unconscious wit of my bedroom

cloistered

2012-01-20T08:09:00.000-08:00

The torture chamber in this eye
Watches everything wrong
Or everything right.
This is a dark place, room, no number
For this happens in my house
Where you´ve chosen to live
Or my parents´ house, farm in these lands
Where i have to live, and i lie a lot
In this couch, big bed for two
We close windows, almost spring
Fountain dry, we fumble
To each other
But you like it
As you like it.
Nature outside, we hear crickets, owls
And spiders inside so scared of
Something: the ominous Nature.
Green lawn awaits us outside, to be watered
And the neighbours
Spy behind the curtains
I can hear him, handling something
Outside.
This is a square room, we don´t do TV,
Internet, music, but you and me, brown
Colors, dark, is this me?
I lie a lot.
A face, saliva, two heads two feet.
And food for a month. Whatever.
This is love then, you and me alone,
Don´t breathe: moan.
Legs hurt, you don´t want to move a toe.
I splash my face with iced water
To take the photograph,
We don´t need make-up.
The scene is clear, not clean, but it is
My face, tired, white flash, eyerrings,
Dishevelled hair, red red red
Organs.
You lost your keys in the swimming-pool
Thick, green water. Oh i can hear
The hens beyond the fence
And the rooster
You smile and i can´t see it.
A pleasure.

dirt shines in the dark

2012-01-11T23:48:00.000-08:00

Shiny girl.
He couldn´t look into my eyes,
He hides his face, he whispers he tells me
Bright things, dirty things. (write them)
Dirt can shine in the fluorescent light
Of that sad planet. It is night. It is very late,
He says it is dawn, and i am down
Dirt. Stones under our feet.
What else can i say? Nothing i have said.
This is our time. Our morning and
Why not. Why not everything
He said to me.
“Don´t worry” interfacing faces
He says i´m driving him crazy
And i smile even though i´m half-asleep.
This is sex.
His face, lost eye, god you´ll drive me crazy.
I have to buy things. Things have become
Strange to me. Scary
Dirt. Plants. Owls. Moon. And
High-heeled shoes.
He says my name, or her name,
For she laughs with him.
I laugh too.
He laughs at me
For all the foolish things
I say to him.
I act numb, fool, idiot, can only
Think about him and the words he said.
Trust. Moss. Woods. Words. Stones and bondage.
This is an enormous community.
He e-mails me. I delete them all
When i get mad at him or at everything.
He spits, and writes he doesn´t spit. Spit.
He sleeps with me with the blue
Light of the screen on.
So back again to solitude.
Not that old.
Making faces for the pictures
“Be yourself”
But i still don´t know who i am
What i want or what i want not.
Words weird e-mail for my love
From shiny girl in the dark.

i needed to rest these days

2012-01-11T11:26:00.000-08:00

i stopped writing and painting. this means death to me,,,, but something will happen. must get out of this inertia and low self-esteem....
love you!

my new occupation

2011-11-20T11:11:00.000-08:00

Ok, i live in this mental institution
And i go to the library
And dance with a watching nurse
I dance alone
The dance of my own mind
And body.
I am the most beautiful lass
You can see HERE. And i´m young –
Childlike instincts.
I just live for love and music.
The staircase to my bedroom is locked now.
You occupy my mind, she told me Freudian stories
And what can i say myself about Klezmer,
Virginity plath.
I met you because we were meant to meet.
All this wry, wrought-up neurones
My mind needs a rest.
The vision is clear, she´d taken a photo of you
And i was told you were a genius.
Wrought-up images spazzing not neat
Mess of books.
And i was an eager reader.
Bone-hangover from hugging, and frowning and
Thinking thinking thinking
Like in the old world.
Everything has changed.
I Am Free
Of the mental institution,
I am here, love, in the library occupied
In our preoccupations and apprehensions
I Am Free
But in your soul
I plant bad seeds of cousin´s face
And i can´t imagine the rest:
I am still behind you
I am still numb, nervous, how to live
Dancing in the street with long skirt
Eager to live.
You sing.
I sew my long skirt.
Your voice, your voice
Is all i eat.

pieces of teen Clotho

2011-11-19T01:17:00.000-08:00

must must must buy a digicam,,,, i know, i know.....

pfffff still Lachesis

2011-11-16T12:18:00.000-08:00

Twenty-five legged woman

(if you need 50 feet woman to lick)
Those pinks that stink
Scary childlike colors
Thrilling materials – innocent
Become killer of his soul-
Mate.
I can´t listen
I can´t hear; i hide under orange blankets
Eat fleshy pink cakes
Eat vegan meat,
You materialize at my door
I have feet to lick and murder
But your face has changed,
Changed measure, sunglasses on, long black hair
My man, i am afraid, your new weight scares me to death,
It is not summer dream dream dream.
It is winter! And i am paralyzed. She and I.
Get undressed, my hair is red.
My skirt keeps my naked feet hidden from you.
Fifty feet. You counted them.
A strange case of study
Stubborn nuns study,
I study, i quickly forget.
I reject food.
Naked i eat strawberries out of season
And out of the blue
Naked, my toe-nails so soft, my lover,
So edible.
One foot whispers something in your tongue.
Two feet are leaking blood.
I´m dying soon, i´m dying soon
And i still believe in Love.
Naked, stripped, bare, running naked
Except for those pink shorts. With my fifty feet
I run so fast, love, so fast from what the
Fuck!
Days approach –
Naked in the rain
Losing weight
So fast
Naked.
My hair is red-wine red to smother
Your tongue.
The thread of life and love will be cut.
Merciless. My time is near.
So eat, eat, eat my fifty feet.
(didn´t know how scary
Your woman could be, a pink PING,
Schizophrenic hypnosis)

on Clotho

2011-11-09T02:18:00.000-08:00

yet i need to paint a big canvas about the three fates theme....
love!

Atropos in oil, japanese paper

2011-10-30T01:38:00.000-07:00

Atropos

2011-10-26T06:39:00.001-07:00

anagram??

2011-10-22T09:25:00.001-07:00

Anagram for Susana

I seem obsessed with her subconscious photo
I´m seed seen with photo: sucios reos, bush cobs
Webs hush, cunt, she seems Dios to Boo! Ick.
Susi – she seems Tunis god, web to cook. Do!
Und cooked sushi, go, it seems; oh beg
To crooked god, numb Susi, e.g. I, un-shh´s
So good geek, moo, un-UN. Christ, husb, di sí.

--

Anagrama para Susana

Parezco obsesionada con su foto inconsciente
Soy semilla vista con una foto: sucios reos, telas de arbusto
Telarañas callan, coño, ¡ella parece Dios que asusta! Asco.
Susi – parece dios de Túnez, red para cocinar. ¡Do!
Y el sushi preparado, ve, eso parece; oh suplicar
Al dios torcido, alelada Susi, por ejemplo, Yo, una nada-ella es
Tan buena rara, muge, in-IN[capaz]. Cristo, marido, di sí.

the stubborn doll

2011-10-19T05:00:00.000-07:00

Him, fetish feet O like a wedding ring O like a mouth, always orifice Orfidal, O but let me tell yo about Unica when tied up to a bed dismembered por culpa de la fotografia, no desmembrada de verdad sino cortada en la foto, solo el torso. Bellmer, Hans. Un caso aparte, a case of study, surreal sex bondage fetish feet fat in stomac fat in soup, forming a heart with the hands in Unica’s belly. 40 years old or 1940/45? After War.
Only the lonely read tons of books as real, faithful friends, i’m not fearful anymore. Doll, I am doing crazy things but i know real crazy people. Books i want, he did that to Books, tied her to the bed, tore open her silk stockings, thin black to see her toes and lick them / For only the lonely want Unica Books to make love to or kind of love or really love her. I’m not stalking him, she said. Books like Sade or Bellmer, obsessions that made Unica so anxious that she suffered a nervous breakdown. When his Aunt died in a car accident & husband did kill her, her insanity grew stronger she grew insane a pasos agigantados, a so gigantic orgasm of his, for only the lonely have these fantasies and i am a believer but not The Believer magi steal fetish minds i devour absorb eat them up i stalk stalk stalk,
Now i do this. Now he does that to me
And i was so pleased and scared when he talked about dirty minds and spoke to those girls, maybe married women, jealous i cheated him like Joan of Arc the rebel doll oh you are sooo beautiful you should be in Vanity Fair, a fair, love affairs i had je fais anagrams i can’t do, she said, someone’s sewing, is it you. One is emotion wing, see. Sssh U. Y.

pj harvey by soilior and me. 1995-2011

2011-10-11T02:03:00.000-07:00

Cathy, Berio , Weill

2011-10-02T23:03:00.000-07:00

green man 2

2011-09-29T08:28:00.001-07:00

Esto es una persecución obsesiva. Now he´s consulting Dr. Ming, i think is Ming. I can´t overhear the conversation. God. I´m not allowed. I´d have to check in [hospital?]. god. I want to die. I must be silly, dejo entrever mi obsesión en todas partes, en la calle, mi cara, mi cara es lo que se ve y mis manos retorciéndose. ¿Qué pensarán de mí? Nada. Nadie piensa en mí ni me ve. O eso es lo que parece. O todo el mundo lo está viendo. Tonta, boba, obsesiva. Obsesión del día. Dos días. Ayer fue otra. Hoy coexisten dos obsesiones. Can´t eat. Throw your obsessions into the fire, throw your clothes, Little red red so red riding Hood, but red is complementary to green. Oh. Difusa. His assistant. His confession would surprise me.
(...)
She-painter painting in the northern beach. Sólo se ve su sombra en la arena mojada, acaba de llover y ha salido el sol. Baja a la playa con un pañuelo en la garganta y una toalla por encima del cuerpo, como una manta. While she´s sitting there looking at the void ahead i am sitting in my kitchen drinking coffee, and i know that coffee feeds my two obsessions. I just can´t wait being sitting here. It´s writing. This is a de-self. I myself have painted the kitchen walls (kitchen, not chicken in Burger King, please, mother)- as i was saying i´ve painted all the wall in green. There are 3 more walls... And the ceiling, where my dear fiend Jacqueline spies me, provokes, molests me, yes. She´s eager. Horny. But i am not. I am not her. But i am a woman too. She´s sick. I´m not sick. I´m just stupidly obsessed with greenish photos and painting and faces, and as it happens with obsessions they are nule, brute, absurd and dangerous.
“I´m dying soon” she mutters.
“Me too. So what now?” i reply.
So what now, [his name]?
What now. What is he doing, thinking, sleeping now? He got cold showers to protect his reputation, dignity, honesty? Or to recover it? I am not honest. He is married. He´s not catholic. She-painter and I are non-catholic, non-non but lost girls=fillettes. He´s young, but i look younger, and i am sure we´ve suffered the same, enjoyed life the same. What does it mean, enjoy life?
“Enjoy yourself!” Jacqueline shouts at me.
My teeth and piss are green from coffee.
I wash everything.

green man

2011-09-29T06:36:00.000-07:00

Man always in black-
Green man, he takes photographs ALWAYS with a green patina. He abducted my eyes, heart, i´m in love with this man, why always wears black suit?? A monk? She´s sleeping now in China. He writes. He writes. Why always so serious. Why you said Great knowing you- simply God´s grace. God. Hitotoki is me in my bed in blue, Dickens and Toulouse in my arms. Yesterday is not a hitotoki, but yesterday i saw Kirchner; he´s getting crazier and crazier. Crazy woman is my hitotoki. Lunch hour. I can´t eat this meat. I don´t want to eat his flesh either. I just want to talk to him. No. I want him to talk to me. Speak, sleep, serious man. Dissection table, green light, he holds a child, not his child but smiles at the camera. Now i see his father, brown-haired. And my man is blond. My man is blond and Swedish. But nothing is mine. Only a few kind, kind words and some interest in Jackie. Trembling himself. Thank you, Jackie, i owe you everything, all those bad moments related to Love, and this one, especially this one, because it´s hitotoki day of days-

jacqueline du pré

2011-09-25T00:14:00.000-07:00

passions that are obsessions...

for little sara

2011-09-15T00:27:00.000-07:00

puzzled american flag

2011-09-11T22:12:00.000-07:00

i am so sad....

early adolescence

2011-09-09T21:48:00.000-07:00

I don´t have problems with food
I don´t have problems with meals
I don´t have problems with mood
But i know i´m in trouble with fools.
My fave cousin cheats me
My vegan auntie cheats me
First love. I don´t know when he is,
Don´t carry me naked to the swimming-pool.
Plastic and small, childlike but you are
Older. Twelve. I remember i am eight.
So first kiss in my parents´bed. Under mattress.
Twelve, flirt kills me. I blush. I want to cry.
She said Don´t pay attention to them, they imitate,
Like monkeys.
So i hold back tears, inconsolable.
I don´t have problems with my scrawny
Silhouette. I am tall, very tall
I have to play basketball, and i skate a lot.
I write my first novel in bikini, in the garden,
In the swimming-pool.
[there are] tons of sex, will you read it?
I ask my fave cousin.
Fuck no!
But it´s not true.
I am romantic and pure and bashful
As all hell.
Bus ride to Toledo, snowflakes and
Darkness outside.
My toes get frozen. But i won´t say a word. Say. Say more,
Darling petite Anne Shirley.
A lost and violent rope hits and marks my face
And i won´t say anything, god.
I won´t cry anymore.
It´s bizarre but i exist. And some guys
Fall in love with me.
He´s bleeding in school, he´s mute, smiling at me,
See how macho he is.
Macho i am too. I don´t care for hurt.
Straight A´s=Sobresalientes.
Green faces, blank faces stare at me
And i become white too, like Anne Shirley
I write and i am able to faint and fall on to
The floor, on the lawn. By the swimming-pool.
When summer is inside everything becomes
Writing. Welcome Träume.
And all the rest.

