You wished you had been there, done this, shared that. Too late for all those thoughts my friend. Useless, frail and broken imperfection. Such as your skull

Mourning

Never ceased to feel this since the very first day. I may have a soul after all. Or maybe is just the fear of imagining that one day I will be the one being ripped open. All these thoughts will be unveiled at last, my miseries and my pains exposed to any voyeur.

Firm hand

After all, I dominate my human self and continue my way through your chest. The little heart, the bigger lies flow to surface as I see you for the first time. The discovery of where the soul should be prevents me from running back to my shelter. There it is, the magic shelter, the holy grail, the myth under my eyes.

Clueless

I hold it in my hands. Your soul is soft and red, wide and vibrant between my fingers, it will soon flow away from you in search of other nerves, other rivers of
hope. For now, you warm this room and leave me with a sense of fulfilment

Fairwell now

Call me again when you find me. I will be here. Waiting for your true self. This time don't deceive me

Or...

Disertaciones sin control bajo la lámpara mágica de la locura mordida a sí misma por el impacto

2009-04-27T11:44:00.003+02:00

Si hubiera un día en el que todos los posibles caminos se entrelazaran entre sí y consiguieran compartir algo de la tierra que les hace tan comunes, todo sería brutalmente más sencillo.
La misma arena se posa en montones de tierra del mismo tamaño, y sin embargo cada uno de ellos piensa que es diferente al resto de los innumerables depósitos de ilusiones sedimentades en verdades individuales. O quizá debería decir mentiras después de todos

Al levantarte por la mañana sólo hay cabida para la ilusión de algo que no termina de llegar. Los días pasan demasiado rápido y uno siente que aquello que anhelas toque tu frente y te dé un poco de paz interior siempre se ve sepultado por la altiva indiferencia del velo de la incomunicación.

Si el temor nos hace a todos más fuerte en el momento más preciso de caída, entonces ¿por qué la valentía se disfraza de fisura en el diseño de la vida de un común mortal como yo?

La soledad es un bonito fin lleno de vapores cálidos que confortan el frío inhóspito de la falta de comprensión, ilusión tejida cual tela fina y delicada que intenta sofocar el huracán incontenible de lo que ya no hay quien pueda frenar finalmente. Vana, sucia y finalmente hipócrita ilusión que la mente no puede curar si no es a base de defensa personal en pensamientos carentes de coherencia ética.

Si todo está roto, si todo yace ante mis pies en forma de cruel sonrisa sardónica al final de cualquier día en el que el alma sólo desea sollozar las intimidades menos internas...entonces dime qué he de esperar de tamaña incongruencia.

Espero que me entiendas cuando te digo que solo los indolentes y los más necios podrían soportar el avance cansino pero seguro de aquellas cosas que caen y se desmiembran día tras días sin que puedan volver a ser lo que algún día fueron en nuestra mente.

Y si nuestra mente nos llena de bellas nanas la cabeza mecida sobre almohada solitaria al lado de la ventana inerte de nuestra existencia, es de fiar una vida que trata así a sus hijos en su seno? El desdén y la desidia son acaso la única caricia que pueden cobijar entre sus brazos?

Quizá yo sea el rincón al que ya nadie es castigado, la esquina que ya nadie dobla y el cauce que ya nadie navega. Quizá, y sólo tal vez entonces, la vida sí tenga sentido y sea yo quién posea un alma endemoniada por los efluvios embriagadores de egocentrismos baratos y propuestas nacidas de locuras no transitorias.

Si es así entonces, olvida lo que dije y espera tiempos mejores en los que espero, entiendas amigo mío, que mejores palabras fluyan para ilustrar lo que aún así siento tan cierto en mi alma y espíritu.

Here and now

2009-04-27T11:36:00.001+02:00

Before us, a hollow black pit emerges and although I can feel your presence I try in vain to hold your hand. Maybe some words, perhaps the scent of a new thought pressed hard from my lips against the cold autumn wind will make this whole world a little more significant for both of us. This is what it will be, as it was and in a circle of circumstansces it may very well be returned to sender...but I am a lover of lost causes and this is one of the major reasons why I will attempt to share this with you.

Bienvenido amigo. Lay somewhere, suspended in the air of our imagination and let my thread of thoughts reach yours.