Saturday, 8 December 2012







1. The poets chose poppies to bleed the world.
And they did it again and again,
spreading petals into the pain,
to convert that flower
into a empty symbol which the pimply teenagers
carry in their pockets.

2. I got sick. Typhoid fever.
At the hospital I was filled with life.
Dreaming about antibiotic
running through my veins.
Dreaming about planes.
Dreaming about the doctor saying:
"Your veins break like threads of ice, girl,
your heart is a poppy, girl,
you got drugs, girl,
you fucked too much, girl...
But oh, honey honey, oh sweetie,
your skin is white as the peace in the world,
and you will be redeemed,
because your red blood is inside,
your sin is inside,
nobody can see it."

3. The poets write about war
without seeing a fucking dead body in their lives.
So I can write about love
without feeling a fucking heartbite in my life.
It is fair.
Redeem me, poets, let me play,
let me be something more than
this stupid flesh that is crossing
the equator whenever she is about to die.

3 comments:

  1. Es la mente la que fuerza al cuerpo desde su cáscara a oscuras, le dice: sienta y se sienta. Pero a veces el cuerpo añora muebles y se impone en temperatura para conseguirlo, y entonces hay que saber escucharlo, grado a grado, y apostarse a Farenheit al rojo, impar y pasa.
    El premio en el mejor de los casos es una sábana de algodón planchada y en el peor, una de plástico impermeable.

    cuídate como si cuidaras de otro

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  2. Me gusta lo que has escrito; me hipnotiza y mucho más.

    Y enhorabuena para goab. Gran comentario.

    Besos.

    ReplyDelete