It's Not a Matter of

“I always knew you’d disappoint me,” he said to me with a perpetual wince on his face. Yes, disappointment sets me free as much as pain gives you the right to be unkind. All that’s certain to me now is that I am free, I am one, I am no longer we, I am I. I reckon once I considered you a viable option, a potential possibility but... and right there my thoughts stopped, they froze at the sound of your voice calling me to display a vigorous array of drama from the top of your lungs, and you say that it’s my fault, that it’s also your fault that you’ve fallen for me and the other way about in some way or another, or that at least that’s what I made you feel, that i’m full of pretences, that I’m a fool to pretend, but there was no real means of doing it, falling for each other I mean, because our connection was imaginary, invented, functionally calculated. But then again I thought we could have been something really awesome. And i’ve brought you down, I know, I calculated the way to functionally des-invent and des-imagine you. It served me well, I must confess... it taught me not to think of you as a you, but as something less than you; it dawned on me the invention collides with reality: we-are-separate.

Miss Me

I honestly miss me sometimes. I go around imagining how the old me would be these days and if there would have been chances for him to survive. I also explain to myself that I sometimes want some things as much as I used to, that I still fear horror films inhumanly terribly when I’m on my own, that I have the same abiding passions for some people, some places and some sounds. That those things I used to want, those fears that still possess me and those passions that never die probably mean I’m still the same at heart.
At other times I don’t miss me so much. I find the old me dull and gloomy and abnormally puerile and so very broken for no apparent reason or for functional convenience. Now I wonder if being unable to feel can be equated to strength.

Please

Cynicism. I wasn’t expecting you to act differently.
Irony. That you would stay.
Sarcasm. You asking how I am.
Truth. You are nice, but you can’t cope.
Sense. None. At all.
Closure. Yes, please.

Death of Cinderella

All this time I’ve been trying to kill Cinderella. Or I’d been hoping she’d grow up instead. You simply did away with the whole fairy kingdom at once. You raped Cinderella. That did it, I suppose. She had no other option but to grow up there and then.

Don’t Commit Suicide on a Weekday

People shouldn’t commit suicide in the middle of the day. It’s selfish. If you think about it, they are always troubling others with their display of a grand – though unoriginal - finale. I was commuting from work to my home before commuting again to my other job today (busy life that of a commuter) and I could not make my way home by train because, naturally, someone had decided to play God – assuming there is one - with himself and ended his (or her) martyr-ising life under the cold wheels of the choo-choo. What a heavy burden to decide to take on your back! Literally. That’s when this idea came to mind “Committing suicide in the middle of a working day is selfish.” And the ideas came pouring on: if you choose another means of transport instead (not to travel, of course, let’s make that explicit just in case), say the bus or a car, then the driver will have to face the passersby glaring and gaping and gawking and pointing and whispering... Not to mention the strain of complying with insurance regulations. Then there is the psychological side to it; the emotional scar that the bus driver will have to bear for the rest of his days, which might, in turn, push him to do likewise to end the suffering, and so feeding an endless chain of suicides. You could go for a more classical way such as jumping off a balcony (too messy) or shooting your brains out (almost equally messy). Have you thought after you are gone to the other side there’s someone else cleaning the crap you left? And of course there will be onlookers because morbidity raises curiosity - or vice versa. And the world will stop for one second– that world around the corpse, that is – and they will wonder why on earth you have decided to top yourself. Speculations will surely be of the kind ‘he must have been unhappy because his lover’s gone’ or ‘he was on drugs’ or even ‘he was part of a religious sect.’ Wow! Hold your horses, people! Anyway, I’m not here to talk about the assumptions on why someone has decided to terminate their existence, all I want is to point out how inconvenient it proves to be for others that you commit suicide on a weekday.

Misconceptions

Don’t say ‘big’, say ‘fat’. Don’t say ‘sexual’, say ‘whore’. Don’t say ‘loving’, say ‘adolescent’. Don’t say ‘caring’, say ‘nagging’. Don’t say ‘hot’, say ‘cocky’. Don’t say ‘intelligent’, say ‘braggart’. Don’t say ‘spiritual’, say ‘snob’. Don’t say ‘unusual’, say ‘schizo’.

