Clock. Hands, noise, teeth. Bedroom. Wood, strings, fabric. Decaf. Wet bed. More decaf. Wet bed again. Running, swimming, running. Water. Notes, books, keyboards. More water. Gas, hours, money. Tuna. Stitching out smiles. Peeling apples. Texts, calls, mails. Maybe more smiles. Glass, peanuts, bed. Clock again.

                         Green State

Craig wakes up at 6, at 7, at 8 or at 9 am
All depends on the activities of the night before
Three red bulls are enough to start his day
And a burrito with espresso to get some taste
A day passes quick working on the computer
Conferences on the phone, deadlines, bills to pay
Pick up the children from school on his guard day
Water the plants, make the dishes, feed the cats

After a normal day Craig follows with his normal life
On weekdays, only mellow music and oriental dinners
On weekends, some parties with friend, powder and pills
Evenings are good to share smoking ideas with buddies
Relax and meditate, life spins over and over
Peace and love, the world needs more of us
But at nights Mary Jane comes imperative and capricious
It is time to pass out after a normal day

       - So, what do you want?
              (Vers démodé)

I want to color the skies of purple
Lay down on the rye after the rain
And blend all my dreams
In a French kiss

I want to flow on the endless Silver River
See the irises blossom every morning
Reach blue Astros on my fingers
Set my mind out of this space

I want to write the verse of the night
To kiss your heart, to make you go mad
To spoon you between these lines
And be your petal of salt

I would love to smell the back of your neck
Prove the resilience of my will
And melt all my dreams
In a warm French kiss

I with a Capital

Why always this sensation that I have said something, anything that can be so right in the wrong way? Why always feel that people will resent my comments? Why is Silence Golden and that is so right for me at this time? The best thing about living in another language is the excitement of discovering other monde. Learn how to organize the world in a different way. Also, arrange your world in a different manner. Your feelings feel different in every language, new kinds of people, new types of love, new everything. Not always do you reach the goal, although the gut will always be the same.

I recently read a research article on bicultural people. It says people can unconsciously modify their personalities when they switch languages. They can be more reserved or extroverted depending on the language they speak. Is it the language or the pressure of the environment? Maybe, it is not the language per se but people who when speaking a language organize and make others act according to their parameters. By the way, what does bicultural mean? Those who grew up speaking 2 languages? That must be easier than finding out about new worlds after your teens. This means cultural shock.

When smiles and laughs are not enough then you have to learn to position yourself before others. If there is something I like about English is that you write I with a capital. It is not a sensual je or a happy io. And it is not any I with a capital. It is your I with a capital. Never harshness loud nor weaken low. Find out the right tone. Polite Polite. Why do I shrink when asking for a favor? Do not I deserve it? Confidence requests things cordially. Modesty in your words will be appreciated. And mark the right distance and posture, your body will be read on a narrow blurred frame.

Dictionaries are impractical. There is no possible translation. Feel the power in yourself, work hard and get what you want. There is no time for the pusillanimous. Keep the composure and hide your despair. You are good and beautiful. Overcome the arcane means of faith. Everything will be ok. Now I am other, I feel another and I know am walking in the right direction. I do not waste my time anymore. Love is not a Bolero. A penny saved is a penny gained. And now, excuse me if I must leave; I have to study more, practice more. I want to get there and I will not stop. I am learning now but one day, I will finally write my I with a capital.

               Fallen Bird

That day was dark grey
The high plateau gloomy
Walking through odd times
You agonized on the road
I picked you up in my hands
Rubbed your frosty yellow belly
Blew some air on your scratched peak
And brought your body next to my breast

You opened your eyes wide
And looked keen into mine
You stand up confused and dazed
First, you shook timidly your wings
Later, you flew free over the moor
To reach the high spirit of the mountains
Drink some water from the rich ponds
And sing loud and plenty your new life

Unfortunately, I misunderstood the moment
I could not cross the line of all senses
You were dead
But I still took you with me
And warmed up your inert memory

    The buccaneers of Wall Street

Listening to the same song for months
This arena has seen better carnage
Toreros without suits of lights, bulls without hides
But that is how things stand now
Clairvoyants predicting arrows in the wrong direction
Shriveled confidence, starved beige books
In a desperate act of unsustainable faith
People walking a Via Crucis for a soft patch

It is then that the Buccaneers arrive in town
With hooks made of ink, noisy cables
And wooden legs with digital chips
Catastrophe, Apocalypse, Leviathan!
And my labor will not be the same
Inflation in the Cathedrals
Deflation in the galleries
Recession in the barns

At great height, lassie faints again
The leadings cannot recover the scorched earth
If the future remains unusually uncertain:
Cataclysm, Armageddon, Holocaust!
And while you hear only that around this town
Inflation in my tank
Deflation in my pocket
Recession in our bed

Upside down I

Birds singing early out of my window - They do not sing anymore, I shot them. The news explodes on my screen. I see the greedy always with dark ties and the ones interviewing them too. The curves of the graph are inscrutable but the road always looks longer before starting the journey. My watch does not mark the hours, this heart does not have a gear and my violin was killed last night. Trapped in a red chalice, I open the door to blow green ashes. Les lilas sont morts. Later, I wander around the town scattering kisses between the enemies to multiply my fish. Lips that cannot bite, neck without saliva and hips in lean flesh. So proud of my prudish life, sometimes I want to be upside down.
Et les lilas sont morts.

              Useless Love

I invented an oceanic love for us
Exaggeratedly extreme, happily quiet
Shamelessly naked, so teenager
And very soft to dive headfirst into it
Without fear, with no past

I have nothing else to offer
Don’t have money or a name
Neither science nor wild dramas
I can only promise eternal love
Perfect ones darling, do not exist

It happened that you didn’t need such a love
I don’t understand how your life goes so well without me
And my stupid love, disillusioned and confused
With no purpose, without a reason
I expelled the unrewarding out of my window
The winter came, the summer passed
It rolled up during snowstorms
Stretched out with the sun
But it never died
Then, one day I placed this love high in the skies
And some nights I still can see my useless love
Illuminated with the moonlight, next to the stars

                      Boy Bitten by a Lizard
In the lusting contest, the wheel of fortune hanging over us
Mercenaries of Bacchus, castaways of the excess
Your fleshy mouth sparkling without command
Makes my dark green body slither through the fruits
I show you some candied bloody sorrow as you desire
Your expression does not deny the mystery of the efflorescence
And the finger still points out the reason. I am the sin, your sin.


- You will never be a writer!
- That is exactly what I want Sir. I hate Literature!
- You do not respect the forms, you mix structures.
- And you can notice, my syntax is everything but natural.
- Are you proud of messing up with the languages that took you in?
- Not proud, but it’s not my fault, they messed up with my feelings in the first place.
- What are you going to be now?
- Nothing I want to be nada but if I shall make writings, them I will be a writinger because that means nothing. Nada. Nada.