Pasaba por Aqui

A flash,

a sight,
true colours,
bear feet boys
riding the streets

Jesus born from a virgin,
naked stories,
truthful souls
wondering empty alleys

Sweet velvety sky
pale blue eyes,
smiles,
boom bang smash

White sands on empty beaches,
coconut stories,
ravaging winds,
winds of them' souls,

Shakespeare in a pub
writing a new song,
listen!
one we never heard before,

Lyrics drinking melodies
for kicks,
c'mon everybody clap your hands,
stomp your feet

White heat makes you
clench your teeth,
move your body,
drink that pill

Ride that train and get off
when you feel
that is the place
you wanna see

Crush a couch,
empty a can,
listen them' stories,
flow with the scene

Kerouac in the highway with a
rucksack and a can of beans,
a thumb up
wine over him

Sweet morphine
Oedipus wrecks,
Neal driving madly
burning pavement through his wheels,

Sticky pictures
all along the yard,
green grass green cut
hear the engines hum

Autumn falls,
leafs will follow
decorating cities
with unselfishness joy

The world around us will grieve
with love,
take your bag, hat and coat,
leave them' shoes.


Capel Street - 4/08/07

Lost in a Back to Back Office

As I was reading
What I’ve previously
Wrote,
I found a helpless
Misunderstanding and
Loose-fitting
Comfort,
An inaccurate
Hypochondriac
Answer
To my soul.

I guess I'm afraid
To speak my mind,
Regretting what I’ve just written
Might hurt someone’s else
Feelings.

I've told you before
About making a point
Achieving grace
In a literate
Way.

I dream the life of a writer:

A self-imposed exile
Just for kicks,

The idea of
Becoming an exclusive part of the
Avant-garde life,
Politically distant
From the commonplace
Comfort of an
Ordinary
And
Dull life.

A room full of torn books,
Pages messing around on the floor,
Drug-fuelled nights hammering the keyboard
And beating
The block.

A bizarre but familiar town,
Reflecting city lights
And sounds
From a wide-open
Window.

The rhythmically be-bop sound of keys
Stuttering words and concepts
Through a five feet long
Paper roll.

The shadows in my story reflecting
The walls of my soul.
Pics that unveil my characters,
A black and white
Collage
Stuck in rotten walls.

A steam drawing
Cup of tea,
A Golden Virginia

Cigarette roll,

Amsterdam beneath the diamond

sky,

A portrait of an artist

As a young man.

Custom House - 21/06/07

Caramels and Alcohol

Most of the time I struggle
with the inevitable block that impedes me to write.
So I try with poetry
because I find in there
a better way
to express myself.

Sometimes a white page doesn’t look so scary
when you fill it
with random thoughts.

I like to play with poetry.

Poetry is not about rhymes
and sonnets.
Poetry is about
soul
and truth.

Poetry is not only
about love and hate,
is about what you see and
how you feel.

It’s the ultimate trip.

I like poetry when is pure
and honest.
When it strikes me without notice,
when with its images
strolls me through
an album of sounds
and colors.

I like poetry
to be simple too.
Straight words for
immediate thoughts.
Instant messages,
Slaps in my head,
Take it or leave it,
Spontaneous enlighten,
Amateur voyeurism.

I like it when it describes
common people with
common problems and
common fears.

When it describes the skid rows

of life itself,
the margins,

the little fonts in
this capital world.

Writing poetry is for everyone,
you'll always have something
to say,
something spontaneous,
something you want to
scream your lungs
away,
something beatific
that you wanna share
with
the rest of
us.

Caramels and alcohol,
slips with the
wind,
and turns
in sweet rendezvous
the back
to
the
world.


Custom House - 22/5/07

Remembering

During the time I spent abroad
I fulfilled my back to back
Dreams,
Freedom is not something
You get in the streets,
Money pocket comes and goes
But integrity
Won’t.

I get emotionally intense whilst
Looking through a window,
It doesn’t matter how far it’ll take
To get there,
It doesn’t matter how dark it’ll be
When I get there,
It doesn’t matter at all,
Why should it?

I never ask myself so many questions,
Of course I’m in constant
Communication with my other
self,
But now I can sleep,
And rest smoothly
In my dreams.

I dream a lot, you know?
And I recall
Every single one of them,
But I'm afraid to write them down,
I feel like I’ll be stealing something
Gracious,
And never able to
give it back
Again.

I look at my wall full covered
With post cards,
I listen to Dylan and I find that
There’s a guy with something to say,
I walk the streets
Up an down,
The multicultural colours overwhelms me
With a satisfying glimpse in my eyes.

And in the morning when I wake up
And go to work,
Tangled up in Blue flows through the headphones,
it feels
great.


Capel St 29/04/07
Pic: Enrico D'Andrea - 145 Mountjoy Square

Lo que se llama jugar

Its incredible how words
can make someone smile,
it is in that honesty
where I ask myself
wether are we walkin'
the same way or
we just want to fuck it up,

Its remarkable that tiny bits
of ink
shows us what life seems to be:
a new born child,
a suicide note,
a bridge over a majestic waterfall,
a needle in a vein,
a candle in the night,

Show me the meaning
and Ill show you the way,
Ill follow you wherever you want me to,
Ill undress myself before you,
and naked
cry
and whisper
how much I love you,

I hope you'll get the message,
its not that dark
and you wont have to read
between lines,
I'll wait for you
wether in this side
or the other
one,

Its better to burn out,
than slowly
fade
away.

Tiny things over the seat of a 2nd class Train

I believe in today
and not
in
tomorrow,
time,
for a traveler
it is all
and more,
because it tends
to go faster
than everything else,
my four years
on the road,
were simply
the fastest years
in my
life.

