Surface

Sometimes smooth and reflective,

catching and shooting back the billions of images we try to hide or create.

Impossible beauty constantly desired carved onto.

A velvet tea seeps millimeters beneath the surface

with the slightest cut or the hardest blow by a sadistic asteroid.

Alluring cold blades and succulent lips to glide

nip the billions of hills that rise with sensuality and gentle quakes from orgasms.

A revealer of secrets and a hider of pestilence.

Delicate like a petal, but can be disgusting

and memorable as a genocide

onto one single human.

 

Post-mortem 

Adored. Infamous. Feared

below a statue or gravestone with chipping gold paint as memories rot along with the body.

A beautiful decay ruined by unwanted gluttony from flatulence of parasites.

The flesh melts into a cold puddle and the bones are polished to shine like pearls of the Mediterranean.

The Madeira Man (Part 2)

“The Madeira Man”

“Mad Maddi”

“Pokiki Perv.”

I set foot on the island com grande força e fervendo like Pedro Alvares Cabral. The planation owners, a handful of Japanese and American drunkards, confided me to the cane fields with other leather-skinned Madeirans and Azoreans who welcomed every depravity in exchange for their labor. I chopped sugar canes and licked the blood that sept out for two years while sending the little I earned back to mother and father. It got repetitive. It got boring, but I was doing good wasn’t I? I was doing good until I received a letter from my father. It was written hastily with my mother’s tears smearing some of the words. I understood it.

They gave me an ukulele and told me to play it each time I killed a man in Hawaii. Unfortunately, the this paradise, this paradise people pay millions of dollars to stay in, is boring.

I snuck into the room of my gringo boss who loathed my dirty, leather skin. I pressed my machete onto the breast of his homesick wife. She fled back to Texas that very morning, and her heartbroken husband launched the police after me like a squadron of Salazar’s soldiers my mother fucked while on tour in Lisbon. The other worn Madeirans and the Hawaiians hid me in their jungle beyond the cane fields. They squeezed together into a single beast with teeth made of sugar-scented teeth that minced the policemen.

I never thought I could write an entire book of notes and lyrics in a single night.

I started to play the following morning. I woke the children from a nearby village with an intoxicating melody. Ionly wish I never lied when their parents asked of my inspiration. They were kind enough to lend me an abandoned fishing shack to live in.

For three months I lived there with calming music during the day, and took greater steps back into the ocean at night.

 

 

Andalusian Misanthropy

Hancoh steps into the Mediterranean with a hundred arrows striking near his heart. His beard torn by scaly, Catholic hands. He invited the ocean to seep inside his wounds and drag him into the depths the rest with the conch shells. He laughed at the savage Spaniards and cursed each one of them: Go ahead and drown in Visigoth blood Rodolfo, get smothered under sweaty breasts until you suffocate Hilda, I hope little Antonio and Linda are kidnapped and sold to the Berbers.
Luis steps into the Mediterranean with a hundred fascist soldiers aiming their guns for his heart. His pages torn by greasy, German hands. He invites the ocean to sweep him into the current as his body takes in bullets. He called them Nazis and read to them the works of Sterner and Marx until they vomited. Let the great powers drown in their own spit and flatulence. Every nation will melt in it’s gas chamber. Every woman and men will screw until they grow sick of each other.

Hanoch and Luis say every human will melt.

Heartbeat

A thousands events, or a single tragic moment can ruin the motions and rhythms of a heartbeat.

A heartbeat. Either the weakest force or the strongest force to keep you alive against the deepest wounds conjured by men and demons.

A heartbeat may take you soaring through the thinnest nimbus clouds or let you crash headfirst onto burning concrete.

A heartbeat is tender

is dangerous

is frightening

is destructive

is lethal.

The Madeira Man (Part 1)

In a lonely shack on Porto Santo, he was bred from an unfaithful mother and an impatient man seeking an orgasm after a successful robbery. No officer bothered to look for them. No person bothered to care where they hid and procreated.

Father killed three children “Selfish little shits,” as he called them. “I had to, son. Don’t hate me. But I won’t mind if you hated others. Madeirans are such stingy bastards.”

Mother was famous for her lucrative thighs, but she would lose her earnings in a single gamble. “The prize is too good my cherub. Don’t hate me. But I won’t mind if you could find a job so we can have some decent food to eat. Madeirans are the worst cooks and the worst lovers.”

The fish wreaked, and so did the men. I laughed when the boats leaked and when some men drowned. Soon, nobody, not the fishermen, not the builders, not the artists.

I only succeeded in harvesting sugar canes. Chopping the towering plants with scythes and machetes. I swung as if they were great extensions of my arms. Like fingers cutting clean through savory marrow.

I did too well. I cut someone by accident. I cut off her arm by accident. “I had to. Don’t hate me.”

Against the town’s bellowing hatred. Three nights of debate and trial passed. I was promoted to work in Hawaii the very next morning.

I got to stay in my very own quarters: my own bed and my own body guard to keep those peasants away from me. I screamed of joy when Maui poked its little head through the Pacific.

 

Glass Bottle

A glass bottle wreaking of a cocktail:

wine with puss of a murdered whore and a bellowing heart of a wife who waited patiently.

Loyalty costs all the flesh, all the mind, all of reality that bends under strength of two Gods.

A whore can shatter, destroy the universe with a single motion of evil.

A bottle of wine can be drunk with a frivolous tongue or with teeth grinding on the rim because of guilt and

The wife and the whore can both drink the wine, but only one of them enjoys the unknown flavors.

The bottle won’t break unless it has been moved.