birthday

2011-09-05T01:47:00.001-07:00

I must do something for that child, that was ME. Take care of my heart. I met this man from Colombia,
He told me about my suicide, never never kill yourself, if i hear of it i´ll be very very sad. So i promised him to be alive. Not just for him, though,
Yet now it´s for me, i understand this NOW.
He kept hidden his heart, he did take care of his heart.
I don´t know why i think about him, that child kissed me. So i kissed him.
I don´t know why i think about him now. The mind is a spiral, time doesn´t exist. There´s always NOW. I remember everything.
Now she´s two years old.
And she´s pregnant again.
And she´s dead.
I red books. In English. My mind has been so blotto that i couldn´t even express my thoughts, only that i was feeling too much.
It´s been a birthday. And a sadness. And a birthday. A circle. 38.
She did a drawing for me. I compete it. I use it. I see my reflection in her. But children are so selfish. I am selfish. Or loved. Or i love. She loves me. He loves me. I learn new vowels, words.
If love is selfishness, i love a lot.
I don´t look back, i don´t look at the circle.
I don´t want to use adjectives anymore.
Eager to type this out. For you.
Lapsus: i wrote “I don´t love back”. And i have to laugh. I must laugh more.
For that child that was me.
I must write more, paint more.
He made a gesture with his hands (more lapsus, i look at my handwriting, insecure).
He held his heart.
He kept his heart hidden under chains.
He had a girlfriend but he said he loved me.
This is childish. This is my childhood.
This be my childhood. (More lapsus)
Lap.
Lot´s wife.
I don´t look back but i do.

for eva (i did these in my early 20s, must get back to that)

2011-08-28T22:43:00.000-07:00

maggie, my muse.... charcoal drawings

2011-08-18T19:13:00.000-07:00

enough. rope.

2011-08-11T04:11:00.000-07:00

It was so awesome, to be with you in summer
I didn´t see you hated him.
My best summer, under umbrellas
Under water you watched me and only me.
I watched her, she was happy too.
See? Swimming-pool, you of course, her.
And him. Why not him?
The hills were yellow and white.
The church was gothic or renaissance,
Like in Spain. Everything was Spain, Suzanne.
You don´t love Paris, nor England.
And my father hated everything.
He said they were bastards,
And me, slut me, like him, whoring
Everywhere, like you, my dear –
Catherine Suzanne, your name and figure
Are present, still, today, as always.
I remember my own thoughts.
I´ve been happy, seeing wasps around the water.
Flying around me, not disturbing us at all,
Darling, my life.
Now i watch everything.
The wasps are still the same.
I paint bad church. Just stuff.
I am anxious for a best summer place
And you don´t love Paris.
You don´t want to do anything
But remembering and repeat.
Always repeat fire.
I fell asleep. You were fire like a
Hyper sensitive kid.
And i was a child too.
Eager and fool. Lust and love are the same
For her, Suzanne, she can´t distinguish –
Awful – you don´t love anyone, anything.
You cheat, you lie, lie in bed
Waiting for something you can´t distinguish.
Something good is going to happen. Or bad.
Riots inside. He speaks absurd on the radio.
He thinks he´s wise. Or you think he´s happy:
He has everything.
She´s bored. Anguished. Fed up. Stop.
Tired. Tied up. Enough.
He loves this rope. That ties us close.
Emotionally we repeat
Sadness. Uncontrolled fear this summer.
I guess she´s fighting, Suzanne, or dead
Alive.
I think i believe – never enough –
I remember your fake soul
Mad
He´s a bastard and i a whore
Rope of iron. Or gold.
Not enough. Rope.
Never enough i love you i love you i love you.

the cubicle

2011-07-18T05:07:00.000-07:00

Visitors come over to see someone´s mother. He despises her. Face, rough, long hair, black, he is tall, very tall, pregnant girlfriend. Selfish. She´s destroyed. Selfish. She wants to control everything. My mom too. But i drove crazy and did crazy things. It´s done now. What i´ve done is selfish and self-destructive. Poor one. The house is a cubicle where he comes to see me. Rough face, beard, square, handsome, beautiful. No more no less. Handsome. Beautiful me. Eyerings, eyepits, dead-like in a cubicle of white painted walls. There is love in all this. Yes. Love can´t escape if you live here. Yes, there are ukranian mothers, grandmothers, dead grand-grandmothers, you can see the coffins there, in her mind, inside the wall, she dreams. There are daughters, selfish, asking for money, always. There are tons of babies, tons of books, tons of dresses. Faces? Self-centered. Make-up in this dark house with the blinds down. I am comfortable in this cubicle. Sometimes not but i look in my love´s eyes, and everything is okay again. Then my eyes come back to the cubicle. Inside. Inside, an embryo is growing, feeding from my energy. Selfish. More babies. The ceiling is a sari, holes all over the ceiling, tubes, boxes, white and grey from dust. I don´t want to go out of this Ukranía cubicle. They look so happy together. Here, Love can´t escape. Selfishness.

coffee, 5 in the morning

2011-07-11T11:38:00.000-07:00

Vamos camino de la luna negra. Big roosters, gigantic roosters, full moon in front of my house, the country fields blue, yellow darkness. My neighbors sleep, but time to work for me. No bike, just my legs, they carry me wherever i want to go, but she never moves out of her bed. “Rellenita, brazos de camionera” in a striped 19 century dress. Cheeky. Café a las 5. Snort. Clean bathroom in blues. Green sweat from her armpits, on her fours. Green heather, i walk like her, from house to house, bringing heather in my arms. I am a little stooped. Green rain. She has red face, red nose, hose in her mouth, from here we confound it with a moon, contorted CANINO... to the swimming pool, bog water or a reservoir, it´s so small, no perspective, with coffee, dreams & reality = “el entorno me ataca ahora”, she said, the Spaniard (derog.)- philosophy classes and translations and 4 min in the museum, social life with crones, drag queens, gossipy ladies, or just talkative, normal.- classes at the University= philosophy. Translations, ha! Never ever you can´t translate, plain and simple, never. My laughter surprises me. I am back from the moor, my feet burn, i have heathen heather in my arms, for my neighbours, to make portraits of them – i start again, i go backwards – University, or gym, or a break, or preschool. Four-legged dog, her, hurt knees, nettle too. The house in front of mine spies me naked hanging wet dresses. My neighbours: UKRANÍA. They are sooo beautiful. With children in little pools. They are so beautiful. Everybody is so beautiful. I start again. I paint everything.
Me siento en las escaleras de adoquines. Desde esta altura parecen pequeñas tumbas, todo un cementerio de lápidas idénticas, con musgo negro, óxido, el paso del tiempo. Como una tumba de siglo XIX. Catherine Elizabeth Howard 1845…
As i was sitting there self-commiserating and self-mutilating my memories, i asked for a cup of coffee. Oh, i had to speak really aloud for i was so shy and that boy so harsh that yo debía aparentar Fortaleza. Yo había llegado allí con mi título de traductora para conseguir ese trabajo: traducer su Manual de Arte para artista e ingenieros y artesanos y para la vida EN EQUILIBRIO en general. Todo fue tan falso…

hitotoki

2011-07-10T01:32:00.000-07:00

I am waiting. Always waiting for my sister. Madrid, 10 p.m. my head hurts, my heart is hurt, the she-doesn´t-love-me-anymore feeling since her wedding. Now that i am in a cul-de-sac i´ve written a lot about me, a memoir because i feel i am dying soon, my will, ha. God, the heat is unbearable. My sister loves me! Just called me, she said she´s coming in 5 minutes. And then i´m waiting for my lover, next week. Anguish. Why every moment is so anguishing. I´m scribbling quickly, laying on my bed, my elbow props my waist, my knees prop my thighs, my feet contort and jerk, i can´t hardly see them from here, i am a mountain with this long dress, he will come to see me. Cul-de-sac. Should i tell her, tell him? I´m going to the bathroom, the drops of water look like mercury in the shadows, my head aches. I wrote a lot of letters to friends, the futon is blue, oh i remember everything, when i was blotto in this same futon, shame, yes, i can play with the embroidery of it, as i am waiting. The light is on now. A little lamp. I must have dinner with her. And i am not hungry. I can´t hardly think, he says i think too much. I scribble and do silly drawings, see? Waiting at the telephone. Blue futon, white walls, yellow in this light. The table is black, the rest of the walls, black, blackness. Yellow yolk futon on blue. Cars passing by, people smoking in the street. I have his books, i have her books. My studio crammed with dirt and works. Dirt and works all the summer. Anguish is worsening. I wait. I wish i could read a book, but i can´t concentrate. It is night now. Electric blue space. Cobalt. And these two chairs in my studio, for my sister, for me. Someone to talk to. Seriously. But there´s a baby around. And a husband. And i am waiting for him to come to see me and talk about the wedding?? I´ve become a stranger to myself. How could i communicate with others, sister, my dearest sister, you glad, happy and i am dying in this well of yellow and black and blue and my new dress. My sandals on. Sirens passing by down my window, shrieking in the core of my brain. And friends calling Get out get out get out. My stomac is empty. My lungs are clean. But i feel like i am dying soon-

the opening

2011-07-05T19:34:00.001-07:00

Dogma, coffee, with no adjectives. What´s their use?
Books i´ve read sleeping with me.

As for spring the thing was what the opening had
A lover of mine i want to see you again
A blunder, sorry,
Memory, the opening has
And i am too young for a memoir.
Dogma was with no places
No events non-art non-nothing, no atmosphere.
I´ll tell you everything.
Sex, drugs and Bach.
I was an unworldly girl of 18. Love
Too early. Anorexic lives
Words around my mouth, and eyes
On me. Drinking coffee. A whole tradition killing
The mother, of artists and philosophers
The opening had.
Cruelty for she´s around a baby
I had coffee right before her wedding, lunch, her
Baptism, writing, best thing ever!
Artists-orphans have no mother. Therefore
No anorexia.
Memories still breaking my brain
My heartbeat, nails, lipskin, my toes
Started to jerk: backwards,
And forward like water,
With trembling fingers.
-Alicia, are you blotto?
Back Bach there was a cello: me.
Drunk with coffee.
No food, adjectives of things in
Stomacs.
Alicia is cruel.
I went out for air.
I was all blushings and bruising.
I got lost in a labyrinth,
Rough.
I had to call Alicia. Or him.
Heather.
Harta de tanta estulticia, nerviosa por el café
No vi más allá de mis narices
Ni al lobo me encontré.

pfffffme me me

2011-06-24T21:16:00.000-07:00

X

2011-06-15T06:08:00.001-07:00

Joan, Jeanne, Juana, Jehanne…
What´s your real name?
I need to know!
Do you really exist? Damn god
Is sexist, did you wear dresses, tresses...
Your god is not sexist. Nor mine.
You confound me, do you really exist
Out of your pictures, words, trials...
You gleefully photograph.
I disguise myself too. Jehanne
La pucelle. I am a virgin like you.
I am sixteen and i call you
I write and write to you. Letters. Now i am nineteen,
But who´s speaking to me through this screen
Of clouds and strrrong wind?
Vogue joan of arc.
Your hairdo.
So i paint you now. I paint myself too.
Dark sky. It is night now.
There is always the headlights
Of my car crashing against a burnt body:
Hers, the martyr, the victim...
How a mother can stand this, still.
Why always gasoline, fire, torture, victims –
I cry, yell Jehanne; you were kidnapped,
Your lover tortured you
Your friends recall you.
I cry, fire inside, angst-ridden
Sad, (I must learn about Fury)
This is Us, my dear X. And X over the X.
Retracted. Again and again.
Contradictory existence.
This is Us.

nubile red shoes

2011-06-06T09:01:00.001-07:00

I bought myself a pair of red shoes with no heels, i believed in erotic nubile clothes and shoes, red purple blue, my colors i decided in that stage of my life. I went to the sea with a long purple dress and childlike red shoes. My body would do the rest, i mean, i could no longer hide that i was growing up. Yet inside i was a lost child, even a sweet damn devilish angry hungry sad playful baby. I thought i could hide my body behind that curtain of reds and purples, and my bare feet inside tombs flat and red as my bold spirit was at that age bold and naïve and nauseous. I left everything for him. I went to the mountains for him, he took me to the sea, i took a lot of photographs to catch his mischievous spirit, but he kept playing with me, play play fun: “we are not humans”, he used to say in my ear, “we are lizards. What are all these things?” he meant humans. He used to play with my feet, he´d find them erotic, smell the shoes, come on baby and so on. So the red shoes were erotic. Yes. Everybody or nobody looked at us in the train to the beach, to the north of the peninsula cold weather, didn´t have a sweater just the dress and my brand new shoes. I took photos. He eluded the camera, i saw hate in his eyes: “What are these people?” i hated him but he had just hypnotized me. He was my artist, my mentor, my shaman. He once saved my life with mantras and a hard massage, he almost killed me, and still i kept smiling at him. Oh yes, we reached the beach, he wearing very dark (green) sunglasses, slippery like a lizard, a stranger. He wouldn´t speak to me. He was angry, hungry, skinny, so i gave him all my money, he took off my red shoes and kissed them. Well, i went to a church. I didn´t know the city but it was Sunday, it was Sunday, somebody (we were trying to sell his paintings in the beach, storm, almost nobody, a fresh Seurat painting) we strolled here and there and someone offered us vodka but didn´t buy anything. I got drunk. Us, the artists, Him, He was God for He believed so. Me, the believer the believer again and again, the damn baby artist of shit, the naïve bohemian and He was God. He left me. I was a baby of 6 years old. Back to the train, he left me, back to my “mommy”, Suzanne. That´s why i entered the church, to get some sleep and then bought wine at the train station and got home, the cabin, staggering, climbing raining dirt and blood from my feet my red shoes all slippery and broken, my heart acidy drunk void couldn´t feel the slope of the mountain for i was a lizard and had cold blood cold heart cold feet and mind, and with my broken shoes in one hand dirty feet, mud weeds in the kitchen Suzanne hugged me “I told you so”. I threw my beautiful red shoes away as i drank more and more i thought about the erotic burden of a nubile pair of shoes, passions would kill me and i kept taking photos of my scared face and Suzanne´s. And drinking more and more and dancing and smoking pot barefoot black soles, leaves of the trees stuck to them, raining raining and fell down down to the floor and i forgot everything even the names of the trees, and then at dawn i got up and my head ached, washed my feet and cried not babyfied anymore... and ... he came back to the cabin two days later we were starving, or must i say two nights later we had been so calm, so quiet, scared when he came back, we should have fed the cats we didn´t cats he loved he hated for he was himself but damn we didn´t want to feed them so he killed us with a lizard-like acetic acid eye or we just died of anorexia like every intelligent stupid girl does.

