once dear
if not again

we must be in
Goa when it rains

find a place with
an open terrace

among trees
and lay there

drenched
devoured  

for days

Like the main the author must die
their lives written out, bound by a books spine
Their eyes are yours, you have what's left of their mind.
How tragic the story line was?
Well that was their lives.
They give you who they are, so you can read to
throw away some time.
Months to years of their lives soaked up in a weeks time.
But yes like the main, their creator must die.
But they are immortal in another way.
Their mind might die but their world will stay.
With hands now plagued with arthritis, and blind milky filmed eyes
They cannot tell you about their mains lives.
Aged is their mind, taken by time,
But immortal is the world they created....
A whole world...in a few hundred pages...lives carried out
and then shut down....
Yes like their main an author must die.

This is the church of the crooked and fractured teeth
These are the hours slowed by lack of sleep
There is nothing underneath this breath
There is nothing but the body you left lying cold on the concrete
Isn't leaving sweet?
And I'm pouring out at 12am all the words I never said
Painting bottled affection to fog up your head
Hours without sleep lying in your bed
I loved this even then
Into the lazy hours
The nights when you picked flowers growing out from in between my ribs
Little light we sit and swig as I wash your feet
Intoxicated by the pleasant relief of you letting me down
I escape the room without sound only to write of nothing but you for weeks on end
And these nothings float up into the rafters and I wonder what comes after this absence of you
What I wouldn't do to tear back into you
Into the gaps of your teeth
I don't get the release anymore
I watch the moon move along my floor
As I Invision all the knots in my spine you whispered into
The black and the blue and the bruised
I'm not broken just used
But I still dream of you and how I would have abused the touch of your hands
I never belonged to another man but you
What's a girl to ******* do
But pour it back out again
And maybe you will
Maybe you will too
Maybe you will stay this time in my skin
Wonder what we might have been
If you would only descend again
The wanting never ends
And I am bruised cold over you
And for the way that we moved
And I can't hold up for much longer
The waves come back only stronger
And maybe for a little while
I'd let you come back around
And we'd tangle again a union of unholy sound
For this is the church of the crooked and fractured teeth
These are the hours slowed by lack of sleep
I don't get no release without my tongue in your cheek
I dunno it's just been one of those weeks
Just one of those weeks.

under the aparent darkness,
the nacar red of your lips
give me ligth.

between the tender and quiet
kisses of fire, you absorved
my darkness

there was no magic, it was
just that, two dark beings
absorving ligth.

a beast with a loewe head,
desolated, tormented, for
his pain.

between the lost and desdain,
and with desire sticked
to his skin.

the ligth in absolut darkness,
years looking that skin of silk,
those lips sweet as honney.

the silky and perfumated lips,
of a beautiful shadow, a lioness
in the dark.

and who will know, only darkness,
about that silk skin, that give ligth,
in a dark nigth.

a loewe, the lost descendant,
looking the way, and to that silk skin,
of honey gold and fire.

a lion lost in shadows, looking that
skin, that as divine grace, or gifth
of friendly gods.

found me, catch and love me
in the shadows, rigth before dawn,
giving life to the blackened heart.


and the flux of life, of strength,
to resist mi strokes, controling
herself tenderly.

never scared of my roarings,
only the beautiful fire, she give me,
with her nacar red lips.

her femmale lips, a beast, beautiful
with her skin of silk, perfumated and
HERMOSA,  A MUSE IN THE SHADOW.

tenderly resisting to the attacks of a
beast, thirsty of her, her ***, her blood, kissing
her skin inch by inch.

the HERMOSA shadow, with silk skin,
and nacar red lips, resist even thou, she
wanted to lay next to this beast

thirsty of her, her body, her etternal legs,
her *** of MUJER HERMOSA,
the beautiful and sweet lioness, that was mine
in absolut darkness..

