Cada segundo que sigo esperando para que algo pase, es un segundo más que me arrastra a donde nada pasa. Camino hacia lo desconocido, para que algo pase.
Escribo en polycinco-escritura.tumblr.com
uutpoetry:

Will Time Ever End?

September 15

Raisins are popping in the black brain of Monday morning.
Mickey Mouse-shaped hands point at me 
in my corduroy jacket biking to work. “It’s fall,” they say.
Who says, “they say,” anymore? I might pull an old
surrealist rabbit out of the hat and say "they say"
no one will ever invent a boiled egg peeler.
That will make the agrarians feel real smug. 
Classic hard-ons come from only certain parts 
of the crowd. As kind as the chivalry 
of raving skyscraper beams turning brown in September rain.
When things are well-rested and organized—only then
does one start to get a kind of poetic spirit about one.
So listen to those people: they say get enough sleep
in college. They’re right. And the aftermath of 
a giraffe crackers becoming grownups with sticks.
A great treasure trove of surrealist artifacts just disappeared
and all its infinities forever lost. The gas lamps react
with clothes and sleeves and colleagues.

art by Mariano Peccinetti Collage Art
uutpoetry:

Will Time Ever End?

September 15

Raisins are popping in the black brain of Monday morning.
Mickey Mouse-shaped hands point at me 
in my corduroy jacket biking to work. “It’s fall,” they say.
Who says, “they say,” anymore? I might pull an old
surrealist rabbit out of the hat and say "they say"
no one will ever invent a boiled egg peeler.
That will make the agrarians feel real smug. 
Classic hard-ons come from only certain parts 
of the crowd. As kind as the chivalry 
of raving skyscraper beams turning brown in September rain.
When things are well-rested and organized—only then
does one start to get a kind of poetic spirit about one.
So listen to those people: they say get enough sleep
in college. They’re right. And the aftermath of 
a giraffe crackers becoming grownups with sticks.
A great treasure trove of surrealist artifacts just disappeared
and all its infinities forever lost. The gas lamps react
with clothes and sleeves and colleagues.

art by Mariano Peccinetti Collage Art

uutpoetry:

Will Time Ever End?

September 15

Raisins are popping in the black brain of Monday morning.
Mickey Mouse-shaped hands point at me
in my corduroy jacket biking to work. “It’s fall,” they say.
Who says, “they say,” anymore? I might pull an old
surrealist rabbit out of the hat and say "they say"
no one will ever invent a boiled egg peeler.

That will make the agrarians feel real smug.
Classic hard-ons come from only certain parts
of the crowd. As kind as the chivalry
of raving skyscraper beams turning brown in September rain.
When things are well-rested and organized—only then
does one start to get a kind of poetic spirit about one.
So listen to those people: they say get enough sleep
in college. They’re right. And the aftermath of
a giraffe crackers becoming grownups with sticks.
A great treasure trove of surrealist artifacts just disappeared
and all its infinities forever lost. The gas lamps react
with clothes and sleeves and colleagues.

art by Mariano Peccinetti Collage Art

Ocupo apenas la tercera parte de mi cama. Me acostumbré a guardarte un lugar y otro a la vida que tendríamos juntos. Se me hizo hábito eso de abrazar mi idea de ti; cálida, llena de luz, de hambre de mí. Y con frecuencia, me sorprendo maquilando cómodamente los pretextos que a diario me alejan del entorno inmediato, para mudarme unas horas a ese que tú y yo hemos construido entre letras.

Son promesas, libros, escenas. Son ambrosías. Son gestos singulares. Son quienes no lo pensamos dos veces y quienes dejan de sentir por tanto darle vueltas. Son besos que no se ven venir, son noches que se viven a medio día. Son distancias que siembran dudas, pasos que no damos juntos, contradicciones anticipadas, risas que se reprimen a siete horas de ahí. Son tus rutinas, mi espontaneidad, nuestro querer. Las tres de la mañana, lo que descanso por saberte a salvo, tu imagen en mi día siguiente.

Siempre duermo de espaldas al lado vacante, esperando la mínima señal del aire que roce mi cabello para saber que has llegado, que apenas dé vuelta, mi cuerpo se encontrará con la perfección de tu silueta y mi boca impaciente con lo insaciable de tu amor.

Pero a veces mis ansias se disfrazan de tu piel, me toman por la cintura y se acercan más a mi inconsciente, el que lleva días haciendo una maraña con mi cabello y mis temores. El que me hace suspirar la obviedad de este vacío y esconde entre lágrimas lo prescindible de tu ser.

Y tú jamás terminas de llegar…

Abrazando tu ausencia, Entre letras y cafeína (via entreletrasycafeina)
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