on Plath´s villanelle LAMENT

2011-06-04T09:16:00.001-07:00

Confessions of an un-passionate woman

Villanela me recuerda a algo escrito por un villano,
His/her confessions.
Oh i´d reached passion at such early age
Too soon
This un-villanelle is for you, my love
But i´m not a poet
Soy una mujer de la calle
Mujer de todos, strolling over and over –
Suzanne
But i want to feel passion again and again
Maybe my own handwriting helps me.
Oh this lament!
The sting of bees and the loss of a father
Always fascinating me
For it too happened to me,
And my own depression, the stages,
Miniatures of Joan of Arc full of microbes –
He fell so passionately in love with me, his muse
I couldn´t feel a nice word in my tongue to say except
Lament - and
Congratulations, you can really feel! All that sex
In that cot. (And i dramatize, pointing fingers...)
Me, me.
Obsessed with myself, this was my topic
Ever.
Depression made everything exaggerated
Lamenting pain worldless wordless
No make-up but polished nails
Blue
Blues shook me out of the abeyance
I could feel stress – in love with the idea
Hospital i was driven to – in love with the
Day hospital, the colors, the idea
My blood-test – oh, that rouge
On my lips
Now vampire of blue and pink Plath´s
Deserted lament bees. Dry bees
I play and play, devilish, la villana de esta
Historia. Drama that is not to feel anything
Too soon.
I was seventeen. Life was waiting for me!!!
I was so despicable.

But i am jumping backwards, forward.

Rejoice , smart hard
Red spurt of rage,
I am Suzanne
This be my life
As ever, forever
To this point of life
Unbalanced, hard stricken hard
In the alleyways, in my black backyard
I miss you so much.
This is my life, mad, unstable,
Genuine nut, of the good kind
What you can´t see
What you can´t comment
Shhh
Come to me
I long to be with myself again.
But Growth is a distance:
It is clothes, heels, warts, wars and wars
Inside the Colossus,
Girls, girls. Men. They say so easy
But for me it´s hard
So hard smart hard, man.

me

2011-05-29T00:07:00.000-07:00

Me mima. Or not. She takes care of me.
I was sure i hated her
I am not sure anymore
When i am calmed externally
When i am not
Everything is dreaming
The flux of happenings, or not,
Un-happenings. When nothing happens
At all.
Lightning of knowledge or not.
I must hurry
Away
Go away with everything
Escape. Exit. Where to...
Or not. Not not
Me demands everything
Which i don´t have. Or i have
Fiend friend.
My sister, i had to vote.
This way, that way, yonder, growing up,
Mother, this thing or another
If i meet it. If i meet him
Me be a painful path – summer
Or fall.
I can´t do that. Or i must.
Me must i trust, real or not.
Either this or that one. That man.
The lover, the loner. The miniaturist
Makes everything... petite fillette
Swimming pool where to jump
I am in a hurry i am in a panic
When i am calmed externally...
It will be all right for
Ever.
Subcutaneous nonsense
I don´t know, and will not know for
Ever.
And ever.
Little girl is shy, no she´s not.
Unsure, afraid of adults,
The No! No! No! Don´t do this!
Don´t do that!
Everything you do is wrong...
...what the right choices are...
She, so many words
Inner voice, liar or not
Forever
Crud.
Hung-up.
Or just afraid.
Or not.
Crud.
I have that and that right.
Notes on Love or Loath
I live in a coloured cave
Tantrums
Tragedies occur, yes or not.
Or... now.
Hung-up to crud.
She makes so many mistakes
Me too me mima or not.
She takes care of my self.
I shun love. I don´t love
Because i love too much.
I must take
I must make.
Crud words to me.
Inexperience.
Sorry
Sorry
Sorry
Me.

"David" 2005.... by me.

2011-05-28T09:36:00.000-07:00

singing the chorus again and again

2011-05-26T11:35:00.000-07:00

And the music in my imagination
Is telling me more and more
Like the sound of a weeping sister
Crying for her inspiration
Speak to me, little sis
Speak to me.

And wandering and squandering money
For the separation
Never felt pure, true love
Just organic food and two babies
But i don´t want this cabin anymore
Speak for me
Speak to me.

She told me she had a panic
She told me it´s been a fight
He was shouting, yelling at her
Don´t dare to leave this woods
Don´t leave her without food.

But the embryo was wrong
She was wrong & beautiful & pregnant
She called me wrote a letter to me
She appeared after years
Of depression
Talk to me, little sis
Tell me the truth.

Hell, tell her the truth
He screamed
And she cried and cried and cried
And she spoke to me on the phone
And she spoke to me in the mind
Shuddering she said something
Can´t you see
I´m a bitch
Cry with me
Talk to me.

And i spoke for her
For she couldn´t say a word
Wondering about gens and looks
Asking me if the girl was fine
So fine that she could live
And live and live and be free
Baby, baby, baby i´m burning
Set me free
Little sis
Watch me free.

And the embryo was wrong
Like the music in my imagination
And she´s telling me more and more
About things only she could see not speak
Baby, burning witch in the pyre
Talk to me
And the embryo was wrong
And the embryo was wrong
And she tried to speak for me
Like some music in my imagination
Telling me more and more
About our damn scared separation
Talk to me, i shriek
I crunch i cry little girl.

the failure of everything. or not.

2011-05-24T03:20:00.000-07:00

Pruebas complacientes para Francesca y Duncan de que todo había fracasado.
Impotencia, ella no puede tener hijos y él se masturba pero ella no puede.
Los condones se rompen. Viven en el exilio, separados el uno del otro. Sombras que se mueven en la habitación, el atardecer, el sol ilumina la librería de él, una importante biblioteca. Francesca no limpia el polvo, sólo el último día, cuando va a venir Duncan a verla.
Libros. Del techo al suelo. Como colocados al revés, caídos del cielo. Libros por la escalera que da al ático. (Donde habría que encerrar a Francesca). “You are kind of a nut” o “you are a true nut”.
Tienen 38 años. Aparentan 28. Por su inexperiencia en la vida, porque viven de los libros, viven tantas vidas en una sola.
Francesca es pintora.
Duncan es lector.
Ahora mismo no tienen otro trabajo que ése. No sé cómo viven. A cierta hora, sin que Duncan lo sepa, Francesca recorre Roma con el pelo rojizo y se sienta en una caja de cartón a vender dibujos. Barato, barato, oiga. ¿Por qué no va a buscar una galería?
Es el fallo, el desastre de todo, la Parálisis es lo peor. Aunque podrían estar peor. Cuando Duncan conoció a Francesca, ella estaba en los huesos. Diez años ya. Ahora Francesca ha engordado, apenas come, vive de café y a veces se marea en la calle. Duncan toma café, fruta y queso. Se conocieron en una cena. Ambos bebieron mucho vodka. Francesca no logró emborracharse a pesar de servirse del líquido transparente una y otra vez. Francesca fumaba. Duncan no fumaba. Ahora su madre está muerta: año 2025.
Con el segundo embarazo de su hermana pequeña, Francesca engordó mucho más, por pura histeria.
Los niños, mellizos, salieron con el síndrome de Down. Entonces Francesca desapareció. No quiso saber nada de su familia. Fue cuando conoció a Duncan, en una cena. Una cena. Un compromiso de un amigo común.
Hay lectores que son escritores, por el impulso de emular y “crear mundos”, o echar toda la mierda o la belleza del mundo fuera. Hay quien escribe sin poder parar durante todo el día, antes de ir a trabajar, en el trabajo de vigilante de museo, al llegar a casa. Es como una manía. Lo apuntan todo. TODO. A Francesca eso le asustaba, por eso se ponía un límite de horas para pintar, para no perder la cabeza. A Duncan eso no le sucedía. Leía sin parar. Es otra manera de escribir. Una manía. Francesca se había olvidado de leer. Pintaba como una maníaca durante varias horas al día, pero se controlaba y se detenía: no quería volverse loca. Entonces se metía en la cama y se tapaba la cabeza con las mantas en agosto en Roma.
Duncan iba a verla y siempre la encontraba durmiendo. Una vez fueron a la playa en X. a Duncan le sentó mal algo que comieron y durmió toda la tarde. Francesca hizo guardia. No pintó nada y eso le alivió. No tener que pensar nunca más. Deambuló por toda la casa bebiendo agua sin parar y mascando chocolate sin ganas. Por aquella época ella tenía el pelo rubio pajizo y largo, revuelto, recogido en un moño medio deshecho.
Cuando llegó la hora de dormir, Francesca se tumbó a su lado y entonces Duncan se despertó. No la dejó dormir en toda la noche. Al día siguiente fue Francesca la que durmió toda la tarde, seis horas seguidas, y cuando anocheció, Duncan le preguntó si estaba bien, había estado preocupado, velando por ella. Estaban tan cansados. Tal vez era eso, dormir tanto les rejuvenecía.
“You are the true kind of a nut”, Francesca´s mind. Una y otra vez esas palabras. Enamorada de ellas. Porque ignoraba su significado. Estaba fascinada de que quien se lo había dicho pensara de verdad eso de ella, que diera esa impresión, que pareciera ESO. ¡ Ja!
Un espejo. Casa desvencijada, ropa de segunda mano. Libros de segunda mano.
Francesca se había casado a los 19 años porque se quedó embarazada. Abortó cuando su marido comenzó a pegarle. Se divorciaron. Luego tuvo otro aborto. A Duncan no le había contado nada de esto ni de casi nada de su vida. Y Duncan era muy reservado; hablaba de libros pero no de cómo había muerto su madre y lo muy unido que había estado a ella. Siempre hablaba de libros, nada de su vida.
Francesca no podía hacer el amor. Se sentía un animal, decía que era un animal. Detestaba al ser humano, se odiaba a sí misma, pero ella no podía ni imaginárselo, ni pensarlo, odiaba pensar en nada. No firmaba sus cuadros porque los animales no firman cuadros. Duncan la animaba. Decía: Firma, busca una galería. Pero ella se quedaba en la cama pensando en nada y durmiendo, soñando con los hijos de su hermana. Se fue porque no soportaba un embarazo más. Ni un aborto. Se sentía nazi. Una alimaña, por haber desaparecido sin dar explicaciones, era tan reservada. Tal vez se sentía eso, una alimaña, no era pura como un animal; era un ave carroñera, sí, le iba eso, hurgar en la mierda, mierda física y psicológica. Era una mosca gigante y verde. Tornasolada.
Duncan era guapo (good-looking). Tenía ya entradas, pelo negro, ojos negros almendrados. Se peinaba hacia atrás con una coleta en la nuca. (Nunca= lapsus de Francesca).
Francesca llora preparando una ensalada, se siente gorda e inútil. De pronto coge las tijeras y se corta el pelo, se lo deja como un chico, un chico sin coleta. No puede ponerse coletas, demasiado corto. Ahora ya no se maquillará nunca más. Adelgazará y será un chico porque no quiere quedarse embarazada, no quiere gustar a nadie.
Duncan la desea igual. Le dice que está muy guapa y que no está gorda. Pero ella sabe que va a morir pronto. Por eso no dice nada, no cuenta nada de su vida.

from madness to sanity

2011-05-23T00:46:00.000-07:00

my mom is a harpy....

rapture

2011-05-20T03:18:00.001-07:00

Dear sir,
…and again this enamourement every five seconds
(i have to go to the bathroom)
I wonder when this all began
This rapture of my nerves
By whom? What? Where am I?
(i have to go to the bathroom)
These oleanders and swimming pools
Love, love, always love, i guess.
I remember
My first love, the first heart attack
This love, this kidnapping me to this:
A Natascha Kampusch desolation.
This taking care, calm, of my nerves.
Count from 10 to 0.
(I have to go to the bathroom, sir)
Calm, swimming pool, parties outside, fun
Always fun and start crying
Such amazing person –
The razor-blade – when did it begin?
I remember
My 8th year
(I pee... i need to... go... to the bathroom, sir)
Tales by ME, drawings by ME.
The numbering, the naming of it all.
It all. Everything was at my reach,
At my age.
Against the light i see Milan´s building-home
The swimming pool undulating PING PING
Mesmerized me. By it all.
Nerves. The soles of my feet feeling
The razor blade. Perfectly. Balanced.
Love! I allow you to love –
Love, waters, set me free again
Oh.

paintings

2011-05-13T11:57:00.000-07:00

jackie--- for an exhibit

2011-05-09T10:58:00.000-07:00

notes on: sonnets

2011-05-01T23:33:00.001-07:00

I can roleplay a sonnet with syllables
That fit in boxes, mujer acurrucada en una caja
Highjacking me, kidnapping me –
Too many mirrors make beautiful green egg-face,
And green is for hope,
The size is important, the syllables, and numbers, numbers.
I hide myself inside onion peels blankets,
May day is your day.
I studied Spanish sonnets with their own rules, i think, i think
I remember
Shakespeare, translated, so no rhymes or sounds or
Everything
Missed.
So
I try to make a sonnet out of this school storage
First, i´ll read Shakespeare and count, count
The boxes, the pace, rhymes and all.
Fit into it, fit, fit, like Tori Amos did
When best seller punk rock´n´roll.
So
My lover came by with blood roses
Or
The blood rose was mine, i am mean
I am mean
An hypocrite, unbalanced young lady
Of Shakespearean age of gold.
I fit in my bed, rough orange peel my sheets
And blankets: i sleep all day
In the night you are all bright sun.
Art is a mirror, a Francesca Woodman´s photograph
So
You see your own faces, your sonnets out of this,
A transformation like a fairy tale
And delightful to watch others´horror.

