el puente de la consumación ahora eternamente labrado en mi memoria; musgo cetrino, vidrio fluido que rompe, fluye y vuelve a romper, suaves manos detrás de espaldas de las que emerge una igual de suave, pero más danzante, neblina y los cinco o seis de nosotros siendo nadie en específico. nadie más que la personificación de todo lo idealizado que, como la neblina, danza por mi mente. los míos y los suyos, nuestros pies que visten de negro y de blanco exponiendo sus ritmos peculiares debidos al control de un distinto hado, al menos eso dicen las hojas de té. nunca podría autodenominarme excéntrica, carezco lo cautivador de alguien de la índole, entonces quizá es el ser quebradiza tiza lo que causa todo que lo que causo o intento o quiero causar, me desmorono ante mis trillados caprichos. la verdadera incógnita aquí es lo que lleva a los demás a cumplirlos. bellos, fueron bellos como las margaritas que corté.

desconozco si el verlos o el no verlos de desmorona más. desconozco si el ser deseada o repudiada me desmorona más. desconozco si me halaga o desespera el planeado roce de la yema de tus dedos sobre mi clavícula. desconozco si el desconocer me hace miserable o feliz. lo desconozco todo y lo desconoceré hasta mi muerte.

no tengo derecho a la miseria, todos bien lo saben. no merezco sentimientos tan puros, tan delirantes, tan seráficos. no tengo derecho a un nombre, a una voz, a un cuerpo y todo lo que conlleva, al pensamiento, a dormir y al inevitable despierte, al dolor, a la laxación y purgación, ni al amargo sabor que me llena. todo es demasiado para mí, todo es mucho cuando no eres nada. no tengo derecho a nada y el no tenerlo debería serme suficiente para partir.

cada lágrima que expulso sale con pequeños rastros de lo que fui, cuando no haya más de mí es cuando deberé morir.

you, me, and the drops that inundate the concavities of our bodies, that saturate our skin and lave the faint aromas of acetone that might've come from our thin and innocent nails or from our equally thin and innocent tea bags which we involuntarily infused with ridiculously sweet carbonated drinks containing strong notes of the liquid that removes. all we ever did was dance, hurt, and think of new and exciting ways to forget our time together; i should've known we would all become characters to each other, us the protagonists and the others the supporting actresses in our respective coming-of-age movies. "how does one enjoy life when not a seminude, semiconscious danseuse?" we asked each other, i ask myself still, i adored being the danseuse with idealized flaws. i wish i could say we were close, so inexplicably intimate that we merged in our inebriated states, but it wasn't the case, us and the things we wanted were too different and we were never good actresses. eventually, we all had to break character and the silver screen life we so carefully crafted collapsed, all that i miss from it is the shared nudity and barely reckless acts. you were my first taste of a bond, of human proximity. looking back, we were always as cold and detached as we are now, but we were lonely and misshapen, was it so wrong to pretend we had fun? to pretend it could transcend our loneliness? to pretend it had nothing to do with it?
distancing myself from a cliché to become the same, only this time solitary and more desperate.

will the modeled fiacre look at itself in the puddles it encounters
and deny any kinship to carriages, to hackneys
to become the saintly being it desires to be?
someone canonize the hackney-coach! preferably biweekly!

you aren't faithfully religious until you've met clockwork's mother
much less if you haven't met clockwork's children
they fidget, they flail, they frolic, they faint
an anxious adventurer is no adventurer at all
a child isn't a child when stuck betwixt adult teeth
they're an abiding clock, that only
i'm not fooled, you shouldn't be fooled either
i'll be faithfully religious for as long as my nose bleeds
much longer if the manus dei playfully continues, playfully finishes

the bell isn't pealing, now it can't be a bell!
nothing is what it does so nothing is what it is
the bell isn't in sync with the moon, but it has rarely ever
it'll be fine, thankfully, the bell is inanimate
unlike a flower
unlike a playmate
the non-playmate is small in theory, big in practice
how do you feel about big things?
vice versa
the non-flower is big in theory, small in practice
how do you feel about small things?
vice versa

playmate shouldn't have been the word used when used for the first time

an enigma can only be one for so short
discard all which isn't enigmatic, for it cannot be loved
the cogwheels all move a little differently after
fiacres, clocks, sleigh bells, and pixies
they all kiss prostitutes a little softer after
is it the prostitutes or the pixies who have sewn their mouths shut?
either way,
discard me!

i've never been inside an adult's mouth
nor has my hair ever been caught in their pearl necklaces
i'm a child
all i am can be reduced to small
i'd say it brings shame but i can't
forgive me

don't flatter yourself, it isn't all about you

a model of a fiacre
a sleigh bell in need of biweekly canonization
pixies who kiss prostitutes

carefully cut out each of the components that make up this person and put them all in a bag.
shake gently.
next, take out each cutting one after the other.
reassemble conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
the person will resemble you.
and there you are—an infinitely original murderer of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.

