No Need

“You love her and I swear
I don’t need to be taken for granted.”

---

Picture: First night in Paris (2013)

 

Vulnerable Blue

“Closer than close, that’s where I want to keep you. If there was a permanent way to inject you under my skin not implying a needle, I’d do it in a heart beat. I just can’t stand needles, you know that. There’s a lot of things I’d do for love, but unlike the canvas that is your body, I don’t carry my scars on display. I bury them, deep down in the blue traces of my eyes. Sometimes you can see them when the light is right. You’ve always said my eyes are green, I guess you haven’t paid enough attention to them. It hurts. I’ve memorize every nuance in your hazel eyes. There are at least seven different tones of brown in them. Probably not even you noticed that. A rainbow of brown and you just see the green. Blue is annoying these days. Everybody is trying to show their perfect profile. There’s no such a thing as perfect, same there’s no such a thing as ‘absence of blue’. We all carry it at some point. To be vulnerable is not cool, specially for a man. That’s why when you say ‘green’ I don’t disagree.”

Julie and Olivier in ‘Three Colors: Blue’ by Krzysztof Kieślowski (1993)

Ghostly Pat

I may have lied to myself
but now I see clear
’cause when I said ‘therapy’
you didn’t ask ‘depression’.
Just a ghostly pat in my back.
My guts to you were foreign,
you didn’t check my pulse.
I could’ve been a corpse by noon
you wouldn’t touch me until night.
But now I see clear.

Your Head. Is Full of Birds

“Tienes la cabeza llena de pájaros” – Derval Blake (Paris 2013)

I cherish every bird inside my head.
Also the odds who caw out of phase
Leaving me like the cat,
Out of the bag.
Specially those.

Found and Lost

Imogen Cunningham – The Unmade Bed, 1957

I’m sick of me having to dig the words out of you
As if your inner will never gave you a clue.
And all the cheap twist’d tricks I use are
A confirmation and
No more!
Of this fumbling sex parole which’s been
Dragging all my joy around.
Quick fix on the bloody stitches of this pretty little doll.
Mother, will I meet love?
Cause I’m tired of this men that do nothing but despise
Mum, will I be wise?
By the facts of my own arts I doubt
Who came first?
Lost – at any cost?
Found – northbound?

Mother you should have left me unmade
As this prison I call bed.

Brush-strokes

There’s an owl in the corner piercing through my years
With a wisdom on those feathers that never knew me.
There’s a chessboard spread right above my head
And all its horses are stomping right below my chest.
So I stand, still, proud guts in my fist, held high.