Today I awoke from the slumber
with the clear vision of madness.
The ink of ancient antiquarians
takes agogic form,
the texture of coral
lit by aureate petals.

My fleeting trails of vapor
pale beside the passing dusks—
capricious canvases of divine pastels
melting with grace.

Meanwhile, the ravenous rats
ravage the primordial seats of control,
lurking in shadowed corners,
pestilent.

And the infamous droppers
of poetry
demand the meter
of free verse,
free,
free...

Today I awoke from the swollen chimera,
believing myself Don Juan,
emperor of all the realms of the world.
Reclining upon the image of dream,
I remember:

Volatile shadows slip
between pallid smiles
and dim the sincere hatching
of great feathered reptiles
who once again awaken
to the comfort
of gunfire.

No one shall spark the revolution
without first hurling themselves into the fire.

With steady feet,
anchoring the colored wake,
precise work,
the constancy of the pulse,
the sacrifice of fire,
the final dance,
the culmination of ******
in mediocre divine rejoicings,
with spontaneous illuminations
that reflect the utter absence
of meaning.

They pale in ego
before the sordid gaze
of the automatons of rebellion.

They writhe,
agonized, in sharp pains,
revive briefly,
bare their gums,
twitch their fingers,
spread their wings,
close their eyes...
Close their eyes
and try to hear:

the silence that spills
from every sonic vibration
expelled from the center—
an eruptive blaze
from the inner fire of madness,
the uncertain shadow of onomatopoeia,
of rhetoric, of contradiction,
of the cube exploding within each subtle body,
expanding
at speeds that outpace
the longest of abysses,
piercing the very center
of the universal web,
telepathic, morphogenetic, hyperluminous.

With thunder and melodic lightning
wreaking immediate havoc
on the malevolent fabric
of illusion—
that ensnares me,
that hurls me
to the offense.

We have died a thousand and one million times.
We have returned in the body of the eagle, the crow,
all recognizable wings—
and the unrecognizable:
those that paint the cosmic asphalt
with tapestries of red giants,
blue hypergiants,
white dwarfs.

I have died a million times—
and a thousand more.
I have returned in many forms
and with many deaths.

We have been crows of eagles,
ocelots, asphaltic heartbeats
that blanket the cosmic sky
with tapirs, quetzals,
monkeys of redundant faces,
violent mirrors—
violent mirrors—
violent mirrors
that greet us with fists
and reveal
the broken wings of the interrupted song,
the song that does not fit,
the cacophonic diminished,
the senselessness,
the swift *****
of a vertiginous welcome
that flings itself once more
onto the path
of the many forms of death.

I am the fiery bird, the dancing flame,
the burning spiral, embered in the dark,
the star that pulses at the night’s deep core,
the dynamo that drives the endless age,
the breath exhaled by one extinguished sun,
the bat-black wings in heaven’s music box.

I am the shadow climbing hell’s high walls,
the gaze within Tiranux Rex’s eye,
the tremor tearing down the bounds of truth,
the vortex swallowing the cosmic edge,
the echo cast from beating wings to quake.

I am the breath of magma, trapped in stone,
the voice of Echo, caught in cursed loops,
the first and last reveal, the final word.
I am the bloom that bursts from rotting roots,
the deadly sprout emerging from the dust,
the equinox reborn in astral waltz,
the sharpened blade that carves the yawning void.

I am the glitch that ruptures every beat,
the broken loop in techno’s throbbing pulse,
the four on floor, mechanics bound in sin.
I am the birth and end of every cry,
the void that lingers after ****** fades,
the lonely path that leads to Xanax dreams,
the thirst unquenched, the hunger of the beast,
the burning flesh, the pupil wide with dark.

I am the silence after lightning’s strike,
the breath that lingers when the storm has passed,
the fleeting shadow that the dawn consumes,
the pulse that beats within the stillness found.

I am the moment where time falls away,
the flame that flickers in the heart of night,
the echo of a voice long left unheard,
the endless dance, the never-ending flight.