Back in Place

I am talking about the feeling that I had when I saw your head pop from behind that door. And I felt there was alliteration between us, like in a poem. But then the poem was empty and I had to own up to the fact that I was too. Not completely, though, just a part. It’s all this time, you see? It’s been driving me nuts, cutting me off, chopping me down. And I had to grow my arms again, I had to grow my feet, and I had to grow my head back up on my shoulders.
And then that cup of thought was looking, glaring, almost leering, as if expecting me to speak my mind. Hell, I said, I thought it’d be easier. And then I had that silly, tiny, creaking crack waiting to be glued together, for the parts are nothing just as they are. And they were jumbled. They jumbled them, I know. But I also know I had jumbled them myself.

Singular Peculiar

I reckon maybe tomorrow I won’t be the same you met today. I realise perhaps it’s a matter of time to give you back your sympathy, to ask you to keep your calm and swallow your apathy. I understand it’s now I don’t want your pity and I don’t need this surgical survival. That random twister clinching the me I was and the not-so-me I am. And now I see the completion of it all depends on more than one. One… the sound comes to my head… the song… and the words keep echoing… “one is the loneliest number” and the rest goes “two can be as bad as one, it’s the loneliest number since the number one.” And I find it might be true. And it’s sad… it is. It becomes the twister clinching me now, replacing what there was and no longer is. It’s because I always wished it would be simpler. Or maybe I knew it could, but it is not.

Hopefully Willingly

Now I am hoping I will lead myself to safer, greener grounds
I am leading myself to safer, greener hopes
I am willing to lead myself to hopefully safer, greener grounds
I am grounding myself for not saving hopes of a greener leading will
Now I hope, I lead, I save and ground myself
I will save greener grounds for my leading hopes
I will lead my hopes to a greener, safer ground
I will willingly and hopefully safely lead myself to greener grounds.

So Long.... And Farewell

Look at that tiny me dancing in my head
I’m off to see myself off
Look at those little demons shunning me now
I’m up to see myself up

Chivo Expiatorio

Toda esa ira contenida, que es tuya y a la vez es mía, el punto de unión, la coincidencia y el momento de la caída. Me viene en gana tatuar tu rostro en un árbol de sal y convertirlo en una imagen perpetua hasta que la lluvia se lo lleve sin dejar indicios de su existencia pasada pero con plena consciencia de la misma. Excusas. Es eso. Buscar reflejarme en vos. La identificación. Encontrar un par para dejar de ser impar. Deshacerme de las consecuencias, otra excusa. Negar ese árbol, esa sal… otra excusa. Imperfectas todas, pero suficientes.

Orillas

maldito, maldito, maldito, porque sos como el agua que fluye en su propio curso sin volver atrás y sin mirar lo que queda después de tu paso. y me ves acá, fumando un cigarrillo que no recuerdo haber encendido, que no sé si sabe a la victoria de haber mojado mis pies en tus orillas o me deja un sabor agrio a vicio.

Big Wheel

I was thinking maybe we should stop this re-liaison-ship. You see, I feel you are not as inclined as I am, but when I tell you this you’ll start hurrying something back like 'HeyyesIam!' and I’ll go 'of course you do, don’t you? but it doesn’t show,' which is quite typical of me, always disbelieving but wanting deep inside; only a mere expression of my quirky self-consciousness. To this last comment you will undoubtedly respond that 'there are different ways of showing how you feel about someone else,' and, in turn, I will push my wit to muffle your throat by sighing 'and you choose to apply none.' Of course you’ll be mad after that one last comment and I’ll start displaying my arguments on how maybe all this showing or withholding or craving or sympathising or coping and so on is somehow culturally bound; because you-were-not-raised-to-break-the-spatial-personal-ghetto. And when the debate is at its highest temperature I will pause, I will flinch and I’ll mutter my pain out by trying to convince you that all this philosophising will not and cannot lead us anywhere we can both (or I) feel at ease. That’s why I was thinking maybe we should stop this re-liaison-ship. You see...

Cease

This is the song I chose to drown you. When I push play your voice will vanish into thin air... into hot thin air. And I will close my eyes and you will also be gone with the hot and thin. This is the most poetic way of negating your existence I could come up with, but you know poetry was never on my side, nor words, for that matter. You will be gone. So please, don’t interrupt me while I’m hoping.