-----

The box

I can roleplay a sonnet under sheets
Green egg-faced woman to be in boxes
May day is your day, like orange peels
I hide inside these blankets, woman, missed,
Can´t deny the syllables, hopeless,
So, a Francesca Woodman´s photograph,
Art is a mirror and i am mean,
I scared people with my pace, my face
Best-seller rock´n´roll, as Tori did,
You can´t fit into this box, like a lover
Trespassing , spazzing, god i am fat,
Fancioulla, green mirror for hope, my base,
If you all see your image, my Art´s hoses
I fail all the time, like a falling star.

song 2. spazzing

2011-04-29T00:21:00.001-07:00

“When i was just a little girl i asked my mother...” for a Barbie. They were too skinny, non-real, ugly, ugly, distorted, but they move their legs and arms and neck, they can dance and make some gym, ballet, as my English cousin Helen had one ballerina, extremely long-legged doll, she´d put it in front of my sis and me, please don´t touch her, she´s very sensitive, (Mother, me too) in front of mirrors, mirror in front of mirror=mom and me, a mummy who eats my tongue, my hair, my thoughts, for mother, i am all yours, your gens, your fears, timidity, humidity pass from your veins to mine, blue veins, thoughts too sensitive, and sensible, The mirror cracks open i enter with my first Barbie scrawny like a barbwire into another world when we are dancers, for the doll is a ballerina. When i grew up i bought Barbies... people entering my bedroom to see her move, and god how i move when he enters my bedroom, a mirror he is too ,infinite, immortal, love, infinite subtle panic at this immensity of frames of mirror thoughts i hate it, of course i panic (call the Rabbit) people in my room, people come by, people want fun, people go, people jump out of the window in June. Stop, stop it, mother. I take photographs of photographs of my Barbies, distorted indeed, blurred; mirrors are green when they are too many, my skin turns green, the Barbies died of famine, he is alive and i love him, mothers is alive and he´s killing me with his love, so intricate.
Babydoll face. BB. Boneless. Medication. I ask my mother if this will end up ok, i ask the mirror about Beauty, i look for an answer in these photographs, i won´t analyze the Barbies compulsion, ballerinas staggering, spazzing unborn humans, girls, plastic, please - and i don´t eat eggs, egg-face, bone free, sugar free. So this way to infinite thinking –
When i was just a little girl i asked my mother if THESE spazzing mirrors should ever end, if i´d ever end up in something, some idea of mine –

one more time

2011-04-25T10:35:00.000-07:00

surreal me

2011-04-25T05:30:00.000-07:00

preternatural love 2.

2011-04-24T04:55:00.001-07:00

Preternatural love

I won´t leave you here in the rocks, heart
Among Nature things, stuff,
Dirt, dear, preternatural love,
I´m hearing these sounds, those of the crocus
That never grows up. (me?)
All this garden , definitely we have grown
This garden with big rocks, communion tablets,
Vertical, gigantic moss we let grow
All over the headstones, and the trees
Reflecting facets of mirrors of sun, like fly-eyes
So brilliant that he hurts
The eyes. So intense , so many yous
Love, heart-felt. And we go hand in hand,
Brother.
So long, with your daughter
Spires, leaves of the lawn
We let grow so hard, it tickles
My soles, laughter and smiles and a good lunch –
Don´t be sad, this won´t fall apart.
You know everything i think, who i am
And i start to know you now.
There are cracks and your hand holding back
The crash.
My double, my brother, my bright
Lover.
My double heart, double mind, hair,
But you loved the abattoir
You brought your daughter
To eat its meat.
And i was left alone in this sexual breeze.
And i ate the meat, your soul, dear.
Let me bite your skin
I am the vampire here
Red and black
Blood of bull.
Sore, sour, iron taste –
Let me be like you,
Free me.
Just in front of our grandfather´s
Sahara mirror
I cut my hair
I cut my long tress, just in front of
This mirror
I don´t see my nape,
I see my face.

her /me

2011-04-21T07:49:00.001-07:00

(Red ink. Her favourite color)
But my printer failed here –
She´s dead
And
She´s dead.
We all die.
(M)other died too.
And that one girl jumped off the window.
She was obsessed
In order to have her work done
In love with a boy,
She was obsessed with sex, a whole world
If you think and think and think of it.
You don´t understand
She died
And
She´s dead.
The persona speaking, wrapping cords
In order to protect hose and soft materials
In love, then divorced
In love with sex at 30,
The persona speaking is not her.
It´s me. Who is listening and repeating, repeating
An answer in the brain that is not real.
Sensuous reason.
Why?
Why what? Who? To whom?
Her is me.
She loves it.
Well, i don´t.
No worries, thank you,
You are welcome, for watching it, reading it.
Red ink trying to explain why i see Hitler
In her paintings. Earlier. Above.
That´s what i am trying to explain. Below
The painting. See the red, see the red.
She loved pink.
She loved blue, lavender, gradated shades, her too.
She too.
She preferred grey, finally
Could decide.
But those murky yellows not Vincent´s,
Olive green, grey, and the shapes,
Bellies as round as breasts, greying pink.
She is her Hitler.
Picture number 2 below.
Well, she signed her work
But she´s not the text she´s writing.
She´s someone else.
Self-portraits that are self-portraits, always,
Lacan,
Even if it is her persona, someone else,
A he –
Running somewhere in Kettwig.
Even if it is Doppelgänger
Her time, her space, her racing
Her is not she.
See below. And above.
Turn around, she´s naked.
It is her Hitler.
(Anxiety when brushing her teeth, bedtime,
Lights off, the rituals of bedding
Someone
Obsessive,
If you think about it,
Anything, too much)

notes on: death

2011-04-18T09:38:00.001-07:00

I´ll write down all the notes on Death
Throes, maybe, god knows, if it´s god´s will,
Maybe all psychological...
-Being like a vegan and Kirchner´s mistress
(and i should have been aware of that)
Beginning to be a mummy, always Japanese
Idea,
-Beguina, mystical Death
I can´t but laugh at this unconscious Death.
-It´s Spring. Bad flowers, good for photos
For donkeys- food for donkeys, sweet animals
But poison for them, the flowers, yellow as piss
Daddy and i plan to kill them, the flowers.
Shall i send you some, lover?
I can´t but laugh at this unconscious Death.
-Drink this liquid, instead of killing the garden,
The garden with the tree of life.
Being a vegan, i feel sick, weak, meek.
Brutal test.
Always.
Woody Allen laughs at me at the end of the
Row of vultures. Waiting for my meat.
-Meat. Chicken skin. Goosebumps, shiver
In Summer. Thin, thin, scrawny.
-Protect my skin with three pj´s.
-Listen: Notes on: Death is just a record,
A recall, recall me love.
I am exaggerating again.
-Notes on: Death: when i went to Carinthia
And back
She died.
-Bad girl, bad girl. White lies, always everything
Forever
Me.
-Being Kirchner´s mistress and
Being conscious of that,
I wouldn´t be surprised.
Beautiful face, extremely handsome,
Prestancia
Great great lover. But inconstant.
I learnt a lot of how not to be
Not to feel
Not to work
Not to drink that shit
Not to smoke
Not to say No.
-Being a beguina´s lover
Is not an easy thing and i admitted it for Art´s sake.
Kind of a nut.
(Don´t trespass)
Language is so difficult
Most of the time
That´s why i take photos
Why i write below.
My handwriting kind of a nut,
A transportation.

SPring in Carinthia

2011-04-11T08:51:00.000-07:00

SPring are the initials of my love.
And my own country, so:
Si no hubiera ido a Carinthia
No habría perdido mis zapatillas.
My rubbed sandals, sand color
Rubbed by the sea animals –
I went down to the sea in the north
If i hadn´t lost my sandals –
SPring is the name for sandals and precocious
What´s the use of wearing sandals
In the same, shame mountain of green –
Up in the hill, down the weeds
Broken: barefoot.
Poor doll of shit, posh lady drooling
With lipstick on, heel sandals on, long dress –
In the mountain.
Not the opera.
But what´s the use of everything?
The mountain witnessed me
Lick that man´s lips with my thick, stubborn
Lipstick on, sandals off, dress off, vintage
Of grapes?
Barefoot i camped on his bed of runes and flavours.
Please, pay attention to ME.
The morning after pill, putting my lipstick on,
Arranging my long tresses:
Don´t follow ME.
Forget my kiss.
Forget my name.
Broken sandals, absent-minded lass
Black feet of dirt and bleeding
Like a woman.
Wrecked, but lipstick on.
Kisses bold. Incongruous.
The lipstick stinks now.

she´s staying with her Beat

2011-04-09T11:35:00.000-07:00

She´s leaving, she´s staying
She admits she stays. So what now?
For a few more days, or seconds.
But she´s leaving now, or she stays.
I´m not sure of what´s happening in there.
The rented farm, or of her own
Or his father´s.
She admits she has a lot of work
To get done. Art.
But she´s not an artist.
She´s soo great as an artist.
Someone told her Go away, Shut up
Crap! Rubbish Rabbit of Shit!
But he´s not real, she said –
She admits she confesses things aloud.
Or in secret messages. Don´t. Tell. Anyone .
About this secret vent.
But everybody. Knows. Avatar.
She escapes now and then. She focuses on photography
Her face, grimaces, Beauty, smiles, serious
Faces, photoshops them – the Book is immense.
I want to read that Book between the lines:
My gift.
She´s staying, thrill, but i don´t cry anymore.
Who is that one “who speaks through me but he´s not
Real?”
Your voice again... and i say i understand.
I´ve seen It, the Beast,
In that Place of Beautiful Minds,
Long time ago,
So vivid, still so present. But God help me
Overcome the vision of It. It´s 2011 now.
Just live, Belle, live with this loving Blast.

What´s the point of Diaries, inner words, hand-written,
Hand-made, ready-made, appropriations,
Thousands and thousands of Books, like mirror in front of
Mirror, scattered all over the farm.
And It´s rising, like a sun, summer now.
Then May, oh May!
Unreleased voices, just in my ear,
A whisper of permanence.
I won´t quit.
I´m here to stay.
What´s going to happen tomorrow?
And i´m not crying anymore.
She´s blue cold moon. She´s staying with her Beat.

sylvia film, drawings

2011-04-07T23:43:00.000-07:00

she´s leaving

2011-04-05T08:15:00.000-07:00

This thing, this bug, grabs my legs
To the sofa. Yellow sofa of my childhood
This thing drags my legs
Deep into the sofa.
When i am dancing i stop suddenly
Can´t do anything but a word
The Beast is endlessly strong
I admit it- mother´s yells
I admit it.
My yolk-legs – my daughter, this is
My daughter – lay deep into the sofa
Till i stop, and i stop. It´s deft.
It´s stolen. I can even think it´s only
Mine.
I´m snob bone, boneless legs
Here in this yellow, dirty, outdated –
Feet that can´t go anywhere
And i type it, i re-style it.
I try to soften the fear of it.
With books, with art, with blood,
With love, the thing
Strikes me. Mind, stolen.
No compassion.
I welcome this birth-day.
(It´s my daughter´s healthy laughter)
Daffodils insult it with Beauty.
The Beast is no longer dying.
It is here. And here.
I can smell the stench
Like my unshowered clocharde.
It follows me since childhood.
I brag, snob – yes, yes, yes.
But i love my arms, my groins, my guns,
It is here, there, if i take the bus,
I fight it.
Thick yellow façade, face swollen
Bright sick.
It yells at nobody but
Me.
Stains of sweat in these books,
Fingertips flip the pages.
Armpits,
I fight and
There´s nothing done yet.
This summer i´ll wear socks
For the Beast.
No nailpolish, no beautiful land
For the Beast.
I´ll castrate the sofa,
I´ll wrap vandages around the sofa or bondage
Like a Christo´s work of art.
I´ll vent a sweet message,
Joan of Arc, Catherine the Great,
Help me today,
I´ll be so very fine!

my life...

