Minimalism

Poem[1]

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[1] There is no such thing as a poem, but it is pure poetry

A nail, blood, virgin

Another haiku writer

Self crucifixion

Heart of Darkness

White

Black

Darkness

Gloom

A flash of green

Dim lights

Silver whistle

Beheaded love

Adorned stakes

Crucifixion

¿Who gets saved?

The Beauty

The Horror

Salt & Water

The dance of light and shadow
on my body on the great tear
There appears, it was, I forgot.
Salt and water to heal
open wounds oozing oblivion
abandonment
betrayal.
I am, I have been, I was
with water let me clean the memory.

Morbidity

annihilation

Projection

Fire and darkness, intertwining and falling on the wall. 
Film grain, scratches and glazes, noise and jumps, 
muted pastel colors in the lamp of the super 8.

The XXVII

there is where those Ducks fly

eternal summer

no ice but for your scotch

no Phonies to bear-

no winter souls.

rescue the Brother

get the Girl

never miss, 

never Miss,

never Forget.

I'm with you in Rockland (a dream)

A multifoliate rose

opens to me

giving birth, in a sea

of blood and fire

to two angels

dancing to the rhythm

of a husky howl

About Cities, Deserts and the Ocean

Misty days ahead, no shadows recognize my dark figure. The nostalgia sunshine is still bright in my retina, burning holes in the memento. Assist me in blowing out the fog surrounding the tales of past mirth while lining up new buildings that will eventually get lost in this dampness of me. The desert is not big enough to hold up so much, nor the ocean deep enough to make forgiveness an option to sail in the winds of time towards a new shore, where arid sand shall be waiting for my arrival. The masquerade is getting old, the party drawing to an end; will our faces be as bright as our trivial would-be-smiles? The clock is innocent for the passing time, yet it is a blackberry attaching sense of past to the ankle of its bearers. Tick another second for me you damn clock. I would hope for my recollections to be as effective as the sands of the desert, that forget after each breeze, but remembrance is strong in me, building a massive metropolis out of meaningless hours.