And I am a Woman
who so knows herself
my inner power
alive and kicking
more as each
Blessed year
passes by
My light growing
my blood flowing
into the Universe
as it speaks through me
I have strength
that could electrify
a thousand stars
gathered over many years
of my life's battles
and wars
Mine is a quiet sort
Of fortitude
unstoppable with tears
I am my own warrioress
When it comes to my fears
I have my guides
and they know me well
goddesses and angels…
old friends
wielding
magic spells

But nevertheless
I have
A vulnerable side
Underneath the layers
Of protection and pride
an enchanted forest
of moss and green
a sacred space
that only few will see
Inside this inner sanctum
I am as soft as
fine silk
I let down my guard
as emotions flow
like milk

I am an unlikely
desert flower
Who just wants to
open up to you
to be opened
petal by petal
to receive the waters
of your tender care
most vulnerable
with her
stamen exposed
to be cherished
in the cool night air
I am delicate
as tiny spring buds
caught in the
harshest winter
storms
yet who persists
despite the odds
to keep her
cold spots warm

There is a rumor
In the foreign lands.
Some say
(especially in the East)
I have the elixirs
to tame
the most savage
kind of beasts
(Indeed,
Sometimes
as they come for a
sweet, well deserved rest
lay their huge, furry heads
upon my tender breast)

As for you, my Wild One
I think I hold the potion
to the key to your heart
to your beautiful soul….
Yes, poetry in motion
I want to bring it such light
Ignite your embers
To a spark
I could fill you up
So much
You just might not
feel your inner
Dark

But there is something
important to remember
The One who finds my key
Is the one
Who will be crowned
Defender
Of my tender soul
In all its hues
And asymmetry
Oh, Please, my love
Use it wisely
With the most loving
Of discretion
For under the armor
My heart beats raw
Laid bare
To love and passion

Otherwise
My pain will have no end
And I will have to go
Into battle once again

Now
Inside my
sacred cave
I rest
Need to re-charge
For the next
Battle cry
Lift up
Your heart,
To me, my love
Release it
Let it
fly

I get weak
Thinking
About weeks.
For example:
1300 weeks = 1 generation;
2080 weeks = a work life;
4420 weeks = a lifetime.
Don't squander 1 week
Worrying about
Next week,
It makes one weak.

Silver hair mimicking the
stars in your eyes
that incite the mercury
running through
my veins.

My sister had to personify the days of the week, and as a child, I could see how that would be hard, because she hasn’t lived enough to know why--
Sunday has to wear tights to church, to cover the rug burns on her knees, and she woke up so early, to cover the bruises on her neck.

She hasn’t dreaded enough to know that–
Monday stares at herself in the mirror, rubbing her stomach, tilting her head, and hoping that her mother won’t ask her what she had for breakfast or her friends won’t notice she didn’t touch anything on her tray.

Nor has she had the opportunity to feel so mundane, so boring, like--
Tuesday as she taps her pencil like a metronome against a wooden desk, where initials of ex-lovers were etched into the surface.

And I’m not quite sure she’s felt the drag that--
Wednesday takes, with her heart fluttering because he touched her hand as he passed her the joint; nor has she felt the harsh exhale that Wednesday wheezes out so viciously.

She hasn’t felt the impatience and anxiousness that–
Thursday gets as she checks her underwear and downs yet another cup of orange juice, then clambering into her hot bath; she’s stopped taking her birth control for the month and can’t wait for Nature’s gift to arrive.

But she doesn’t truly understand the relief that–
Friday brings as she finishes her chores, going above and beyond for her ill mother who promises she won’t **** over if her daughter goes out for a crazy night on the town with her friends.

However, she might understand the laziness and lovability of Saturday.
Saturday likes the ocean on her feet, even with yesterday’s sand caked between her toes, and she forgets to wipe on the mat before charging into the hotel and jumping on the bed, before snuggling up under the covers, with the television set on, playing nothing but mindless soap operas or black and white movies.