.:rowdy river of love:.

"I found a raccoon,
and she kiss me to the moon"

 S.N.S.

.:105:.

"Vanidad de creer que comprendemos las obras del tiempo:
El entierra sus muertos y guarda las llaves. Solo en sueños, en la poesia, en el juego (encender una vela, andar con ella por el corredor) nos asomamos a veces a lo que fuimos antes de ser esto que vaya a saber si somos."

Rayuela
Julio Cortazar

.:lengua floja:.

Ayer hablaste sin coherencia
mientras yo escuchaba atentamente.
En tus ojos, sal
en mi boca, silencio.
De repente me besaste
y yo
comence a soñar.

.:life in the house of cancer:.

Standing by the foot of your bed
looking through your blue.
The world turns left,
if you hold my hand.

It fills me to know
that there is no stench,
that there is no blood,
that there is no ghost.

In the house of cancer
the years are passing through the
spaces between our moments.
Here, i have lived my future nights.

.:milwaukee:.

I got your postcard today
it made me incredibly happy...

.:get your own brain:.

So funny when you are thinking all day about something and then for some reason you read it
or hear that exact though in the newspaper or someone else's conversation.
Sometimes on a song on the radio or a talk show on tv.
The exact same discussion you are having in your head, and you want to yell
EXACTLY!!
Well fuck you and your little facebook

.:lying in sadness:.

Moon to my earth come from some other space
so totally white at our evening meal,
wearing a coat that will not last the year,
I love you completely as salt.

Tell the one about an hour before darkness
in your room above the Bangcock Massage Parlour.
The one where pain rises with the bread,
filling you with its yeasting smell.

It's dark.
You exhale a fist of memory.
I love you like weathering wood
in a room of empty pianos.

When you return to something you love,
it's already beyond repair.
You wear it broken.

James L. White

.:cotidiano:.

Contigo siempre es lo mismo
solo hablas de sexo
Conmigo simepre es igual
solo hablo de ella
Con ellos todo es diferente
ni se acuerdan de nosotros..

.:all in all:.

you told me not to worry,
you told me this would never die
i agreed.
yet, ineluctably, things fade a way
even love at some point disappears
that night with knives in your eyes
you turned around and walked away
such disdain
just like when She left,
and Nothing was left
now that time has passed
and i have grown
i know with out a doubt
i wished i had stayed

.:oblivion:.

Dicen que el interes tiene pies..
pues ni me interesan tus pies,
ni mis pies van a ti.

.:para ti:.

..volviendome loco,
derrochando la bolsa y la vida la fui,
poco a poco,
dando por perdida.
Tanto la queria,
que tarde en aprender a olvidarla
diecinueve dias y quinientas noches..


J.Sabina.

.:one last poem for richard:.

"December 24th and we’re through again.
This time for good I know because I didn’t
throw you out — and anyway we waved.

No shoes. No angry doors.
We folded clothes and went
our separate ways.

You left behind that flannel shirt
of yours I liked but remembered to take
your toothbrush. Where are you tonight?

Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again
and old ghosts come back home.
I’m sitting by the Christmas tree
wondering where did we go wrong.

Okay, we didn’t work, and all
memories to tell you the truth aren’t good.
But sometimes there were good times.
Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep
beside me and never dreamed afraid.

There should be stars for great wars
like ours. There ought to be awards
and plenty of champagne for the survivors.

After all the years of degradations,
the several holidays of failure,
there should be something
to commemorate the pain.

Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster.
Till then, Richard, I wish you well.
I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water,
and women kinder than I treated you.
I forget the reason, but I loved you once,
remember?

Maybe in this season, drunk
and sentimental, I’m willing to admit
a part of me, crazed and kamikaze,
ripe for anarchy, loves still."

— by Sandra Cisneros