Bird of Darkness

Smooth bird of darkness
memory dressed as a fruit
seduce the star
in the middle of my chest.
You are like the surf
as we ride the passion
that today I write
between clocks,
when the blood
squeezes
the petal
down
some sensible secret
you will secrete
down your legs,
the mimesis
of the dusty
trail of a kiss.

**

Boreal Tears

And later, and in the end,
silence has been shut up
already made a fish of ironies
by a tired sea of blind light.
The world has fattened
with aims and blueprints
and it excretes
the emptiness of hollow words
like the abandoned cocoon
of a butterfly of promises.
My pen intones
like a guitar of carcinoma.
It could have crystal strings.
Under the veil of one anonymous night
I shrink time
parking butts in an ash cemetery.
I choke
in a morning star of methanol
and without further ado
it leaves me a purple disguise,
my only form.
In my zenith,
the space snores
a nervous genesis
as if it wanted
to bare itself as a throat
and dilute itself
in the kiss of the rain,
and cover everything
and bathe everything
like a brush of boreal tears.

**

The Sum of My Days

The minutes hammer
like the keys of an untuned piano
while I wait for the.redemption of your return -
voice that trigger chimeras -
that build in my deliriums -
malva at dusk -
to choke the insane collapse of my fictional suit -
of my briefcase of knives -
while I rot in the inverse reality.
I chew your absence
like a rubber ghost that fakes
to be somebody
in my bed,
but the weight
of your shadow
sweeps
the fused thought of your nonexistence.
You remain there, in the curve of the never-arriving,
as leaves of an eternal autumn -
an equinox of vertigos -
waning of the rotations
of a dying and boring sun,
the audacity to pretend you
but not to have you,
and to live as if my days were the sum
of all the sighs that reduce me
to nothing.