from teeth that sink on flesh

from teeth that sink on flesh

and mouths that whisper, all together, in synch
at noon

to

secretly uttered cold breaths,
truly disguised,
but meaningful,
lingering
beneath
your fingertips

and

almost
reaching
mine

Three Paths Carved

1) Present

This is not the end, because I chose to.





And if the tombs of ancient foretellers reverberate in scorn of the choices that were made

(because, after all, they forged the hill that marked the start.
They deserve to know even after death)

And if the birds of field no longer humble themselves down,
if the water of the well decides not to hand itself over,

If grass turns a shade of orange,
if machines stop obeying,

If dark grey clouds decide to never let rain fall,
and the sun chooses to swallow nickel, for a change,

If earth itself decides to lose its shape
and nature decides to shut down:

Only then, I will know that time is precise, because I will not be outside until earth is too.



2) Past

There indeed was a time in which I would shake my fingers, just to make sure they responded,
and there were five fingers alright, and five knuckles, which danced.

And then, I would say: when my thighs weaken
I will rip myself open, with the help of the continents, but only the ones that feed on dirt, mildew, and moist, and save arms, legs and shoulders.

And I had a tendency to gobble your eyes everytime,
and their blindness, their chasteness
revolved, like an army of prideful auras, blinking.

But the canyon of your face
Flared, and died out.

Repeatedly.






Sometimes, I would think I needed to summon the sun,
for it to measure us both.

I still do.





3) Future

Plants grow yet they're vulnerable and weak and tender,
which is not how they're supposed to be,

still,

in the same form

of growth

I shall learn,

and I will call out nature and those creatures that are kept inside the tombs,
seeking comfort.


The chances we once embraced have vanished away,

still, chances of a far encounter suddenly appear,
of a very, very far one.

which makes me declare:


I can already tell how it will be.

And when it does happen,
I will make sure
to hug


air.


Despite lack of.

Magnet

It was an easy ride

I spot meteors all the
time

sealed in discomfort not thriving

(like a seed would watered and with firm roots)

instead sinking like mist belongs to atmosphere


thin

air

lacks

of

any form of strength

whatsoever



and there were no facts rather theories shaken with battered brains spilled out

and brain not
connecting with hands nor feet

sunk
in
deep

in a maze of pure junk moving gliding with

ripe

flowers
leaves hair and vultures

and

hand me a rope stomping
on the skeletons

tongue-in-cheek

I swear I saw you
consumed
I do not need to go through this again


What will I become when the seeker meets the haunted
and the hunter meets the one being sought

?

Dear Anne

Dear Anne,

I hope you are doing okay.

I certainly hope, since I haven't heard from you in a very long time, and you won't return any of my calls, nor the letters I've sent, and, judging by the nature of these events, you seem to be a little inattentive towards me.

Unfortunately, since your departure things are not getting better, but worse. The weather hasn't improved much, it's getting a bit gloomier each day, and the city has become dull. No one says hello in the streets anymore.
Do you recall Fred, our neighbor? He rarely comes out now. He would take his dog out every sunday morning, at least, and then he would call us and we would go with him and we would all three enjoy a cup of coffee at Gotham Café. Do you remember that, Anne?

Paul and Bianca have split apart. They were the strangest couple, were they not? - But somehow they would always manage to put their disagreements apart, even with those three kids behind their backs, which I haven't seen or heard of, ever since Bianca took them.
I do see Paul sometimes. He has aged so much, you wouldn't imagine. Do you remember his stunning blue eyes? Yeah, well now they're hiding behind his eyelids, which have fallen, and he has dropped a lot of weight, and his skin is rather pale. He is so sick, Anne. He misses his kids, I'd say.

Martha, the old lady across the street, has passed away. She was such a lovely lady, wasn't she? She would always bring us oh so sugary food. Sweet, like her. And she would wear tons of make up, and always sport really bright colors, but she was so nice and wise and great to talk to, wasn't she, Anne? I miss her sometimes, but I miss you the most.

Anyhow, I went to the harbor earlier this morning, (that was when I decided I needed to write to you once more), and it was so cold outside, and I don't wanna stay in, I don't want to become one of them, Anne. You know me, you know what I used to say all the time, I will never choose the obvious choice, for I'm smarter, and you would smile with that witty smile of yours (which I miss), and you would agree with me all the time.

Well, I was watching the vessels making noises from afar, and a couple of seagulls delivering food to the litter of tiny, yet-to-grow seagulls in the nest. And I saw the sky, and it was cloudy, I could tell it would be raining soon. I used to like rain. You liked rain too, didn't you? - But now it's different, Anne.

And I grabbed my bike,
yes,
the one you would loathe
for the rusty sound it made (and still does)

Yes, I hope you're fine, Anne.
Wherever you may be.

You know I'm usually not blunt, although the situation asks me to be.
Please,
come back, Anne.

It's autumn every day, since you left. I'm growing aloof, and I don't want to, but everyone's growing apart from each other. Who am I supposed to talk to, Anne?

I'm sick of eating breakfast alone,
sick of torn up envelopes in the living room,
sick of doing laundry,
sick of drinking bad wine alone,
sick of this place,
sick of golden, sealed-up crowns, which I still save, for you.


Make things easier. Would you, Anne?
I long for the day you come back.
I can wait.




Until then.

- John

in Tradition.

break my
tissues

when
seawaves
all agree

like ice being
cracked, hydrocephalic
vultures
crack the ribs
open,

(whilst floating
against nothingness

arachnids propel with
the
help
of bodily fluids
,
they
bow
down

and produce
gold sand
which is still fresh,
but
never

quite


the same)


outside

of the waterfall

that hits

don't commit unless you really want to,

taste

the

one-thousand-year-old blood from the

ancient veins of willpower,

that
await

-

grab


hold



of the earthenware made.

and do not


let go of

it.

-

the tribe, when in trouble, breathes as one.

and some

members

awkwardly dance.



you, bring back

th
e

f
ishes

for them to feed on some-thing.

now, softly move back and forth

s e a m l e s s l y


Then,

fall downwards

in the crack made,

and groundly

break

all the rocks

and stones

ahead.


free-handed.
stepping.

rolling over.

-

skin is sculpted,

and fire erupted

then,

skin is tainted

Fogged Windows

through Fogged Windows the landscape resembles the
continuous journey that would lend me hope, embracing the finest never-existing moments that once were.

through Fogged Windows I never ache rather am healed,
and it lasts good alright, and the smoothness of the
window's fog is the hand that triggers.
And me:I'm shoot outwards in ecstasy, so that time
is not palpable in any form.

through Fogged Windows the lands of gloomy sorrow enlighten me, and the breath of seagulls is casted upon us -- nature's way of sending bliss -- and the melodies from heaven are being shot downwards as well.

how can you not take part of it?

I can, for the signs are not oblivious to me.

To
get
to
dive, streamdown, like a submarine being sunk.
By

itself.

the Green Room

Such an awkward altercate

Look at what you
have
done,
now.

!

Troubles, fewer, fever.
Borrowed, cast, in pain.

And I bow, calf-down
towards what I think is best for me

Magnificent!

-

Such nobleness!
certainly, that of thy heart
which lacks of mean
and lacks of feel


I would like to
peer
into it, and take for granted

at last.