2011-04-03T22:50:00.000-07:00

poem

2011-03-23T00:39:00.001-07:00

It is like if i say i stole poemed your work.
I am fighting with verbs. All kind of languages.
I am fighting. Fumbling. (La fatiga es inmensa).
Into oblivion. The best thing. At last.
I crewcut my hair...
It is like if i say that kind of things.
Fighting fighting.
The landscape is clear:
Tree in the spotlight and aaall the houses
Blurred in blue. A catastrophe. (Una catástrofe)
O un incendio del árbol.
Solamente el árbol.
El resto es mareo de azul y gris.
Caught like a rabbit…
(Rabbit, don´t go. Let me feel life).
And he stays, stays with me.
Let me feel all the things.
And he lets me feel. A little too much.
But he stays. And stays clear:
The tree, the rabbit, the verbs, the houses
With their furniture
I can´t see from here.
Just enormous façades.
Just it.
But enough for my imagination.
And please, have an imagination.
Feel the rabbit, feel the rabbit.

mother and daughter

2011-03-12T08:45:00.001-08:00

No comrades. Nor prayers
The church? A promise of
Never, never, never- maybe
I scan the tree branches for the little girl
I scan face by face
Red elm trees the sun
Is hiding the sun
Is rising.
Wooden mother and little girl
With wigs, blue the one, curly hair.
The other white, white born hair.
They were so white.
Darkened faces, made of tree,
Like the police notebook. A waste.
Everything a waste.
All that writing and longing for my love!
Come find me. The cries. A holler.
Cheeky mother, gross petals of flowers
In spring. Poisonous. I poise myself
My face my believers shouldn´t see
Wooden dolls, my loved ones
My prayers shouldn´t see.
I repoise my brunette human being.
Dogs- bite me- yes
The culprit.
Dogs barking in suburbia woods:
Just a tiny park,
Everybody knows everybody
Everybody fucks with everybody.
Spilt saliva the shape of poems- black ink
On my fingertips
Brown in my jeans, my unique jeans
My unique woods, mother and daughter
Dry your body out of the brown mud.
Get up. Or stand still.
Love hanging by a red thread
Of light. Woods burning.
Mother and daughter brown smoke, but alive
Me, alive too, despite of everything.
..........................................................................
(Red tresses in the sun
Red clothes, the witch´s stress right before-
Auto de fe in the market place...)
..........................................................................

the heart is a sleeping beauty

2011-03-04T10:33:00.001-08:00

Yes, the heart is a sleeping beauty, asleep beauty, beauty who is sleeping, almost dead, en apariencia, en coma, every muscle and eye.
And i repeat yes, yes, i nod and nod. Todo muerto, cul-de-sac, todo quieto, todo dormido. ¿Qué pasará ahora? ¿Por qué no se mueve nada? ¿Por qué no se muere? ¿Por qué no se va? Muévete. Vete. Que ocurra algo. I can make things happen, solía decir Jackie hasta el aburrimiento. Que ocurra algo bueno, pero para mí, mí, mí.
Agua estancada, amor. Bog tea, té verde cura enfermedades, as a vegan, pero no ésta, querido bello durmiente. No me gusta el agua estancada de una piscina; me gustaban los pantanos, la gente iba y nadaba, y remaba y reía, yo les dibujaba.
Me pide que pinte cosas alegres. Ya está bien tanta morbidez, ya no se lleva. It´s not a MUST. It´s OUT. No está de moda. Y yo lo intent. No pensar nada más que en mí misma, esta quietud, nieve que no es nieve, es agua fría, viento fuerte que no mueve el árbol, el árbol de los muertos de su familia, o de la mía. ¿de hambre? Famine? Feminine famine? Oh, sí, dijo ella, yo de eso sé bastante. Pero yo no. Yo no he estado allí. No he sufrido la guerra,
So why starving when there´s plenty of food in the fridge?
Starving, skinny, scrawny non-nothing.
Nah! It´s not me the scrawny girl of my characters. Nor my sister.
Meanwhile, she´s praying. Black Spain of yore. She belongs to that community of old women in black mending sockets... everything, for sailors. Or the retarded ones.
I am a maiden dying for sleeping beauty. Or dying from it. Dying. As if she were dying...

jews or acrobats

2011-03-01T10:43:00.001-08:00

jews?

- parecen judíos.
- ¿judíos?
- sí, mira qué delgadita la mujer. qué caderas.
- ¿judíos?
- sí, en un barracón de un campo de concentración.

pero éstos están coloreados. era de un cuadro de Lucian Freud. era Túnez. ahora resulta que son judíos (en el original; éstos están coloreados). ahora son acróbatas de circo.

- pues pintaré barracones de campos de concentración.
- noo. eso ya lo han hecho muchos. no seas frívola. NUNCA HAS ESTADO EN UN CAMPO DE CONCENTRACION.
- tienes razón. pintaré cosas alegres.

set desk back background

2011-02-24T04:35:00.000-08:00

Dark red background, like a play
And a square box, a face
Hand red crab on the forehead
Carving , digging inside the mind,
Looking for the mind, where is the mind?
Empty foreground, i forgo things
Friendship gone.
This is it. Stop
The damage. Homeless now
Stop, stop- the black bag
A black hag,
A salvation?
To the mind?
A miracle
That occurs every fucking day.
Boiled crab and hands, burnt-out
Immobile, incommunicado
A fire or a heart attack.
I panic when i see her.

The farm.
The fire. The fireplace
Fire out of place, in my hands
I placed my fingers inside the flames.
Those red sparks in your eyes.
And you whisper in my ear
I love you. I love you.
Why burnt-out hands, mind, that face
That wide, spread forehead.
Ideas float- i can´t catch them.
I´m in bed. Alone. Or not.
Or. I read Verlaines.
But i can´t read, i can´t reach
That border anymore.
The spider crosses the air,
All the bedroom, my friend.
The spider´s name Madeleine
Bois de Boulogne
Les Tuileries
Red gables. Roofs from this window,
You are a fool,
You are not dying anymore.
Madeleine is crying
Out my name.
She´s a mother
She loves me as a mother
I am a mother.
Second row.
I pray i pray i pray
I can´t...
Barely speak.
Yes, i was talking. Stammering.
Let´s dance. With burnt-out hands.
Red is your color. Or my color.
The fire is my place.

schoolgirls´ worries

2011-02-16T11:45:00.000-08:00

“Classy” she said but her mind,
Her mind:her/me. She.
Oh do you love Sylvia Plath?
We were 16.
Except the suicide thing, that
Made get cold hands. But
I give free rein to my imagination.
They write a bad report about me
Dirty things i have done
What have i done?
Nothing.
It was that boy, that boy
Made me do dirty things
In the bathroom
On the radiator.
This is a
Classy school.
Then 17, then 14, then 30!
School never leaves me alone.
Oh, artists are a little crazy,
She said.
Shattered papers
Pieces scattered all over my bedroom:
Will you come over for a cinnamon tea,
Or a beer, we can get drunk together
And vomit later- like everyone else.
Yes, like all our classmates do
We can dance Madonna.
I am afraid of childhood, she said.
I am afraid of this very year, i thought.
Our class is classy.
But she shattered their minds, she said.
A blow-up. Her face and her grimaces
I remember
Everything. Her necktie. My necktie.
Bad things. Good things.
Bad, very bad things. Very good good things.
So think if that was worth,
So think, what are you going to do this weekend?
Paint.
She agreed but
I made my classmates laugh.

I don´t worry about them anymore,
I am as proud as lettuce.
I am so very fond of Camille Claudel.

Kirchner´s mistress

2011-02-04T15:24:00.000-08:00

Feverished sick in his studio
Negro
My beheaded knee
White
But
All my knees the knees
I know of these girls
Wandering here
Nudity
Is beheading
Inside a mouth
White
No stockings my stockings drying
Over the stove
These girls these girls
I am the only one
Who wear stockings- thigh
He strokes, the stove
He did it in front of me
Yellowing, then rosey tight
Not so scrawny knows
This girl
Wandering a lot with
An arc and arrow
He put his perfect blue
Eyes out of the red stove in between
Stockings- pale high, and higher
They´ve got the blues
Hysteric laughter
Then following the bone
Higher, the knee, no head
Out of my head
Inside wedged into the bone
Waterfall- higher
Onto this girl
This thigh, muscled,
Abandoned, thumbed out
Occasionally all the time
Light on
Slight laughter
Giggling thigh shaking
Like earthquake
Every five seconds
If you feel the line
The texture of the muscle
Sinews
If you follow the headless
Head of my mouth
The bone, boneless thigh
Soft and sometimes stirring
Crispy
Angry hungry Christ!
I´m yours, i´m yours
Can´t erase this round bone
Circle of what you fear most-
And thigh is left behind
Pink, purples, his green cheeks
I put my warm stockings on
Cold cold sneeze
You´re trembling, Love
Love trembling where there is
No Love at all.

I am tall.

september photos

2011-02-03T03:08:00.001-08:00

Shaking, getting out of a nightmare
Or merely it was my Sneeze.
But the dream was sweet
Infant paradise is about to be lost.
Almonds, appletrees, cherrytrees, elmtrees,
And the lawn.
The onions, tomatoes... she´d grow
So stubbornly.
So effortlessly. She was my Bliss itself. For her daughters
For her family meals.
Everybody was there. In a garden by the river. My
Dream has a loss, the house:
Cracks and stockings- adulthood.
Less obvious, cigarettes; your pot tea, my darling,
My darling, wasn´t there.
The whitish blue blue swimming pool
You were in, you were smiling,
Taking photos of yourself.
A celebration. This is September.
And i recorded these things since November.
Sunset. Sunbeams slant, gilded
September. Fruits, storage. And beloved books
Oh i throw apples against the child
Fountain, green and red stone pure anguish-
Negative electricity
Storm. All neighbourhood had edgy nerves.
Me too! Me too! They said hours later, me too!
When everything calm peace and quiet, calm down,
And down
To the village my dad took us, the sisters, for a coke
In a bar. Lights calm. Neons.
But that was not my dream
The one that makes me so sad.
I took photos of you, my love, in my mind.
The sun, September, Sara,
Everyone i loved!
This was my dream that makes me so sad.
So stubbornly sad. That Bliss.

untitled

2011-01-31T08:28:00.001-08:00

La mujer de la guadaña en la guardería
Arrasa a mi lado
¿Qué va a ser de todos nosotros?
En manos del hospital.
One by one, like cats tormented
By Love, suffocated in a burlap sack.
By water, by sting of bee, by wheelchair.
Once i was so darling
Next i´m almost dead.
He´s dead.
She´s crazy.
She´s silent. He´s silent.
La mujer de la guadaña se llevó a mi amor.
Take love, woman, away.
Take me.
Why not me? oh, i just wait and watch.
One by one
Once there was a good bye, then two,
Three, four. By sting of bee i bite the bee
I don´t wanna die so young, said the baby.
But she´s nervous, she´s too hungry
She´s not humble.
Fart, love is so fat, i listen to her
Singing, it´s gonna suffocate the cats
Black magick. Ouija, it´s our fault??
Hospital. All phones disconnected.
They carry you in wheelchairs
And i, naïve, wanted to paint it all
Paint Jackie, paint MS.
Diavoliada.
Damn naïve of shit.
You´re flirting with death, deary
You don´t know what love is
This is a goodbye
To a fiend
An idea
A cold.
Spring buzzes, the cats scratch and hiss
Is gonna suffocate the cats
Summers here. Waiting with
Flowers, dresses.
Spring. We can´t reach out
Your rosey hands, warm and sticky.
That woman, that woman is so fart
Is gonna suffocate the cats.
And the lovers, the lovers, pest.
I bite the bee
Fart,
I didn´t hear the ambulance-

XOVE

2011-01-15T00:15:00.000-08:00

Mothering children & teenagers.
I, a teenager too.
¿De dónde han salido tantos niños?
From my gut.
¿De dónde han aparecido tantos niños?
¿Por qué han desaparecido?
Bajo el agua. Mud to clay to make
Sculptures of their faces (headshots)
Out of them, to be remembered
Forever.
I´m staggering strolling the streets
Or my hallway.
I wear my hippie clothes and my newborn.
Tropiezo por tercera vez y me caigo.
I fall, i fall, inert burden with this child.
Smashed her beautiful face.
But she doesn´t cry, she loves me.
And i love her.
My face, her face. Headshot. No flash.
I´ve always hated flash.
We are yellow and green.
I love the colors. They remind me of
That painter.
So this is me, the hippie member of a
Bourgeois family.
Money is run out.
But i paint, i type
Fairy tales- for my children,
For me, what makes me laugh.
So i am a clown, the saddest one:
That´s to be a clown.
Soy consecuente.
A clown is always sad but makes you
Smile.
And i smile and smile all the time.
I am tired. My baby knows it.
Headshot: oh, love, i write, xoxoxo.
Headshot: i smile, 40 years old.
(Dios mío, hace poco tenía sólo 32)
Headshot: my baby popping out from
The crib. Cree-cree-cree.
I write on the back of a photo:
Headshot: XOVE!
Forever.

just a poem

2011-01-12T11:21:00.000-08:00

cruel song. or anguished. i don't know

To my sister

Untitled

The rafters shriek like steel guitars

The furniture, the furniture

Too.

Who wants, who wants a baby

With me-

Mother cries

Tears in spring and

A free man

My love comes to me

With blind eyes. Red like

Wolf

Sick

Blind

Blindfold, bondage-

February!

I don't want it anymore.

