Just Come

Just come and call me again that,
the daughter, the helping hand,
the whore who washes your sheets,
the patient soul who takes care of your darkest age,
the one who gathers your clothes
the clothe which covers your sores.

Just come back and call me that,
the woman who will wait, silent,
until you die
until I live,
the daughter growing behind your back,
the hand helping her own desires,
the whore who dirts her sheets
the caring soul who patiently takes the ages of dark,
the other who closes and gathers the ones
the sore who covers with clothes
this one that I am.

Barbie’s Praise

125

You are still that old doll full of sores.

Somebody forgot to wash your face
from remainings of chalk or watercolour,
and maybe deeds of unconsciousness
are your scars of marker and scissors.

Nobody came with a remedy against dust
and first, the wise flecks of dust,
later on the shout of the disuse
are an evergreen malaise,
an apathy that savagely abandons you
at the very back of the shelf.

You are still that doll who wished to be articulated
and be able to go.

The Old Way

camiño 2012-15 poema
Let the greatest pleasure be this pain, this punishment,
this way full of thorns.

I observe how the body surrenders, devoting itself in each step
without any worry about what is to come on each turn, in each crossroad
after whatever every sign points out.

I observe the skin full of sores but I do not feel pain
neither I move my feet from the way.

In my brain there will be only place for pleasure and struggle
and your incomprehension stares,
which knew how to make me suffer and betray my dreamed person,
those fixed gazes
that reproach is my climax

But I am still looking for the bright way of happiness and strength.

When It Comes to the Circus VII

It seems impossible to disappear,
go down the stairs and become mass,
repeat the same old mistakes
the same old conversations
it is so easy!

Let us try, I think, but every step to go out the cave
every movement to invade the space
is a dangerous decision
that I have to asses carefully.

She used to point me with the mistake
and it seems impossible to disappear
if I do not go down the stairs.

Stairs

But What I Can Do

I knew that this bloody pessimistic would come back
to blur the red colour of the rose,
the fresh odour of the grass just cut.

I knew it would come back the urgency to run,
the need to escape
and the gloomy eye of this capricious animal
would turn dark the light of the sunset.

I knew it would come back the hunger,
the cold flesh hunting the warm back to bite
the void yearning to be filled up to spill over
and make the poetry
spot the sheets.

IMG_6377

When it comes to the circus VI

IMG_6427

Nobody explained me then
why my brother tried to kill himself
and I asked to the silence,
to the strange shapes that the curtains made at night,
in the dim light of my room.

Nobody explained why some people just decide to quit
and let the game be played for somebody else
as if they knew that life, as any match,
is lost beforehand.

Nobody will want to understand
that there is a magical logic in letting the path undone
as if the ghosts and our memories
could say with silence
what we cannot say with words.

We have the bad habit of surviving

We have the bad habit of surviving
and although I should not be here
at any side of this ocean of food
I serve efficiently my mission
and keep on fighting
as only the orphans of peace know how,
pushing the deceptions deep down
where nobody could see them
and serve efficiently the customers.

I have the bad habit of surviving
although nobody teach me how.

deli - copia