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Oil of Jealousy

This is only one of the many interpretations of jealousy: a collection of five poems. the five complete song-poems Poem–Me Jealousy is to paint my lips on another her, and make them walk the runways of Paris, of Vienna, and of all that will never be again. Jealousy is the sentence on my frustrated imagination, which demands the lips of the other shout my name and say she is me and that the other is her, too. Jealousy is my shadow, unfolding, usurping other women’s graces, while moving away from what we were; chasing it, chasing myself, since I no longer know how to accept myself—without you. Jealousy is the implicit not explicit; a compass that explodes and points toward two opposite norths, fleeing in both ways. Jealousy rise like a threat when the mirror holds not one, ...
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The Metamorphosis Over Time (On the Passage of Time VII, Part II)

Note 1.- This is a complex and enormous text; and this is just the second part. It is also the continuation of “On the Passage of Time”. The idea is to get lost during its reading and within its paintings, because the meaning is strangely intertwined to our combined perception of them. And it is necessary to get lost. Note 2.- I think and believe in every paragraph written, this is not a disjointed text, perhaps it is very dense and a jungle to be explored, even by me. And it is inspired by several theories that I have read in other jungles. Note 3. Part I, here The Context When I believed I had closed the basic symbols of this essay, I discovered a sentence that was out of place: Only a story that has been lived can reverse its time I couldn't figure out what I had meant. I had to think about it because the sentence lacked its context; therefore,...
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Musical Synesthesia (II)

The Violin and Its Why Because it seizes  the whole helm of the melody and raises the level of the sea. It relies on itself to become storm, chaos, waves, vessel and night. But also shore, land, sky, mountain, and home. It swings freely preserving its endless flow fusing all worlds into one. The piano are words and does need them. The violin is emotion and doesn’t need them; its texture is like the fine sand on the shore and the piano is like the wind that embeds the sand in your skin. The piano are jumps between points in space; and the violin are their threads. The piano has colors and are static; and the violin has a spectrum and is alive. If the piano is synchronicity, the violin is its absence; and, even having it, you cannot capture it, you cannot define its movemen but you can feel it. The violin is the voice of instruments because it is soprano voice. You can feel its colors tracing your whole being, from emotion to emotion. Sometimes, the melody descen...
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The Metamorphosis Over Time (On the Passage of Time VII, Part I)

Denying what we are while our metamorphosis is happening is to deny ourselves in time. But forget it and let's start from the beginning: only with language as a burden; which is already very heavy. Essay on Writing The story that traverses this essay is the story of a poetess who wrote verses to no one. This Poetess always knew the outcome: that denied, she would remain; alone, writing verses to no one. If it poured, let it flood; let whatever stood in her way be destroyed. If she was cursed, it would be an attributed curse, not her own. Note.- This is a complex and enormous text; and this is just the first part. It is also a continuation of “On the Passage of Time”. The idea is to get lost during its reading and within its paintings, because the meaning is strangely intertwined to our combined perception of them. And it is necessary to get lost. Note 2.- I think and believe in every paragraph written, this is not a disjointed text...
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Mythology (Part I)

This is a mythological exercise about dragging corpses as far (in?)imaginable, and there, letting them fall, beyond the end of time, the limit of the journey, where an abyss resides, in which one legend will sink the other in depthless oceans, without time and without heartbeats. So it is also an epic between two legends. And a battle without destiny. Recites Music, that her soul is muse. Muse sings, that (your) soul shall be music. “War you carry and abysses shall be (your) echo: falls of Nevers Survives, labyrinths of eternal melodies.” Poem .- Legend Music, ℵ Treacherous verses hurled against the walls of Troy. Spears of stars; cyclones of storm of flooded strongholds. Arches/Bows of sand. Lifeless flowers of unembodied souls. Dawns of arrows. Empty armors. Fires without dances. Heart is your shield, impenetrable; and fragile shield of heart; yours. It's death that you leave behind, and your death what you postpone; legend of your deserts: heart of towers, desertions and bestiar...
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Night

It was past three in the morning, I might be wrong, but that day I didn't have a clock and I had forgotten that mobiles also give time. I knew it was too late because she used to disappear first of her friends without warning, leaving no clues where her next place would be. That deadnight was a very cold Thursday night in half of February. She stayed until the end just before I left. Sometimes she drew imaginary circles in the sky of her glass. Other times she drank wine or moved her head sideways to the rhythm of the music. I did not know if she was distracted, thinking or just imagining... I know, this is all a grotesque maybe: maybe she was only distracted in the stars of the glass; maybe lost somewhere in America; or maybe just being. Maybe, maybe, perhaps, yes, but my bet was that she would be far down of the chaos of the smoke coming up over that ashtray adorned with skulls and she simply would be thinking in the beauty of chaos. Once she returned from there she would be smil...
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Just strangers

She emerged limp and dark but soon became the star of the garden, flirtting with his obsessions, knowing she was the queen of an impossible castle while he was looking at her. The next day she dressed in her best colors and he fell in love. But night came and she darkness returned. "Write about me while you have time. Delight you and leave me before the storm comes." "It's late, I loved your darkness from the first moment and now you wanna me flee from the flames." "I am a rose in your hell; the only cursed rose in your garden." "The one." "But we were never lovers." "Were we just strangers?" "Hell you, I was more than a stranger." Days went by until he visited her again but now her petals were blacker than ever. "Maybe you always were right, strangers o lovers, it did not matter 'cause  I'm just a killer, dear".
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