And when the last star fades, I will remain,
the fire reborn, the circle made complete.
For I am all, the void, the end, the start,
the endless rhythm of the soul’s heartbeat.

Inevitably, something has fractured
and I renounce:

I renounce beer, captive lover of sublime moments.
I renounced my children, defiled in the womb by shadowed adulteresses.
I renounced my mother's love,
who flung herself into the gaping jaws of empire.

I renounce Zurita and Vallejo,
I renounce Rimbaud and Lorca.
I renounce the revolution—
a slaughterhouse of lambs bathed in epitaph sauce.

I renounce the symbolic burning of the body
because I renounce the body.
I renounce the beauty of being surrounded by lotuses
because for me, blood and bones.
Because for the disinherited, the roads
are mapped in filth.

I renounce your fingers tracing my spine
because I renounce my spine.
I renounce the madness of your ***
and the trampling that follows.

I renounce poetry,
for she renounces my wanton kiss.
I renounce metaphysics and catharsis.
I renounce the ceaseless spilling of ink.

I renounce eclipses.
I renounce dimming my eyes with tears
that do not belong to me,
that are not even mine.

I renounce returning,
for the path moves only forward.
I renounce leaving,
for I will sit beneath this vine—
and I will not eat its grapes,
and I will not drink its wine.

And when, a thousand years from now,
a monk arrives
and lays the three masks of the universe
before my bones,

I will renounce my bones—
and the universe
with its three masks.

A gentle shadow emerges
from the horizon’s edge—
God,
unfolding in infinite
obscurations.

Above the swamp,
Isis Trismegistus gazes,
where poetry is born
in the quiet glow of revelation.

Golden radiance fastened to the table,
fate shimmering before the divine.
Curled in stillness,
the cosmos unveils itself—
awe before the mystery,
quantum possibilities cascading
in spectral waves
from the mermaids’ tails.

A water-laden womb
sings in harmony,
rising and swaying
to the Sun’s
unfathomable whims.

Time bends,
a spiral of echoes and forgotten tenses,
where longing dissolves
into the trembling silence
of a dream.

Flesh and moonlight.
Flesh and moonlight.
Hands rise like silver branches,
eyes bloom in rivers of glass.
Here, the skin is not a boundary—
it hums, it shivers, it ascends.

Mouths in the walls whisper my name
The blood on the walls is a map of the heavens,
a hymn to silence,
a door made of sound.

Flesh and moonlight.
Flesh and moonlight.
The sky is a wound where the stars spill through,
a thousand burning voices in a spiral of dawn.
In every corner, an eye awakens.
In every shadow, a wing unfolds.

Your bones are constellations,
your veins, rivers of silver.
There is no door to close,
no hand to stop the wind.

Flesh and moonlight.
Flesh and moonlight.
Offer yourself to the watchers.
Offer yourself to the flame.
Rise.
Rise.
Rise.

Time is a burning wheel,
flesh bends, shifts, ascends.
There is no end. There is no end.
There is no end. There is no end.

Flesh and moonlight.
Flesh and moonlight.
Flesh and moonlight.

I always let the ego speak,
its voice of shattered mirrors
and lips that never quiet.
But the poem is something else:
a refuge of monsters,
where the flesh of fear
learns to pronounce its name.

The light scorches,
oblong and pure,
tearing apart the shadow I thought was mine.
It is the truth:
a burning blade that does not console,
a justice that asks for no permission,
but burns,
but aches,
until it leaves me blank.

And in that maskless void,
who speaks now?

Ti-jean leaves his poems
at the entrance to the cemetery
and the insane
misers of love
they try to strip
to letters and notes
of all silence
And it is that silence is the resolution
of our sevenths of decrease
and sensitive.
Ti-jean leaves his heart
right in the gate
that you open with your poetry;
that to elaborate
difficult tongue twisters
about the freedom to love each other.
The pouring rain
In my face
it's just
an echo
of you
and
your shadow:
Ti-jean.