Como la Primera Vez

Mirame. Pero mirame con ganas.
No me mires para matar el tiempo. Mirame bien.
Es probable que yo ya no te mire como antes.
Pero vos mirame igual.
Mirame con los ojos. Mirame con las manos.
No me mires con la mente y a lo lejos.
Mirame como si fuera la primera vez que me mirás.

·..·::·..·

- I’ve been trying.
- Where’s that leading you?
- I don’t know.
- So what’s the point of going on with it?
- Not to...
- Feel...
- Yes.
- Is it getting any better?
- I don’t know. I’m working on convincing myself it does.

Taking Chances

Right now what I fear the most is that there’s nothing to cling to, nobody to see through. I fear my eyes have gone dry, that your voice is just an excuse, that my mind has gone blank. I fear that sorrow is my invention and mine to bear alone, that the creation is so beautifully aching that I’m beginning to lose myself. I fear that remorse is just a game, that I’m playing against myself, that believing is dependent on truth, and truth is an idiolect. And I’m afraid to tell you that you owe me my simplicity, that you gambled my skin and tissue, that you lost your bet.

I Do

Yes! A thousand times, yes! However much I say so it will always make you flee. We are both acquainted with the true possibility of making a grandest joy, but you must admit you feel deeply hurt, your ego has been dented and I might be to blame, and that is something which will not allow you to retrace your steps.
I do. Or don’t I? Have I not shown it and made it overtly clear more than once for as long as my memory allows? You still allow yourself to indulge in your pride, and I still allow myself to make an outright fool of what I am. But I believe I am deserving of the better part of you. And I believe your game will last as long as I consent.

Battle of Wits

I don’t talk back, I don’t make my needs and wants clear enough, which is why they don’t get met; it dawns on me I’m afraid of losing, not the battle, but the soldier, the opponent that should take part of my own army who has now become a clear enemy. I try an undercover attack, always defending myself, never really an overt attack. Attacking is dangerous, for the enemy – or companion soldier over the trenches – might end up dead and that would mean the battle is lost.

Convictions

I’m not convinced my job is vocation
I’m not convinced my house is a home
I’m not convinced my joy is a virtue
Yet my greatest conviction is raw

Deshoras

Intangible. Abstracto. Irreal. Concepto imaginario. Se nos va por entre los dedos y se nos pierde en la distancia. Siempre se va. Se deshace como si lo atacaran los gusanos 2 metros bajo tierra. Y aun así nos empuja, nos absorbe, nos digiere y nos vomita. Y esos que se creen Chronos, que encima se dan el lujo de hacerlo avanzar más rápido. O los otros, que nos lo convierten en un purgatorio eterno. Intento detener el mío para salir de la rueda de interrogatorio, dejar de contestar los por qué, cómo, dónde y sin saber ya quién. En el intervalo descubro que ya no recuerdo casi qué se siente y empiezo a extrañar el sabor de extrañar.

One Step Backwards

From time to time I speak my mind
I wear my heart on my sleeve
And I let out the stupidest connections in my head
This time I write to disentangle
To unravel the things I think I need to figure out
I speak my mind, I dare say, because not many can
I choose words or, rather, they choose me
They generally find me when I’m wrong
Or when there something potentially describable as wrong
This time I try to untangle you
Perhaps the you that’s in my head
And I jump, maybe in a hurry,
To conclusions that might hold true
I fiddle with the possibility
That that half day forward
May be a functional creation
A need that keeps me going
But that going will never stop
Because forward will always be a step ahead of me

let myself

Tonight I’m going to have a glass of wine... maybe two. Then I’m going to let myself let myself, and I’m going to allow you to get into my thoughts for a while. Then I’m going to turn you out, for you are just a thought.
Tonight I’m going to imagine I’m a conqueror. I’m going to prepare my army and get hold of my ammunition. I’m going to shoot you right between the eyes unless you surrender and promise to be mine.
Tonight I’m going to show you all my rage. I’m going to let myself take over your mortal coil and clinch a deal with your mind. I’m going to take another glass of wine and toast with you. 'To you, my dear'.

Battle with Her (the Sun)

Once in a blue moon I like someone enough to make them mine
The last blue moon lost my name and forgot my face
The one before that drained my colour and there was just blue
The previous one stole my voice and forced me to shout
The first one, in turn, decided to lie