The illness of my husband the

Illness of my woman

Good man, to good (to be)

I am a good woman

Can't choose the right question (i am

Checking in on you again)

The furniture, the furniture

September

Get home. The

Wind the child

Inedible cocoa

Milk-

Ought to be mothers

Punching, touching, caressing

Tapping bellies

-are you alright?

Girls.

I will be a mother soon.

Who wants, who wants

To be a father along with ME?

Ought to be

Future big girls

I'll be alright soon.

early paintings

2011-01-05T00:25:00.000-08:00

leg thing

2011-01-03T10:53:00.000-08:00

He asked me sensual leg thing

A collage not mine

Not my mother's, not my mother's

I've had it several times

Multiple viscosity leg thing

Somethen pure, pink and red

Long fake legs out of old camera

Tricks. Old, always old child.

Now it cannot be

I'm not an embarrassed actress

Anymore, with adulthood

Children become the childlike thing

Not a toy, not a time

Leg thing how could i do that

Did i miss someone?

O i was in love

I cried wow and wow before artists,

Now i play with books and letters, seamless

My legs expand themselves to

Fur husband.

Mother returns to eternity

I said wow and wept

A new incision in art

A collaboration

Baby wails

She is the artist now

With her grimaces and

Dubious laughter

With her pink stockings that

I make mine, mine, mine

Playing with my long hair.

City lights point out Xmas

Tree.

I live in the attic and i am blonde

Mother to ER

Fear, always fear, and a cough

Strolling, i don't mean a fucking thing to them.

ER, the name is beautiful, that's why

I love him

Writing sadly, the strong anger is managing

You.

Sad, sad, dear Dad

Drawings that scare my husband. And my love,

And my love:

I can't be sensuous anymore.

I stroll under the city lights

Of fake skyscrapers: i don't work in there,

City come out of dirt

Become dirt.

I see my two legs walking, wolfing, naked

And cold crunching at the airport:

Stop, woman, enough!

You can't walk naked-

A fetish, my nudity

Marching under big things

Sept. Eleven and count forward

Or backwards:

Wow, and wow, and wow.

I'm in jail, i'm in hospital

I'm without razor-blades to shave

My mermaid cut legs.

I move from propriety to propriety . naked.

My ass sitting in corduroy sofas,

Or silk? Hot weather

Mirrors dysfunctional

Family...

To artists i am a leg thing

I am, or was, a something thin.

The wastebasket full of fake drawings

Struggling to make something

Out of me.

Now that my mother or body

Doesn't belong to me anymore,

It is someone else.

Clean laundry to cover

Nudity, witch thing for academy.

And airports.

For i am tall, dark blue, sir, and invisible then-

Baby in ER, you can die of fear with me.

wo ist Books?

2010-12-23T08:55:00.000-08:00

How many japanese Books he has
Them—
I can resist to count. I don´t want to.
Have a box for them
He brings his love with dozens of Books
I don´t want to read to know more than him
Why always inside a box
If she´d wear all orange, he must be a blue-
Count the boxes. Like a minimal column.
The van they are in
To the Moors
I count backwards. I miss them
Or my age. I remember. Leftovers
I think and think where she might be
She disappeared unwrittenly
Or yes, she said something
He disappeared too
Fury of boxes, fight, rage, all down to
The floor. I hate you i don´t love you.
Poplar branches rubbing violence
My wrists, i want to die but unbleeding
Just the fury, the mistery-
Oh our house is surrounded by
Murderous poplars
The roots lift and leave the pavement
So lonely.
I am grey. I love a thought.
Why always leaves of trees
Why always a dear that is gone
Why always inside my head
My head is cracked, let alone
My heart
Why always inside my head-

once i was the greatest

2010-11-09T10:09:00.000-08:00

Sara me daba un colgante que eran los puñitos de boxeador de oro. ¿Un premio por lo Buena que era? Una cadenita. ¿Ves? He cambiado de canción. “Once i wanted to be the greatest” is what i am trying to do now, panting, i mean painting, and letting others to see It. Most don´t say anything. Nothing. Not that much. Others scream and shiver with fear. Or pain. Or pity. Who feels so sorry for me tries to give me lessons to change, para no perder los trenes de la vida. “Era una rara avis”.
But he, him, he. Oh.
I danced and screamed for him, to be seen
I played shrieking cello for him, to be heard
To be seen. Watch me. See me. Love me.
He didn´t pay any attention to me, the other. The rival. The otherness.
Love is almighty, yes, i think so now. But i used to think the opposite. La genitalidad era lo que unía, the same cot, the same panties, stockings, the same cold cold in the middle of the night. And my desperate phone call in the middle of the night.
Pero no era amor.
Me temo que la adolescencia sigue aquí conmigo, pero se va a ratos y yo despierto empapada de sudor, screaming in panic.
“Once i wanted to be the greatest”
Ahora solo quiero eso.¿Para que me ame? No, ya lo tengo. Han pasado diez años y Sara existe ahora. Sara exists and exits now out of my dream: I give you these golden things, stupid things for me, but i know that those mean so much to you.
“If I had a hammer”, if i had a colt—
I was deeply looking into the future. But i am not genius Lem. I´ll never know what´s going to happen. Maybe (for sure) it was just a desire, to find recognition from a girl of ten, from Innocence.
Que no dé miedo, que no dé aburrimiento. The greatest auntie in the world.
He cambiado de canción. From “Let me whisper in your ear I hate myself and I want to die” to “Once i wanted to be the Greatest”. HA!
And i once was the greatest, a greatest among all the greatest of every College.
I mean nothing now.
But that is going to the extremes.
Soy mediocre. A él le basta. For me it´s not enough. Envy in a couple. He´s brilliant, not me.
“Los trenes de Tozeur” de la vida que pasan y pasan y si no los coges, te vas.
¿Por qué dice eso?
¿Qué sabe él de mí?
Secrets. All ears is what i am now. Gossip. Not much.
What if she discover my big secret, my fear that is here. That´s why i am yelling in the middle of the day. Con los puños de oro colgados al cuello, i yell of panic in the middle of the Stage: Don´t look at me,
For
My hair is too long
My blouse is so pink
My legs so dry
My glasses, ha, black plaster on my face
Ugly, ugliness the world not me not
Me. I don´t hate myself, i hate this crowd looking at some mote on the wall, a someone brilliant speaking in tongues, talking too to me. And i can´t hear, can´t listen well because i panic, my hands tremble, my knees clack one against
The other.
Pure fabric my thin thin stockings. My high-heeled boots my pot tea my over-dressed me. Wine white wine please.
Please.
Damn them all. I want nudity. What i am used to.
This is your friend, your love, your aunt.
Take me as i am.

heidi

2010-10-28T11:41:00.000-07:00

This time is

Let me know how i shelter inside the box

Wasps attack me with uncanny thoughts

Let me explain how i hide, idle in the box

This time

The box is crystal, but edgeless, i mean

I can´t hurt you

I can´t say anything

I can´t hear more from you

And your passionate obsessions

I am dressed like insect woman

Japanese wrapped in grey.

The girl wore glasses- writer and mothering

A girl. Pink mauve blouse. With symbols

(everything means everything)

Black skirt, plaited. Earrings ambivalent

Big- glasses black-edged- trendy for ten

Years- till now

This time.

Stockings, beautiful, and boots riding

Horses: chatty and deep thinking

And chat, not smothering the audience.

Precocious lady of letters

“My novel has this scheme ...”

Yesterday.

This time is

Time under cover, laptop, lapdance, lap,

Mother´s lap, here in the box.

He can´t see me inside

Although i thought i was transparent

He can´t see a thing

He can´t see what i am.

Schoolgirl shoes, black, and red lips

Turned into blur and sparks.

Incense. Radiators fuming ideals.

An oven Let me bake you something.

The glasses, i don´t know, and my bun

Of blonde hair, earrings, not too much for a face.

No make-up. Lucky, to be blonde, no eyelashes

Just a big forehead insinuating swinging brain

Big homo sapiens brain. That is me.

I can control my novel in front of you all.

I can manage, hand on hip,

Coughing from time to time, water, interview.

Students, students at university

(“My novel is studied here. Didn´t you

Read it: shame.on.you.”)

I need lightness, and this light, sunbeams

Entering my box

If i fill it with water it will be a

Swimmingpool for my baby, for my baby

Everything would be okay

Okay?

(Shame.on.you. i´m a genius and i can dance)

office 8 to 5. before work, for i arrive early.

2010-10-26T01:30:00.000-07:00

Silly Billy bbq ok. He would take care of me. But i dont´t need a nurse, a nun, i have myself, alone- when my sis and I were teens and would write feverishly our diaries we ate desserts and muses- ourselves,and our spicy dreams; craving love craving sex like riding horses-
I remember
Bbqs by the swimmingpool with our family, now my siblings are done with that silly stupid thing. Snob art is more important for them, houses decoration. Painting, gigantic Stampas for me, i write her poems on skin, ink. I wash them a little when i come here . New friends: Billy bbq, instead of me. I have a bill but it´s not the same, i want Billy for me. My handwriting changes too, now, as i sit at my old typewriter, office hours 8 to 5. Mother, the courier is done, but i don´t have enough money will you buy this beautiful blouse for me?
Get out of bed, get out of bed. And live! But to live How!!
Daddy won´t start a spark in the fireplace. I cut&paste witches in the bonfire. Me.me. me. But who is this craving me? The reports to mummy in Mieres, like a child of 16: sis, 14. We were in love of the same Billy bbq ok. Bbq ok, i crave, long, detest everything. Todo me sobra.
Random thoughts, that´s all me.
“Es una azafata de congresos”.
She´s beautiful, smirk and smirk and sweetly i smile, bountifully. It´s not my fault. I am beautiful too!!!! It´s not my fault when i discover a poet, i mean, a rose among the weeds (pot), or spot, or stain or shade in my new blouse. “Nadja”. I discovered my brother, with him, he´s so fucking wise, so fucking liar!! Bitch! Her/Me at the same time-
Time goes by so spiderly fast, i was to write fart. And afraid of needles this morning. Quickly, quickly, i was 10, sticks in the throat sores so much, caught a sneeze again, what is not weird, in this office.
Blemishes when Billy went to London to make a living. Out of a hotel, 5 stars. Blemishing myself- or him, yes, him. He was supposed to get married soon. My love, my love...
Tunis honeymoon. And the artists i love. Tunis light. I got blind. And i wore kohl. In my big, wide open eyes. I crave for arcs, and arks. Maybe arcks... i crave for ANYTHING. I crave for craving. Take this pain, make an effort and get to work. But doctors are coming today. I don´t want to see doctors anymore. Old, dearest typewriter, hot fingers, now, hot machine. The weather is cold. Sunbeams in water in swimming pool. Fireplaces darken in the sunny morning. Please daddy, i need fire- for you won´t die from smoking but from fire, from falling asleep, so early afternoon, so early, so early, love too soon makes you this---
I could write in this sheet forever. But it´s 8. Boss fucked his lover, wife i imagine waiting in bed, reading a bad book. Who called? Who gossiped? The neons, we needn´t them. There´s so much light in here. The dark office room darkens our make-ups. We are 500. Bbq this Thursday. Or wed-nesday. Who marries- to whom? A wedding- I hate weddings. This comrade marries this catholic girl. Oh, she´s pretty. She´s younger than me. I don´t care, i don´t care. Billy. Gossip- she looks older than bridegroom (,,,)

"munich mannequins", my life

2010-10-15T23:47:00.000-07:00

canino girl

2010-10-12T00:23:00.000-07:00

ortigas, gatos negros, una drogadicta me dice que no tengo ni media ostia. me siento débil-
salir a la calle- todo me da vueltas- no salgo.
hago gimnasia.
pesadillas- meaning miedo al abandono
pesadillas- meaning miedo absoluto al abandono.
Canino.
para protegerme del suelo ondulante, las paredes, no salgo.
lloro para desahogarme.
un vestido largo, morados y fúcsias, en Mieres, enredado en las ortigas.
miedo a morirme ahora.
[...]
love viene otra vez.
pesadillas, esta vez más débiles
no me hacen efecto.
ayer dominaron y arruinaron el día entero.
me derrumbé y lloré para desahogarme.
no quiero morir tan pronto.
madrugada y de noche, e-mails con BS.
me alegra mucho,,,
dos cuadros y medio
un pastel
un dibujo con la pluma azul.
oh, Sara.
miedo por little Sara también.
enamorada del dibujo a pastel, mi alter ego, L,
the blonde gipsy doll in the swimming-pool, in love with a blue leg
or blue column. or blue shadow.
rememorando la luna de miel: ¡ten fe!
con el libro de Matisse yo tenía pesadillas y pánico despierta hace 3 ó 4 años.
ahora ya no. despierta, el Mal cede, excepto los nervios- inseguridad del cuerpo en la calle, entregar el carrete con sus books&paintings en la tienda de chinos; ir hasta allá, cruzar las calles, todo temblaba- and the cold sweat!
una vez temblaba y todo daba vueltas hasta que me caí contra el mostrador de cristal. no podía despegarme de él- (Jacob)- Ja.
a mi amor le gusta la interpretación del retrato de Jeanne Hébuterne, cara blanca. es cursi pero a él le gusta. se lo regalé. no le enseñé los otros cuadros. recuerdos de la luna de miel (sister, with my sister, we can´t get out of this house, his hose, house, father´s)
snapshots- 2 dolls, or mannequins, wooden mannequins. las manos entrelazadas. brother and her sister. always.
quería hacer una alfombra persa, un tapiz. las formas y colores tejidos de una alfombra persa, rojos y verdes, malvas y el pelo rubio tan blanco de la gitana albina, siempre....
hoy las pesadillas ceden, sólo examen de matemáticas, bah-
Canino.

paintings

2010-10-09T02:53:00.000-07:00

missing girl

2010-10-02T11:52:00.000-07:00

Me echó mal de ojo- trimestre

De larga duración.

