vida
imposible
como el sonido
del sabor
que se derrite
sobre la lengua
del pensamiento
todo lo que toco
se empieza a disolver
como superficie
rodar como
onda del olvido
que atraviesa
lo que
sucede
era ruido
tu amor
a la
verdad
huelo
el rastro
de una idea
que me recuerda
del aroma
de esta
soledad
It feels good
not being an artist
no language to impress
philosophical thoughts on cheese
a bit guilty of the next beer
depleting bank account
it feels good
to walk on snow
so crisp and pure
drinking the next beer
getting drunk
and all the rest
it feels good
to see the snow
fall
my cold breath
dunking beers
and all the rest
if feels good
to have left Berlin
now just a town drunk
not even a
punk
This is my chance
to render existence
beautiful, justify it all
this is my chance
to leave a mark
in the thicket of irrelevance
that encircles life
this is my chance to create a gem
of poetry and longing
the universe
I see
is but a sketch
an attempt
the purest game
miracle comes in between
the things that are by chance real
I love its
magic
I am touching
the soul with silence
– that art thou
stargazing the mind
this is my chance
to suffer
the wisdom of solitude
my only voice
to reach out
to
you
Será hoy
que pasemos horas
sentados
viendo una flor,
no porque es una flor –
de eso no podemos estar seguros –
sino porque finalmente
nos percatamos
que cualquier otra hazaña
sería en vano.
Bang your brain against this sentence
spill your guts so I can mummify your fucking
lie
we’re in control
only you
purely you
guess from where I come from;
studying your antics
form this
tendency to resist or challenge authority (sic)
do we ever control
the wave
that crushes us
in the
end?
the downward slide of space
bare, exposing long origins
amassing by layers
as if it were sediments of time –
and these drops on the pane
are the benevolent visit
of superfluous beauty
that I smuggle into
the vain territory
of life
I’m ready to wing a logic
a mode of airborne communication
something of this collapse
can be spied upon
from above
with skeletons
we induce the flesh
the art and the tool;
so with these rudimentary droplets
the underlayer element
begins to fume
as a fire burning on
infinity
hush…
it’s gone.
si llorar es el consuelo
una última oportunidad
para recoger los misterios
que se enredaron
entre los hechos,
es una gota
obra del intelecto
fundido
de tanta
injustificable
realidad
age
a film of thaw
rosy tender flesh
your perfect target
agonic wine deadly aim
by the non-appearance closer
logical surrender instance of essence
point drop angular arpeggio by the moon
eye eye
oh
human
form around the cellar
by side raised younger
lost in the sympathy of quivers
tingling by the mindwake of emptiness.
Es la felicidad un trozo
de apuro
una esquina de la ceguera
que guía
un ímpetu sagrado
en el rincón del goce
ahí donde hay filo
para nácar de palabras
un río que desborda hacia
al cerro involuntario.
If only you knew
the intensity of this wait
time has an abnormally short reach
I am conscious of every stub of hair
busting through my cheeks
these organs pulsating madly
fiercely
I hear my voice as a public declamation
and I know that I am
lying
if only I could find the right word
that tames the turbulent static
begin pouring soft flora
down my throat
the prayer is a form of evaporation
its crushing plenitude
opens up a region
for me to forget
my bearings
in the simultaneous act
of being keyhole and
spy.
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