Shitness

Very smart indeed,
Said the bullshit owner,
The champion of dirty poetry,
Moving through a million bigger,
Stinkier shits.

Mine is better
(They don't know but it is).
I'll keep it for myself,
And maybe for some friends
Free from the shitness of this world.

Temporarily closed

Brand new

I have run out of poems
So my notebook is back,
With its crimson borders
(I don't have to tell the truth),
And beautiful satine paper.

All verses are wellcome
In my brand new corner,
Open to everyone
But me.

Red eye

In the middle of a huge, red eye
Lives the secret of my life.
I have never seen it;
But I know, they have told me;
The old fashioned family of bears
That visit me every night
To remind me
The shape and the colour of my eye.

Useless efforts

The efforts are not useful at all.
Thousands of calories spent
in the pursuit of a ghost
which we thought a treasure
of manhood, of mastery.

You can never tell, but at least
you need to have seen
horrors and the smile of fortune.
That old elusive lady
daring my skills.

Poems and roses

What's in a poem?
That which we call our love
By any other poem would smell as sweet.

Words are powerful; Mr. Shakespeare knew well.
So powerfull as to combine
a bunch of letters
to create magic.
The secret of the combination
is in the core of wisdom,
of Art.

Poem?

Sometimes my imagination
flies and travels far away;
breaks frontiers, reaches far lands;
all in a couple of minutes;
the same time I have spent
to build this ... poem?

Hollow town

I don’t like towns
Nor do I like frantic people
Rushing to nowhere
As sad as hell,
As hopeless as a stone,
As empty as a hollow,
Poor,
Lunatic
Piece of meat.

Drops

A kiss for your thoughts;
One million for your smile.
But I couldn't pay for your drops
made of sadness,
poorer than your laughter;
sincere and overwhelming
like a purifying rain
falling from a goddess
into my deepest, unknown soul.

Rapidity

Two poems a month;
A penny for the originals.
Excellence needs tough work,
As if poets were miners,
Workers with their filthy hands
Strained and destroyed by writing.

I know a genious
That wrote her best poem
In five minutes,
While talking to her mother.

In a mess

Double language;
Double mind;
Double nonsense;
Double nutrients from mother Earth,
And double fear
Of dying
Mad,
In hunger.

Misty anguish

My mind aches
At the vision of your misty shape.
The echoes of a remote afternoon
Fly to my bossom
To stay with me tonight,
Till the morrow of a neverending death.

Clam haiku

old pond
a clam leaps... ¡chop!
lust in the water