Le surrealismé.

El destino, candado no de llave perdida,
sino escondida en los siete mares del Barroco.
El agua cristalina que se refleja en
las hierbas que nacen en las rocas añejadas.
El zancudo que aniquila la esperanza del pueblo entero.
Las elecciones de un falso izquierdista que carcome la moral...

Degradación.
Putrefacción.
Cocodrilo contra gallina.
Corrupción.
Constitución.
Gallina muere en la mandíbula.
Recessión.
Depresión.
Extrema condición humana.

El escarabajo que muere aplastado por la bota del militar dictador.
Su sangre llena de pus, se esparce por todo el país.
Su sangre llena de lágrimas se esparce por todo el mundo.

La pluma que el ave pierde, cae
miserablemente sobre el cuerpo de la estatua sin
sentimientos.

La nostalgia que invade el lapicero
que extraña el campo de fondosos
árboles.

El cabello que cae delicadamente sobre
el rostro de la mujer que amanece
junto a un cadáver.

El desaliento que desgarra la raza humana.
La creencia, simple y mundana,
simple y pagana, que ciega la raza humana.

The Sum.

A flick of my hand,

and colors will raise,

becoming alive in every possible way.

They’ll walk behind me

and protect me from danger.

They will become my shield and my weapon.

They will become my friends and my allies.

They will become the messengers and the message.

A flick of my wand,

a wand so pure and so noble

it has been part of me since the beginning

of time;

a flick of it,

and colors will be imprinted forever.

A smell of sweet oil

that fills my lungs with desire

and lust for creation;

a smell of it,

and body and spirit shall become one.

A cold touch of turpentine

and my craving shall morph into need,

then my need shall morph into action;

a touch of it,

and I will find myself dancing among

water-color incubuses.

A sense of the air

that has been carefully mixed

for my mind to secretly elope with my feelings.

A sense of the air

that has made me a slave of its effect,

a slave of it,

a slave for it.  

A sense of this air

and I shall defeat my eremophia

to hide in my self and never be sane again.

I am what people despise,

but whom they admire.

I am the tortured, misunderstood,

unacknowledged genius.

I am what people call a madman,

but I call myself an artist.

Titleless 1.

An outsider to their laughs.
A reaper anihilating smiles.
A whip slashing their jokes.

It's me.

The poison ivy that kills the weeds.
The drunk from whom people run away.
A bump in the road that makes you fall.

It's me again.

The tears the dead cry.
The smile the convicts wear.
The finger that is shown to the world.

The hope regained at death.
The pride lost in a won battle.
The pain that crushes you inside.

It's me.
It's me.
All the bad things, are me.
All the cruel things, are me.
All the evil things; yes, they are me.

I hide from my own memory;
uselessly, I hide from myself.
My weakness reasurres my pain.
This anxiety reassures my emptyness.

It's me.
It's me.
All the bad things, are me.
All the cruel things, are me.
All the evil things; yes, they are me.