Red cardboard

Voodoo sexy doll

I waste my blonde hair

In bad pillows.

The Persian carpet

All reds and greens,

Wrong retozar allí.

I cut in hexagons the carpet,

The mirror recorded all.

I was so old.

En el fotomatón, en las fotos

Perdí mi dinero.

I used her digicam to recover my soul.

He was gone. He left me alone

With the photographs. He left me

Alone. He did voodoo

With my long lost white hair-

I am missing. Dead, dear, how i miss you-

(i need you, sister)

Hexagonal pieces of textures, wool

And dust into the open box

Open box

Hexes! Self-centered lizard:

Who are these people walking to the sea?

Humans. (i am a human too)

He sent me hexes long-term

From so far away

So many no-ones

In hexagonal coffins, or minimal buildings-

The mapboard, reds and greens, he´s here!

(And he comes, how he comes!)

Smash the boxes

Or for courier

To my dear sister.

our Mag

2010-10-01T05:35:00.000-07:00

http://issuu.com/susanamartinez

the stolen poem, autumn issue.

love!
yolanda

untitled

2010-09-28T10:00:00.001-07:00

I see you cross-legged – sitting
Drinking wine obsessively
Thinking about me.
On your Persian carpet
With the red tree of life and you
With your back at the feet
Of the big bed, room for three—
Books everywhere,
Boxes, emptied and lonesome
What are you looking for?
I see you getting bald
Dishevelled black hair
Black eyes.
You pay me for that
That thing, that thing—
I see you drinking thinking
Mesmerized by me.
Mayonnaise your beautiful face
And i faceless, a weird pallor
And red bulging eyes
Out scattered over the place
Non-site, reaching out for the world
To come to me, come to me—
I see the chaos, the red growing
From your blush to the neck to the sweater
Striped sweater, a face
Photoshop done out of that mess.

I puke before seeing you
I drink and drink
I puke after pot tea
I die for seeing you.
I sit in the sun while you
Fix the roof of the yurta.
Do you want to see
The cabins?
Windless day, photoshop
Obscure chamber
Of torture, years and years
Beaten, agonizing—crucified
I roleplay a smile
And say hi.
Charcoal, red paint on the walls,
Now you have to paint the walls.
I lunch cornflakes and milk
I feel weak
In the sun.
The mountain, grey dots, grey dots,
Grey dots, dots dots dotsdotsdots (smaller
And smaller) and a big one,
Where
I see you sitting there
Obsessively thinking about me,
You are not a wise man, bastard
“You make me old”, she´d write,
I was just hypnotized –

book.drawings

2010-09-26T11:23:00.000-07:00

surreal drawing. photoshop book

2010-09-26T06:29:00.000-07:00

reading from my work

2010-09-20T12:03:00.000-07:00

preternatural love

2010-09-16T00:29:00.000-07:00

2010-09-16T00:24:00.000-07:00

the in-between sounds

2010-09-11T11:10:00.000-07:00

please give me a coat
for this july, august, september.
the exhibitionist plays his tarot
with his cataract
she lies covered- she has a family.
she has a family, clothes, cloack
red and purple dress
to the ankles or the waist- for fear
she got dressed out of the infirmary,
red-coated
teenager,
how did you dare?
i got out of bed
looking for someone.
scattered magazines
old french music on.
a boyfriend, applecake
eat me! long time talking,
talking, talking, talking,
like drinking, drinking, drinking
and eating. eating.
one verre de vin blanc
i can stand.
honeymooney yesterday
she recalls,
i remember
how happy a bikini-girl can be.
ivre- that´s what he said
before all that talking, talking
kissing and more:
tu es ivre?
and i remember
"she lies
she lies
she lies" for ever
what he said
"tu es folle"-

i´ve lost all those.
the leaves crackle in my hands
the sheets get yellow in the borders-
a novel of youth.
read me! ready-made, alive, an experience
of a museum
yellowen, browning hair.
she used to be so blonde
whiteness of salt limbs-
a hand, two hands. two arms.

the lack of the right hand
made him discover a world,
a drawing of the other brain.
a faun, mauve and sculpturelike.
wagner did this. cendrars did this.
i apologize-
do this magazine-notebook-sketchbook,
stage after stage, like jeanne and the train do?
cake after cackle
do you remember cocks?hens? eggs?
did they do it?
balls of dirt- this is a village
of death (sick woman)
(and more sick women)
this house is a hotel for inmates,
where are my earrings, my teeth,
my black spots on a white face?
chan did this. edie, thank you.
a bang-bang bang
band of secret silly people.
the mouth, pursed and introverted
suddenly contorted to word it.
word it! word me!
bang and make-up.
it´s me. come down to the pub.
it´s me. the reason.

it all was right before
my execution.
i am right after it.
what will happen next?
do jerk, gym, dance,
do not wait, wait, wait.

questions for a poet

2010-09-10T05:55:00.000-07:00

she needs to be saved
save money, money runs out
save me
put your hand in my mouth
to silence me
or you´ll bleed words
my world split open
meds make you work.
work hard
against Obsession.
what´s the point of wasting my
precocious time-
what year was it, sister-
mine, five, and seven. our first tennenbaum-
play.
my father a nazy landscape
of photos, writing writing- bring me all the mags
with slim boys, scrawny
skulls, your face, face-to-face
before, during and after.
questions.
itchy thinghs when you hyperventilate.
breathless. so what now- so what now
if you are sane-

my heart races when i hear words
like a schizophrenic. black.
all life lying-

go die here

2010-08-31T00:08:00.001-07:00

go die here
among black cats grown up
like lions white, grey, asleep
till the waist, like hay
don´t bother them
don´t wake them up
deep, togetherness to the waist
deep, thick hair, loins
go die here.
crossing san diego street
crossing the graveyard
is open, maaarvelous vista
so they say!
so i say.
repetition well bred
two black cats
little, an annoyance!
when he was home i loved them,
i caressed them
when he leaves i scream
i shrieked at them
like a lionesse. this is some war!
door slaps shut!
go! go! go!
go die here
where unknown cats and people
sleeps as i am withering.
things about him.
the tighs are open
the door shut.
the moon in the morning,
its shutting off the light
so vivid, alive, so brilliant, him,
or the light, my thighs
like arms benefactory
witch.
my head upside down
witch.
i yell and spit at people,
i wear the sin of adolescence
for you.
hands as dirty as feet,
the moment i stink, say it, name it.
i collect his things
artwork, thighs things
i collect, store lapsus
i store of him, open lights
at dawn, bliss syndrome.
damn happiness
damn feet
go die here.
my feet, kissed until exhaustion.
petite mort,
so they say!
for you.
here i´m reeling for you.
should i repeat, repeat this?

split open
spilt open heart
new horizon of roars and loins.
go die here,
fuck.
some, they say it.
say it.
name it.
but say it
to me.

me as frida. anorexia in 1991

2010-08-30T13:36:00.000-07:00

speak, memory. 3. to maggie, my muse

2010-08-27T10:05:00.000-07:00

the sharp edge of her cigarette
pen.the ink drops all over the corners
of the green paper. rubs it with her fingers
pollyanna la cuáquera
dancing, dancing, spazzing memory.
speak!
dear Marisha: nothing i have said
on the birchtree trunks.
yet decadence, allure-

the memory is decadence, isn´t it-
speak, memory, let me go with your flow,
lover, let me speak.
of my teen days, teen nights.

the right dance before the reflecting window pane
not gone, not gone.

referances.
a cubist picture of her.
with her camera. bowls
of coffee, a photograph of her
glued on the glass wall
bowls of tea, of milk
or whatever you want to put
inside them white old white
and cracked. glued again.
and what else, memory,
appart from the wedding.

she has the ethridge
she has the cartridge
what he did in his childhood
i do in adolescence.
what---- adolescence
i do in my adulthood.
my first cubist picture
in my first year as an adult
he did, he did in his childhood
chilly harold, mad dawn.

i am lame at boys.

tell me and i will tell you
give me and i will give you,
but Give.

how much milk a baby can suck
without any expulsion of cracks
wormy cracks of bowls
cracks in spazzing forms,
cracked bones. suffering.
Sis for Maggie, for Catherine
Jacob have i loved.
so much. so deeply. in love.

mad sun, speak to me
and i´ll listen to you, she said.

all the paintings, brushstrokes, colors
he saw. they speak, he said.
they speak.

what happened to me in Mieres?

2010-08-25T23:47:00.000-07:00

we were youngsters
we were young artists
painters, photographers and musicians
we were youngsters
scrawny torso, but strong legs
up and down the woods.
destroyed landscape because of the storm
i couldn´t go for a walk
without stamping myself against
a wall of dirt.
i couldn´t climb up the dirt!
the bathroom, outside the cabin!
we were so young.
divorced, lost, sick, there was drama-
we believed in runas y vino
young beautiful manga lady
ginger-haired fine waist
and hips, bones, bones above all.
my stanza girl
and two black cats in her bed
dirty, everywhere you looked, dirt.
and i become dirt too. the dirtiest
lady, red haired, long, very long
purple dress to my clogs.
forward she thought of her love
backwards i think and think
and drink until i got furious,
Khali; broke a glass against the floor
(like the russian lady trowing
tea cup against mona lisa)
this wasn´t paris.
this was devaluation.

sadness.
and days passed.

the more important thing was
the blue studio where
we painted in turns.
the girls painted at five.
while the boys endured visitors
youngsters.
the girls painted each other.
the girls fainted.
the boys came over to see,
to watch, to stare at our panties
our thin white legs
spread over the soil, weeds;
i still have the nettles hanging
from my long dress.
the marks.
for i am the queen
the queen
of this long summer camp.

my own condition

2010-08-24T11:30:00.001-07:00

witness of desire
i has to pay, ever pay
for the bad stanza.
for the bad meanings.
misunderstanding
Everything.
he´s my luna,
i broke the glass like
a russian lady
against mona lisa.
so i scared her
her wide open eyes
-i´m going to bed
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
the lunas i cut and paste
the gigantic luna i have in my bedroom
the luna has no meaning
anymore.
there was the sun,
the swimming pool,
the sister.
the luna, my luna,
the songs.
he said they were bad-
electic blue luna bathing suit.
all rotten, disappeared
in my black bag.
gigantic
missing.
cries and yelling
and nervous intestines.
he had a kid.
i had a swollen belly
that disappeared in there.
that house
kidnapped.
paralyzed
against the rapist,
stump inside the mouth
kiss me, tongue kiss me
his body against mine
give me love, O you are a good
love giver!
i read
explicit version of it.
i´m mixed up.
messy room
and bag.
gigantic mountain
the same green blue mountain
day after day,
and night after night.
wine. wife.
i had to pay
i had to give.
i took photographs
rotten, disappeared
limbs
black to toe nail,
strange disease.
and she with a candle,
showing me, barefoot in the rain,
the path leading home.
home. cats´home.
a witch: meiga
tarot and red point over the plain
on her forehead.
we were artists.
they never got drunk
until the 25th bottle
we didn´t have.
oh morning i have this first version
of it all. but nothing more.

free

2010-08-16T00:22:00.001-07:00

free of something- i feel it
i was scared of dawn
if you keep on medicating
your child will be down
he said
i was scared
so i traveled away
mom saying the same shame things
i miss my sis
who slept in the bed beside me
i was so scared
"no me duermo" mmm sound
you pop-up from inside the box
in this package- very fragile
extremely spent
free of meditations-
shamans looming at my window
free of medication
taking the awful train
coming up to my third floor too early
too early in the morning
to move me.
you pop up and inside me from inside
the box
is it your eyes
or is it a pose,
it is love it is looming
bombing across the street
so you travel to write
for life.

pop-eyed to scare me
to carve me
to push me away
into the world
poor shaman of shit,
your massages that kill
in a fortified bed
blue, brown, many tissues,
paintings, blue.
select, select, select.

layers of wedding veils
covering my face.

like a burka,like a comb.
but free. free will.

so what´s the point here, my dear
free one?
percolated coffee at dawn
to my poor baby-

Más información: http://www.myspace.com/jackiemorvic/blog?bID=538271469#ixzz0wkdtFHcv

i got published

2010-08-15T23:18:00.001-07:00

in alternativereel.com

enjoy!
love you
yolanda

who

2010-08-13T08:00:00.000-07:00

...who
a painting within a view
a portrait, ingeborg bachmann
piper verlag.
green coat, green squared boots.
and a big green hat covering
the grey skies: the B/W photographs
argentine. this one in movement is true.
a conference.
documentary about wars
choose just one. and you will be true.
le mètro took me there,
or the train. sheltering from a
drama,
rain of dirt in the tub, and blood.
to the museum and back to me.
sick of it all.
the filling in. the blue cards, you.
a long hailway, with Nap.Arg.
Sp, and all the military world.
wars of the world, come to me!
or choose just one.
the word was short.
she was thin, i must be confused.
but they must be very interested here
in Arg. very pure. a real cult.
wheelchair. skinny legs. and arms
and her coat, 60s style.
the squares, big squares in all that gloom
the WC. always.
they have a shower in girl´s room
she feels everything with dirt,
the girls eat the shit of dogs
as though they were nuts, or cats
or raw fruit, raw material
for the coats.
once i couched with one.
the armies approach
there is a sensor
in the museum.
darkness, low illumination.