Like
the blink
of
an eye
too many faces
and
too many
places
appeared
and
disappeared
in just a matter
of unmerciful
tick - tack time.

Over the counter
day a day
business,
the routine
of waking up
in a crowded
room
not knowing
who are you sleeping with
or
who are you
sharing with.

You see the world
from a different
angle,
another
screen,
like the window
of a train
bus or
plane,
this submerges you
deeply
in an ocean
of
curiosity
and
moving
dreams.

You pack your
backpack
and you
fill them with
memoirs,
endless souvenirs
that you
keep
as your most
loving
treasures,
hoping
to bring them
safely
back
home

There’s no home
like home
per se,
home is where
you leave
your bag
under
a bed
To rest


Traveling,
For me,
It’s all
And
What I do
At my best
I feel
fulfilled
with
just a bag
and
the will
to
live

new stuff

Meina 02/10/06

Poesías Encontradas

De mecenas y Julianas

miro por la ventana
al alba de la noche
calles que se pierden
en sinuosas curvas
que
suben
y
bajan
entre medievales barrios
de piedra y
tiempo

Junto fuerzas
de donde no tengo
toy cansado
tanto tiempo
en la carretera
quiero dormir
y
soñar
despierto
levantarme en buen puerto
y
mudarme
a una
habitacion
lejos
de todo

el sentido del hogar
es lo que uno
primero
siempre pierde
queda
en uno
encontrar
su lugar
en
el mundo
pero
la verdad
en
no tener esa
sensacion de hogar
hace que todo
sea unico
y
real

entonces la mochila
a punto
de ser cargada
sobre una curtida
espalda
es lo que hay que tener
bien a mano
para el dia
que
sienta la necesidad
de volar
este preparada
como
uno,
sea
ahora
o
adelante
para siempre
y
por siempre

un billete
bajo el brazo
y
la cabeza
apoyada
contra la ventanilla
garabateando esperanzas
de recorrer
lo nuevo
lo que no conozco
y
deseo conocer
y
dejar
mi mochila
sobre el piso
a punto
de ser
armada
para escapar
de mi felicidad
y
mi futuro

Meina 2/11/06

De Tapeo en Tapeo

La rueda gira y gira
Solo miro su estela
Ancha y marcada
Suave y melancólica
Trato de no pisarla
De tener cuidado
De entenderlo
De ubicarlo en un tiempo y espacio
Mas allá del tiempo real y exacto
La vida sigue…
Gira y gira
Coleteando como una estrella fugaz
Desvaneciendose en energia y velocidad
Se consume
Y se desangra
Lloran los angeles…
Un chasquido de dedos,
Y todo se termina,
Desaparece,
Es efímero y esta bien
Para que jugar?
Me arropo y me abrazo a la oscuridad…
camino entre yonquis,
desesperados por el habito
de sentirse acompañados
por una desolacion utopica
en manos de furiosos poderes
que estrangulan
y manipulan
todo lo verdadero
que tiene el mundo
La ciudad se estremece...
late,
y tiembla

Fantástica colección de Estampitas

Una poesia que escribi hace un tiempo y rescate de los archivos de mi amigo Chinaski. Un parate mental en una tipica jornada laboral. Forma parte de una coleccion de poemas y de poetas que fundaron una Sociedad Psicodelica Pop de Poesia Amateur.

llora el crío

llora de hambre

llora de sueño

llora porque esta sucio

llora porque esta solo

un hombre en una encrucijada

el diablo se asoma en un cadillac negro

Hey crío! hacia donde vas? pregunta,

Hacia el Nortea ver las luces

No nací para seguir a nadie

No nací para sonreír

No nací para creer en algo

No nací para decirte lo que tenés que hacer

No nací para ser feliz

Sácate el peso de encimay pónmelo a mi

Sácate la cordura y préstamela a mi

Sácate la mascara y cree en mi

Ahí va Moisés en su arca

Hey Amigo! hacia donde vas?

Acompáñame, llegarás mas rápido!

No gracias Moisés,

Temo tus poderes y camino solo

a ver las luces del Norte

Degenerados Estupefacientes

Mi cabeza germina influencias,
directas,
como el silencioso chascarrillo de calor
en las más oscuras cavernas del tiempo.

En el invierno de mi descontento
el arte ruge dentro de mí
insatisfecho,
incongruente,
incompleto,
incomprendido

Por mis venas se diluye la música,
la ficción
el pop bestial,
la renta, las cuentas y el fin de mes.
la bohemia,
el ocasional flash back,
la poesía,
mochilas pesadas,
camperas abrigadas,
y estaciones de paso

A mis queridos favoritos
aquellos que en la absoluta adversidad
bajo el cobijo de un manto de locura
supieron controlar el equilibrio ausente
y sin aviso

La pluma de Kerouac,
espontáneo espíritu
trasladado a su prosa,
y a toda una generación disconformista
en el mas absoluto de los tiempos conformistas,
rabiosas conversaciones
bajo un espeso humo de marihuana,
vino, y furiosos bebop,
aventones en el desierto
en plena soledad y dicha

El pincel de Magritte
surrealista de lienzos infinitos,
trazos escapistas
manzanas podridas y
amenazantes muchachos de galera,

Anfetaminicas poesías escupidas
detrás de una guitarra
y una harmónica,
comandante en jefe del folk
blues sobre héroes y tumbas,
bajo una fantástica colección de estampitas

Pasajes audaces sobre pentagramas amateurs,
el don de ser LO todo
y LA nada,
y ese bajo...
marchando como soldado raso
frente a una revolución,
pum pum bom bom
puentes y melodías de ayer
déjalo ser pablo

Podría estar horas y horas
garabateando diatribas sobre pensamientos concretos
pero llueve sobre mojado
o algo así me enseñaron en la escuela