domingo, 26 de julio de 2009

'Sometimes


Sometimes i feel a little guilt. A guilt that's climbing and scratching my esophagus. This guilt that's been building up a whole new idea of living, in my head. And yet i still don't feel that insecurity. This feeling that has been radiating my shoulders, 'cause it's just too much in my head. A guilt that make me feel as a child again, hiding under the tables, running through the alleys, yelling and screaming. This guilt that makes my tiny little childish head explode, into a million and a thousand pieces.
Shiny little pieces of me, of my soul, of thoughts; just flying through the atmosphere.
And yet I don't belong.

Sometimes i feel the rottenness.l feel Eunice making her way out of me. Eunice, the weak one; the light in me. I can sense my decomposing being just drifting through a non-refundable life. This feeling, a feeling of knowing that you're no better than anyone. That with a word vomit you can destroy an entire life, your entire life. A simple show off, a simple flash of you being, could make everything worse.
Do you know how that is?
The need of wanting your soul in the nude, bare naked, just as it is. But knowing that you could end up a life, by showing it. It is hard. It's asphyxiating. It's horrible.



I don't want to grow up. I don't want to destroy. I don't want to fulfill others by making myself apart. I don't want to give in. I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want to explode.

But i already grew. But I am destroying, with a simple touch. But i already fulfilled others, and i left myself apart; rock bottom. I gave up. I'd hurt everyone. I am exploding.


I'm still radiating.

viernes, 17 de julio de 2009

Bed time stories


Aunque la incertidumbre me haga derrumbarme, lograre mi cometido. El simple contacto insulso con esa dulce piel húmeda, enciende esa chispa en mi interior.
La flacidez del alma se va con el viento, pero lo que hagamos se quedara grabado.
Las figuras que formaron nuestros dedos se unirá con lo que alguna vez soñamos.
El carraspeo de las hojas me atemoriza, a pesar de que el fogoso palpitar de nuestros corazones interrumpa el remordimiento.
Quiero mas.
Quiero sentir.
Pero ya no puedo mas.
Ya no mas.
Ya no me escabulliré por la ventana.

Aunque nuestras figuras se fundan y recreen el universo, todo sera en vano.

El chasquido de tus labios en invierno.


Mi nombre es Eunice, eunuco, euforia, eugenesia, euroasiática, Eureka. Entro y salgo por los quienes y cuantos de las oraciones.

La multitud susurra mi nombre, para aspirar esa susodicha vehemencia en la cual me ahogo. El arte de adamar a las masas me resulta insustancial; porque son realmente susceptibles a los enredos. Porque ellos son amaestrados para ser muertos en vida, sin opinión ni decisión; cerdos sin cerebro.

El golpeteo de las gotas sobre mi cabeza

Puedo escuchar el chirrido del gas escapándose, el prúsico liquido chorreando por mis oídos y abriéndose camino en el descomunal cuento de esta ciudad. El aroma sublime de los fugitivos mechones que envolvían tu rostro, me indujo a este sueño artificial. Ya no recuerdo el momento en que me adentre a este barato intento de fantasía; a este burdo concepto de realidad y torcida utopía.