Más información: http://www.myspace.com/jackiemorvic/blog#ixzz0wUxcV63S

dictionary in red ink / october in alicante

2010-08-12T14:11:00.000-07:00

this man- ambivalence- wanna fuck?- yes!-
-just drove all night. tired. tomorrow, heidi.

S- Shaved legs and thighs, finally. it took me 5 min. razor blades, 3, blunt, finally. the result is not right but i´ll bathe in the sea at night, so nobody will see the bad results.
Siesta time. the workers with their machines all over the town- won´t let me sleep at siesta time.- 4 p. m.
need his messages and massages every min. but he´s too tired from driving. not here, in this world. not in mine. it´s awesome,= i walk the streets alone, with a new self-confidence, self-indulgence i didn´t have before. blessed marisha and the pill and the experience in the barometer. took photographs, wrote postcards in the beach to my fiends, and my
Sweetheart, honey sister.
Sex. i use sex as a catharsis. deep profound anguish because i wanted to make love, heidi needs to fuck star system, everything because of anguish-

T- Tarot: i dismember, took some of the images for my physical blog in a sort of journal with aaaall images, pictures, drawings, poems by mme and stace handwriting etc.
The veredict: i am a little sad, but very passionate. that´s why i am sad, because i want to receive aaall the love of the world. from the sun, from the sand, from the shore.

Beach- i am in the beach. the furthest corner away from people. i am almost alone. there´s is a girl nearing my shadow= short shadow, it is noon. i want the sun. i want sex on the shore. i want i want. always. forever.

W- Want. never satisfied with these things, job, books, i love, i have, i am. my show. heidi needs to fuck before the shot.
this salty water.
poems, sad, anguished.
paintings sad, anguished,,, but i used to be the happiest girl in the universe when i get to paint, when i write. everybody has a dark side.
side.

B- Books.there are millions of books
there is

L-Love
there is

P-Pleasure
there is

C-Chocolate and coffee
there is

F- Fiend

A-Arm luxation. lux arm. beautiful
sad, very sad

D-Dream. my sis is giving birth to her first baby.
ha roto aguas y el cordón umbilical está vacío, you know? you see? empty.
therefore=

N-Nightmare. the baby is dead. she couldn´t feed it from an empty hose, rope that is a hollow, empty and uneven like a hot-dog. death-

(There is more in this dictionary of october 2009, but this is enough-)

Más información: http://www.myspace.com/jackiemorvic/blog#ixzz0wQcWOyzz

good reputation

2010-08-11T11:18:00.000-07:00

good reputation at shool, girl
hood, at kindergarten of course
the glass of milk, you didn´t spilt-
pot with cornflakes, the boy who
kicked you under the table
you found in your graduation-
good girl, non-abusive parents
but deaf at your need of intimacy.
they are curious about your silent
mouth.
you´re not chatty you´re a good-
you are
you are
mouth, month after mouth, mother
like a monk,
you vomit like a bad
whore.
what advantage do you take from
opening your mouth
his mouth
my mouth.
and you don´t understand, girl,
your inner advisors, like feelers
don´t want but to feel, feel
and feel what?
warm milk for this child
it gives her so much pleasure
if your pressure is right.
what about his pension, the rent,
the sis´diarrhea, so much pain
so many plans, broken, tore open
heart. good girl. open your mouth,
eat, drink, stay healthy.
eat meat
(i´m so spent)
drink whiteness to paint your lips,
or a wall. the wall where you sleep and scratch
like a vampire. upside down, drink me.
scratch me. feel me, girl.
(it gives me so much pleasure)
like yesterday,
yesterday.
and all tomorrows.
you throw up, you´re pregnant.
then you get married
then you divorce
then you die.

summer camp, 1

2010-07-29T12:56:00.000-07:00

summer camp

i start working again in the camp.
what´s the use of opensing my mouth-
release for them- curious.
abusive parents- i am16. finally.
the belle epoque of smoking together in
the hospital, inmates, what, what
happened then, then?
we were joyful together. painting and
smoking at our dehidrated coffees
or cocoa and teas or cigarettes, do you
want one now?
some died- in the c. camp.
i died in the barometer
i make my body bleed to compensate
the guilt: i can´t cope anymore.
in the summer camping we are supossed
to have Bliss.
i start to work again- babysitter
with two girls,
one, two, three men who discovered
i have
one foot, one foot, one vagina, one ass, and
one mouth. oh my mouth!
they give me tea at the terrace. and money
for what i do for them.
i make my body bleed
with my rouge nails.
i scratch the same
backs, necks, my thighs.
i have a pool where i piss
like a racoon.
i have a lawn, i have puppets.
i have a pair of legs
and money problems.
but summer is here to fix all that.
i make faces that are
two faces in one.
if you see me turned upside
down, on my hands
on my mouth, that is the key,
if you want to see my second
face see me turned upside down,
on my hands
my skirts covering my mouth.

and if you want to tour berlin east
this way
you have to pay
this way
in a van
with them.
and a bike they gifted you.

red crystal ball turned into pieces
scratched furniture by grandmother´s nails
my thighs scratched by me
summer, summer, summer.
she´s dead. she will be dead
to rescue me
advice me.

don´t be silly
don´t go to summer camps
ever ever again.
...............................................................

yeah!

2010-07-27T06:19:00.000-07:00

mes vacances avec my goddess

2010-07-27T06:13:00.000-07:00

the bride is thinking too much

2010-07-13T02:48:00.000-07:00

what is behind those sanguine curtains
of "I love you"?
i love you, you said the first time we met.
alone. in High Park. out of the Barometer,
right before the Barometer
measurer of inner pressures.
what is behind?
obnoxious sex? kindness of strangers,
eccentrics? kindness?
mad power between the sexes?
fight? children? bone fight to grow up, fierce fire
money, money, your money- my money-
i am exhausted of dying too much,
thinking.
and you keep saying i love you so much.
blood curtains- a heart, a soul-
are these ones two souls, mating for life?
"i love you to infinity", she says
and it´s true, beyond infirm.
madness. soul-addict.
i tell my truth to a stranger; it´s better so.
it´s what we do. and we do all the time.
what is behind, what is behind?
love. more love. boxes full of books,
Freuds, vaginas, egos. two solipsists.
but love, more love.
yes, i will marry you.

sexual vampire
sensual kisses
and tickling.
feet, boxes, eyes, boxes.
analyze, analyze, analyze,
till you go to Bedlam.
i don´t want to go to Bedlam.
i want to photograpph you
or photograph me pretending
to be dead, or in Bedlam Acquatic.
a Park, High Kindness Part,
there i met you, the first kiss.
it was Fall.
the Fall of All Walls.
berlin count. recount.
manic thinker.
perverted of so much typing.
what do you think
what do you think
please
please
please.
i need you, i will marry you
right in front of sanguine curtains.
fuchsia veils, heart bombing
pleasure and so crazy.
so crazy, so looking forward to loving
to be loved- i´ve been loved so many times-
this time i love.
blindfold and happy, like we all do,
but of course, my darling, i will marry you!

to marian. 2nd draft

2010-07-05T03:40:00.000-07:00

open the fridge! open the fridge!
(and) open the fridgebox
each ice in a cubicle
water smears
here is where you live and liebe
in a cubiclebox
frozen in summer,
like a novel
degeneration lives with you.

and (inside) the box, more boxes
the same size, the boxes
the same hollowness
and the same books
every year the same books
and worms´roots, roaches, rooks
for you live in an old factory of sugar- ha.
and ho ho ho.
so yucky
you are

the fall too soft for an abortion
but inside the box there is blleding love
blood is just vertical, all along your arm
just shades, pages, stains- not real blood
just a shadow of what dreams are.
just like a russian novel read in summer blood
leaking as nourriture into your throat,
smoke; taking a shower, singing, being loved
to awaken you from nightmares.

o dreamer of love soap operas
o dreamer of boxes and terrors
and subsequent errors

obliterate your mother, mary.

full-time writer

2010-07-01T02:17:00.000-07:00

unconsciounsly i am distorting my body
with my hand on my back
in more comfortable positions,
my position in the world?
full-time something, writing writing
all the time, all the time, oh
there was a kidnapping
abnormal girl copycat of my
grandmother´s distorted mouth
-and a companion, older, still young
still young?
see i am talking about 30 years ago
my friends were little
and that woman in white pajamas
that were her normal slacks.
that woman went through the
looking-glass- was water, water was
some penis- paint brushers, fishes
the most delicate to paint
or to live with-
absorbing people upwards,
that other woman with long
obscure dress, for there was obscurity
of aquarium.
people being absorbed- ondulateing screen.
and the psychophonies: a glass of milk
psicofonías
and a kid. a terror movie?
with abnormal girls mimicking my
grandmother´s eyes
with white slacks, hospitals, museums,
and the bastards, those bastards
whose mother is not the wife
-bastardos-
but a slut.
stupidcowgirls riding this world
of mental insanity
he´s in.
not a College, not a fairy tale, not
not anymore. more like a kidnapping
series- i was trapped.
and my traps are fueled by the books
i can read now, cowgirls with no boots
but ballerinas
-mine were too big, the damn trends!
and the walk down the village
a lady with long dress, long hair at 9 a.m.
and long earrings
falling into the full-time nothingness
of writing all the time, all the time,
and no danger for my lips.

the fall was a solution for her days.

maggie, our mag!!!!!!!!

2010-06-21T04:03:00.000-07:00

http://issuu.com/susanamartinez

falsetto child

2010-06-17T03:02:00.000-07:00

fake child. girl.
addicted to everything.
scrawny/fat. fat/scrawny.
it´s what love makes of her.
scrawny fat in her veins
hips, tits, feet to kiss,
kissable lips.
you moan with husky sounds
your tiny throat, vocals.
always Aaaaahhh...
without E, I, O, U.
your laughter is not healthy.
it´s fake, sounds, emotionless.
you look at your mommy
in the mirror, then
you look at yourself.
fat thighs. little yellow yolk
shorts. short
vocal. long vowels.
you stick to my loins.
you stick to my heart.
my mind, it´s my affected
mind.
your pounds are my pounds.
fat.pregnant sister: i get
fat with you.
the wisteria´s collapsing nerves
in that greenhouse.
i used to live there.
protected or exposed to public
impervious stare. look at me
won´t you please look at my
shifts-
my legs shorten.
my arms thicken.
you want to say something.
hungry, addicted to hunger.
hunger for living.
what kind of recording of you
i want to make. take my short hands.
my ring. my pink nails. my
long hair. play, addict, play
with them.
fake girl in uniform
pinafore.
i´ve always loved the tremendous
wisteria.
i´ve seen it in the greenhouse.
why not red house, my true house.
my old house collapses:
my librarian knows me,
every day at nine.
i can´t read to you
beautiful fairy tales.
but i am a gipsy, auburn
and scrawny fat in
my tiptoes.
i go away.
the lawn tickles
my footsoles,
dancing in circles with a clever mind,
i sing, for i used yo laugh
a lot:
high, falsetto. neighbors
would hear me: she´s my hysteria.

reminiscence inside a reminiscence

2010-05-26T02:02:00.000-07:00

sad, mainly, mostly disturbed
by her tiny, wailing presence
and you, husband, stop drooling!

scrawny fat, can you understand!
the photographs are revealed
and i never looked back!

back here they are
a scrawny virginal childish girl
with stripes in her sweater, grey, blue
let´s strip her:
the most insecure of all his /or/ the girls,
in general. jealous, unsure, ugly beauty
beautiful bones ugly making faces
jerking trembling at the coffee machine
so much coffee (to wake her up) and white wine
serves herself a drink at night (to go to bed)
and The One shakes his head
don´t!
but she can´t hear him.
she can´t hear anyone else
but herself
nurtured by gossip, filthy press, old friends...

but she could read books (in the box!)
and you can´t, you can´t.

she´s still free of medications
and you are chained to your pills,
her words against his words.
his words.

blue, mostly, yet smiling in the photograph.
i should have been happy then.
then. looking backwards

and old wise patient-
what more lies?

and mother, always present
in the scene, on stage, backstage
looking at me, looming blueness
in her green eyes.
green-eyed mother, and combing her
long blond hair
a long, long heirloom, brown sunglasses
and contact lenses,
teaching children of 4.
you are waiting for her
you go to her with your sister.

back- a mourning outside
and i began to listen the same psalms,
the same photographs,
the same songs.
atrocity routine nervousness
dizzy dazed but not confused,
i know what i´m doing
i did want all of these-
i know what i´m doing.

my heart is a looming presence
my heart is convinced of that.
itself is blooming, bombing by itself
moving blood towar my thighs
bruises my neck
a purple handbag my heart is
my heart is the bag my sister gave me...

love,
don´t touch me or a heart will
bruise my arms in purple bags
a finger, an embrasse, a caressing
crossing between my sweaty breasts.

of fingertips, tiptoes, love, don´t touch
my feet, namely, bondage.
-this one is the last photograph
i have of us.
the root of what came later.
and i have it first in my scrapbook
the beginning, the beginning
benign turmoil. beautiful dead.

love, don´t press my cheek with a kiss
don´t caress my fake smile
scrawny fat liar
i´m not to study anymore.
i´m not going to College no more
please don´t ask, don´t ask.
you never asked.
you never questioned me.
you are introverted.
respectful or revengeful
and all the full you want to be.