Yap, things

that thing you've been calling a soul
doesn't belong to anyone
not even myself
when it's right there holded on the arms
of two irreverent kids
who will only put them in
amusing danger
the thing - soaked wet warm -
you've been calling a consciousness
has no longer place between
the flacid stretched skin and flesh
of crossed bodies
the thing you've been calling myself
has no longer a meaning here
at this earth, solid space
commonly called for social integration
coherency
lucidity
human stupidity
it's time for the landing place
to prepare itself
and shot a plane
up to the sky
to get things where they are called right
without misspellings
no wrong soles, no guilty unpleasured consciousness, no identidies or names or cruel independency
and particularization
there'll be a bunch new unity up there
the thing you've been calling liberty
you've been saying it all wrong, pour kid
its only nostalgia and melancholia

Delirium at a toilet's door

The skin releases
This hazelnut kind of smell
Which pinches the air
appearing hot and melted
like Sweat
that drips
and warms

Rips a ephemeral scrape
Of member banality
And this second pulses
In a lewd way
On the chests
Where then dwells
tepid
damp
petted
forever.


Pulsions like these you don’t erode
An orgasmic deliverance of the idea
And of what is the figuration of desire
Exteriorized by the curl of four arms
And two necks
The bosom that breathes upon the bosom
With hearts that pump upon each others
Arrhythmitized
In roars and howls
Grunts of two wild species
Febrile
And we only holded hands
And we passed them by the bristle hair on our arms
With closed eyes
Without exciding the ephemeral delectation
The groans turn into hiccups
And we pull our fingers deep down to our bones
Sunken on the honeyed skin
But it doesn’t hurt
He is a gentle boy
I fear that this will languish at this point
And it truly languishes
Maybe I’ll embrace it
Two scorching orbits
That wamble in climax
Lonely at a toilet’s door
So then
My biological body forces me
To act humanly
And I leave
to do what you best do
in toilets.

Painting Nails

we rely on this
bedtime delusion
unspecifically pretending to be
getting something from this
limitation of love nesting
which is so limitless
that actually
becomes hard to take
it on this easily
since I've had always heard that
love is a pain in the ass,
ironically,
there's no itching in the butt
and we both feel awight
...don't we?
we play
this painted nails fest
down under the sheets
shading the hue
of this crazy rapture
and I never really enjoyed nails
releasing this high concentration of tones
'cause
it leaves all the room
pretty in red
drunk by a rainbow
that encolours our love
and mental fusion
so much that we become ONE
big developed body
with ramifications
and fingers
with nails
skin-coloured regular fingernails
"paint your nails",
I try to require
with the colour you
want them to be painted with
but don't come and ask me
to paint them for you
I wouldn't even lift a finger
or a toe
to make them red
white
or pale pink
or blue -
- not regular nail colours -
man what an orgy...!
there's a lunch of fingers
having breakfast in the bed
every friday's happy hour
of consumption
in what little nasty fingers
do best
sometimes even when
they're in rest
all digged up
in a nest
rolling over
my chest
CHRIST, I yell,
IT'S SUCH A BLEST!


(only those satisfied ten little fingers will stay,
at last)

it all disappears here

why does it get,
sometimes,
such a hard time to find yourself
in the core of everything else that fills you?
why does it seem as if you're trapped
into somebody else
that doesn't please you
getting so sticky
in walls of unidentified mesure
that would only break
in undetermined pleasure
being such an individual of
concerning clever
that undergoes by
critical endeavor
mid tenacious periods
that will only bribe
the idea and action to
imbibe
all the load of the world
through small round nostrils
that form
a face
and sometimes a bosom of
depersonalized identity
that puts the one
bury
dead
and
gone.
and it only rests you,
the other one
who gets so stiffy
and narrowly
iffy
since it belongs to
something else
sniffy

a complete affair

persons walk along in the street
in a pretty delightful picture of insanity
I run to meet them so I can
ask and explore the idea of
why is it so hard to don't be
crazy when you're already crazy
and you kind of like it
there's no concrete response
nobody knows how to answer this
I think I know why that is.
     because they're already crazy.
                  they are already mad.
and we're all pretty delightful
things moving clowdly in this picture
of deadly eternal delusion
-what a brutal amazing scene!,
I tell him as we roll
our legs upon each other
begining to share hot
fluids of love
-It's never going to feel enough, you know?
the stupidity of single madness.
but we're not single, are we?

The Bass Frequency

it rotates
and rotates
upon the candlelight
it's a little circle of life
and it circles and rotates
it ondulates above the
slow motion freaks who crawl
behind their steped out minds
of cripaled feet
it rotates slower and ondulates faster
in an impenetrable rhythm of softness
so, it catches blind eyes of strong
bliss lights and it never failes this
hypnothic motion of awkwardness and dirtyness
to nobody ever failes the traced line
with weat signs printed underground down
grandiously moving and dandying
yet mixed up with
the contaminated idea of a virus
that explodes and blows in the
core of HIGH EMOTIONS
and then they start
doing the dubstep scene
under this city life pression
and there's no reasons for
....auch!....
everybody wants to go
down
on the bass rhythm sound
so they drag themselves with the
essence of the weird sound
and they specialize
on this kind of tape recorder
that gives them nothing
more than this transformer
of life energy into
dark shaped drum noise
which releases the thing that
fills
stoned expansioned minds of
unmeaning and unfeeling individuals
inside this black hole world
in an out going
movement of dispersion
this hardcore enjoyment of something
which is not touchable,
they think



and it rotates
and ondulates
then it stops
- underground pressure -
and nobody
thinks and
pisses and
craps again
until this bass frequency condition
domains

Eternal without a cause

Real few people
get the chance to
go down in history
and I ear so many
talking about you
so many
loving those things in
you that
you so idly reject
so many
trying to recover some of
the essence of that coil
name and figure of
J.D.
And I don't test cars
in speed races
And I don't own blue scintillating
eyes
or sweaty dirty cowboy hats
but I question myself
where is now trudging
that time
when
3 movies made a man
and a man made 3
movies that became
so invulgarly eternal
and there are so few
and so many
who
can write about this
but even fewer
who
can feel this
Ah........yeh........
........3 movies
(laugh)
56 for other personalities
for other men
(cringe)
and those 3 are eternal
(harsch)
now
     how many does it take
                to make
                  a man
                     ?