Deleting my blog

I haven’t found what I was looking for.
Instead, I discovered another truth. And it leads me to think I won’t ever find what I am looking for here. This is because I am not ready for it, and when I am, it will meet me elsewhere.

I want to document in paper some of the texts I have published here, so until that’s done the blog will be up.

Also, I would like to thank a few not-self-entitled-artists who have inspired and taught me a lot of things about myself. Thanks

Rodrigo,
Ver.

your soul is its story

FICTION III (black coffee): Crimson X: Molt X

When I saw
Your blood rising manhood
And fast blushing lip biting expression,
Your breathing stomach
And your towered arms on my waist;
When I saw
Your pale soft hairless skin
Next to my exotic haired rougher skin
And all of your corners,
When you taught me the location
Of your every time burning scar,
When I noticed how much warmer you were
And laughed at the care you have for your toe nails,
When I kissed your coffee seasoned lips
And savoured the arts of your tongue,

What I saw
Was the temperature of the room
And the light coming through the window,
It was the sound of the city outside
Our little nest
And the weight of your breath
When I’d let your rest.
It was the pain and happiness of the same life we lead
And shared on that bed,
It was the glue that kept our lives apart
And the red light you put beside us,
The only thing that shone in all that dark.
It was the morning ticket to the late night ride
And the dish I improvised like I always improvise.

But, of all that I saw,
There’s one thing that persists.
It’s the thought of abrupt fall
And sudden flight over hills
Of all the continents.

It was how I didn’t love you
And you were what I know
Will be one of the greatest
Loves of my life.
It was how I didn’t need you
Yet I craved for you with
A freeze induced
Burning chest.

It was how you made me see that
We were nothing. But life was everything.
I could be anything.

Ver

fat talk

sometimes i dress like i dont care for opinions
like im a rebel and a real masculine kinda gay dude
and sometimes i take the time to dress properly
and feel like a french-chic or a cute gay nerd
or maybe not even gay at all
sometimes i dress like not even gay at all
one day each thing, whatever i feel like
and everytime i change styles people go
“hey wow you’re different”
i’m not.
can’t recall a moment when i cared for your mind
and i have always been kinda masculine. i just don’t like soccer.
i live by the french-chic ways and
i’ll always be a sucker for science.
all of this doesn’t happen
i was born with it and it will persist confusing you for eternity.
it’s not like i can’t define myself
or put myself in a box
shit, it’s just that my personality is SO FAT i’d need to chop it to pieces and use tons of boxes. it’s just too much work man
so yes
i am a lot of things
and so are you. yes so are you
and you will realise it once you actually bother to measure your weight

(“pisses”. oh god.)

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to

may silence be the wordless glory of unexpected fortunate and unfortunate events that happen in the everyday life of a man who sees what there isn’t to see and ignores everything he shouldn’t. may this rainy numb night be the curse of our undeniable fate, our necessary bloom of the coloured riot of spring scents. i’m crying out loud by telling no stories of not unseen me.

home
they say its where someone is missing you
but how do i differentiate the waves crashing
and the wind blowing through the leaves
and grass keeping trot to the horses
or the kingfishers smoothly striking underwater?
how do i know which one misses me most?
the wolves’ howls every moon?
the birds’ sonnets every spring morning?
the skies’ cries during the winter storms?
where is it?
and how do i know, if i know they all miss me,
for i am every same bit of reality as them
and without me
without them
the puzzle is incomplete?

where is home?

FICTION II (black coffee)

i feel you beside me
a vision through the mirror
reflecting of past and
made up futures.

i refuse to gasp
but your lips still touched my neck
and your beard still tickled
my sensitive skin
rough to your sensitive skin.

and in the universe of what never happened
i see a dead world before us
and a dying you to the coming years
fiction, when we’d be far from arms
still reciting your every scar
and kissing our charming scent.

old

The world is so big and I am so small;
Nature is so complex, yet I, so simple;
Time is so slow, but I will die in a minute.

And, so many times, throughout the years I spend years wondering what it’ll be like in five. What have I done? What have I said? What have I seen?
And, always, who will be in my bed? Always the expecting not to be alone, throughout the years spending years not ever being by myself, at least in my mind.

And always doing some things while doing nothing,
Always saying some words while not talking,
Always seeing the world while not looking.
All to, then, realize: ”Five years ago wasn’t true,
Just as minute as me and as drifty as the Blue.
I was stuck but I was moving, I was shut but I was shouting.
I am where I was, but I am who I wasn’t.”

And, like that, I grow. Tall. Fat. Bald.
Until one day, when five years is just as minute as me.

Ver