Saturday, February 5, 2011

How To Write A Holographic Will

Smile Leonardo is a rose tired (De Jorge Eduardo Eielson)

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Supporting the weight of a single column without But
Crushed by the gray sky and undetectable in Florence
a dove Noting a drop of light in the wilderness
Brunelleschi's shadow on the empty table
But forever locked into an egg, water and land
Piero As the brush as
foam softness As the sound of the blood in the folds of the Madonna
But looking for an opening a gap in the clouds
celestial imagining an impossible object
A burnt paper mask when turning a corner
As if the hurricane will travel on Saying
diamond rails for example today is closed
The cafe next door and just enough butter
to stay alive and reach the exit
Screaming I'm sad I'm sad
Insulting the dome sublime world map
When the truth does not want anything I do not care But
smoking quietly on the edge of the bed
As as a child and took breakfast looking forward
While my heart that my heart just moron
grows and grows like a tumor
velvet sky thinking what the fuck what the fuck
life gray clouds away excrement
And weeping bitterly at the foot of the Arno till you drop
As Petrarch or Dante without ever seeing your navel
Dog dragging the crowd lit a robe
vain that I adore writing on the wall in front
Drawing the world in the barber's mirror
Before your eyes open, yet covered by strands of cotton

That evening and my hands and my tears manage to dispel
But without a cup of hot coffee
Not a cigarette or a star
in your pocket And no desire to keep looking forward
In and out of the same film as warm as the womb of elephant rage and silence
pouring on a yellow field on top of any object
pink and vibrant perspective
Taming the torrent of life with a single glance
begging for help
As babbling horse sinking under the rumpled bed
As if your body was just a word
In a poem that does not begin and not just as if not enough
a bottle and a skeleton
To continue to live between the lines and lines again
Tell love you I love you I love you
May your heart and your sex are same thing with a taste of paradise grow onions
Viewing the lust of despair
The circle of Minos in the crowd and hand
The confusion that reigns among men, bloodied lace
The myth of progress most infamous and oldest Following the death
a thread of saliva until the end of the maze
A flesh saxophone whose sound aging
As the sun starts declining and electronics
Her miserable dance around my head Looking
finally deserted
same blue sky and thinking I'm crazy that I can never reach you
that after so much effort
losing battle would not be surprising that instead of your beauty will find on the pillow

a soldier dying intestines, fresh flowers under the blue-jeans frayed
The hair on the floor pupil
But the clouds caressing hopeless squalor
One last ode to the divine energy field before turning back
on a machine unusable
head leaning against a wall of ash
unfortunate my brain thinking is pure gold My heart velvet
my glass sex
Willing to die for a rose but in a minefield
with machine guns and cannons of truth
Against stupidity tristeza no hope
But almost without blinking
not open the bathroom door not see my future
The water-closet cover the toothbrush ointment
And remember that today is Monday and that love is nothing.
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