Monday, August 31, 2009


An otherwise gentle sound, like the opening of a door
Explodes the shit outta my head these days
I feel like getting ashtrays
smashed into my mind
and smoke curling from my eyes
There's no way to afford any more self-damaging
Encaged in some kind of light
and avoiding dark corners late at night
for naked fear of compromise
I seem to be engaged in some kind of fight
where everybody else's taking advantage of my victory
but myself

But oh well, isn't it delusional
the way animals have been fed fine
and the moon shines down with perfect angles at my sight
if only it didn't hide from me the woods
or the whole forest on fire
burning to its core
the way animals actually choke to the density
of my desire

A street still follows down the same path
and the clock walks the same lines every day
when I'm up early in the morning, almost in sync with everything
I just don't know what lines to say
neither which play I'm acting in
Tell me once again
there are rehearsals every night
for every wild life that insists to begin
no matter how late or how thin
the path insists to grow

But oh well, isn't it delusional
or it has always been fraudulently shown
the way animals have been fed fine
and a moon shines down with perfect angles at my sight
if only it didn't hide from me the woods
or the whole forest under snow
frozen to the bone
the way animals have become raw fossils
the ice age that trapped my heart
while i strayed, distracted
from the root of the issues
drowning from the start

My winter's performance, in the nearest theater
ignored and left aside
until my fauna screams out, louder and clearer
life slipping away
but lost ain't yet the fight.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Broken String

I make briefings out of ordinary days
just to cherish every broken string
and every pent-up, strung-out emotion
that insists to suppress this brain of mine

so I just wish I had more time
to sum things up and take out a conclusion
of my red velvet hat
if only I had enough ammunition
to blow away my fears
then anything would ever get near my wardrobe
and I'd be free and full of dope
asleep for a million years

so I just dream of a late meal
and I'm still looking for death's phone number
maybe this time we'll make a deal
if she agrees to spend some misplaced vacation out in the woods
my money's short, but I know I could still
buy us some goods
and have a pretty fun time
no drugs or rain checks
only our squirrel friends in line

then I'd pretend to play your warm guitar
as well as mrs. DiFranco ever dreamed of
but death has killer memory to realize, so far
I can't recall the lyrics to your favorite song
so I'll just leave this camp of loneliness
and ride the wind back to my bed
still don't you tell me I'm a mess
just because I'm sad
in the end, home is what I always had

And I still make briefings of situations insane
shooting at the sky and hoping to murder a star
as long as I can't break any string
out of your warm guitar.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Short Trip

i do
in my brain
is the dizzy way I feel
and for the seconds
the smoke still hangs
in the midst of us
i need you, for now
and for as long as it ever costs
breathing in
breathing out

Thursday, August 20, 2009


The sky is rusty yellow,
shining down a city of stray cats
Lost in the mess of a crowded main street
Escaping the frenzy of marching feet
toward the final purpose of freedom
and the daisies blooming discreet
on the way

Voices of the underworld scream out and aloud
As with each shout, a lost kitty would leap frightened
and grey the lights were becoming, at last
The crowd won't look back, there's still more to be earned
for enlightened is the path of today's parade

Kitties in disgrace won't seem to care,
if they ever reach their victory
as long as tails are still safe and shaking
to the distant sunset the sky above, yet
Night becomes the welcomer of causes lost
and cats unfed.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Swimming Pool

Trying to make useful out of useless,
to make time out of time
But time doesn't have children, not enough fertility these days
Out of strength and out of grace
And the weaponry is not enough to win such fight
A cherry bomb in your head, wind curl from the west
Blowing out your mind

Is there any way to shut this down
Turn the battle around for you to stop being stubborn
There's nothing charming about planning your own funeral place
Choosing the grass over your grave
As if you'd die anytime soon
Building your paths to escape my arrival
The underwater roads leaking underneath my pool of treasures hidden
and we'd be still jumping in, if it weren't for your greeting
Like goldfish down the sink

Friday, August 07, 2009

One of a Kind

Will I still have the odds on my side
when trying to reach the brilliance of this language
just by crafting my thoughts as if they were unique
when my feeling is not nearly one of a kind?
Hiding your sources won't work forever
and you shouldn't cover your roots
if your tree still means to grow
Dispel this drama off of me
and leave it all to the clarity of what really is
Could it be the best move in order to
preserve the existence of the tree?
When all you want is your garden surrounded
not only by the natural guests, but the amazement of intruders allowed
and still, the more you try to show,
the more you find yourself shrouded
struggling to find a way out
This maze of ideas broken and mistaken
the silence outspoken
your self-confidence shaking
to the softest of sounds
but not so soft, you see
or you'd having nothing to worry about
The poetry in one's eyes is the poetry in one's mind
but what if it's reflected by one wearing glasses
or faking thoughts just for the glow they insist to show
intense enough to blind the distracted eye
Faking usual feelings for the shining glory of the unusual
when a feeling is clearly not one of a kind

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

Each Time

And each time, less people would invite him
Greet him, compliment him
He would slip into someone else's pocket to be forgotten
and rotten
and then thrown away with the laundry
Less interesting each time
More dramatic and the wine
Isn't tasty anymore
As he thinks of the old days
Nostalgia, as always, sore and bold
The story is different each time it's told
Depending on the person and the weather
If it isn't cold, warmer memories are sold
With smart words everytime
And each time, the melody gets more intricate
for beauty lies therein,
the complexity of an intense heart
Flaming as a rocket,
beating forgotten into someone else's pocket
Rotting for lack of company
Yet, for itself trying not to feel sorry
Each time