reflective fluids do arduous work by buying all shorts, dresses, trousers, and skirts; all noses, roses, eyebrows, and cheeks from the masses of egomaniacs so willing to sell that they'll secure the purchase by locking eyes with those sad, eager beads. once, perhaps, purple threads, now bleached cotton drinking glass from the smallest plastic bottles. i'm neither, nor am i heracles, only the color of my wretched flesh and its irregularities made grotesque by a god of the same nature. i, no greater than any mass, sell myself when given the opportunity, but that is what one must when the location of the next reflective fluid is unknown.

cranberry juice and sparkling water fizzle passionately, i cherish the taste of their metallic sweetness sitting on the floor while spiders try to fizzle with me but shrivel in the rain. it unzips as if made to, fingers easily find the slot machine lever as if made to, pull enough times and it's sure to happen. 777! you induced the jackpot for the first time in quite a while! play with your food, or the semblance of it. this must be someone's paraphilia, perfect little scene for some sort of deviant.
i've only ever been to one casino, it smelled strongly of cigarettes; the car i was in some time ago, it, too, smelled strongly of them. una cajetilla visible solo para aquellos que se sientan detrás, un hombre con cáncer de pulmón, desgraciados ojos disfrazados descansando en su sufrimiento.

ella no se ve desvestida en el espejo, pero yo sí veo a la burguesita despojada y recostada indecentemente en el aroma a holanda nueva y violeta. duendes desean besarla dormida, no diferimos. duendes queman granos de opio en su honor, no diferimos. en mi mente y en la suya únicamente velas de esperma, burguesita, no diferimos. lirio azul, de medianoche, de pesadez en los parpados, de lo galano y grácil, te venero.
descalzos y en camisa pueden andar sus pensamientos diurnos, en vestidos de seda potenciadores de su diafanidad los nocturnos, ambos anhelo desnudar. yo canto el himno en loor al movimiento de sus faldas, lo que acaricia como la mano de un amante yo seré. si se debe desgarrar, si se debe chafar, si se debe arrugar, si debe haber sombra, si en todo ataúd deben hormiguear y morder los gusanos, permítanos sufrir los inevitables males en par, en un bonito, pero efímero, par. lirio enfermo, de almendras, de hilo y botones, te veré en nuestro sombrío rendezvous.

i own pretensions and imbecility. i keep them in a music box. i do not own the music, for it's prohibited. if i were to give them away i'd hear the silence. a young girl commits suicide. because of what?

no tema, doncel bello,
que daño no le desea hacer;
exponga su fino cuello,
el recóndito ser
permita a los pétalos conocer

señora sibarita,
es de lo juvenil aficionada;
quiere su florecita,
estando adulterada
ama a una creación inmaculada

perlino, caprichoso,
virginal lirio que escucho reír,
tan puro y primoroso,
quiero en él residir,
¡criatura vernal, eres elixir!

súcubo rubescente,
completamente flébil, putrefacto,
si viene a su mente
pena siente el intacto,
por ello, se le une en el acto

play your music little teaspoon, i'll savor every note! the glass and you have such palpable chemistry, both so necessary to the duet! forks and tablespoons should be more like you, they make no music, and thankfully so, it would be atrocious; that which they graze becomes days of nausea, and they hold an intimidating stare as if challenging the observer to admit their situation and position in the hierarchy. knives, i'd be lying if i said their debauching can't become tiresome, but i'd be lying also if i were unable to acknowledge my constant return to the seductive beings. when vigor turns to sickness it must be a sign from the heavens.
run the cold water atop the recently created heat, i need the newborn vapor and growing, infant drops traveling aimlessly and landing on me, the stupefaction will divert the mind from its wish of cooking its host, reservation of the ceremony to consecrated places might have also worked.
return to the origami world of which you came from, where doors may only be opened when one is no longer vulnerable to the sun and dew can find ways to reside in one's marrow, where humidity is asphyxiating and the whisper of a fan is ever-present, where there's always a light, all too aware of one's state, seeking immortality in one's cornea, and where nights are stained a distasteful orange and blue, forcing one to face the possibility of a trip to florida reminiscent of times long forgotten and death. propanone, a map of my heart made at six and the words "inverosímil", "yankee", and, one of my last names, "ellis", returning every few thoughts or so, the origin of each thought very obvious, i wonder what i'm supposed to make of them, write them on my origami walls? this is summer; so impatient, it should wait its turn like the rest!
the artificial patterns calm me, a habit that never cemented itself as one but has visited me often since my gain of awareness, old friends. i've always had a proclivity to externalize, never the inverse, and to escape from yourself some pathway must be created. isn't the outside serene? isn't punishment redemption? an act so noble and intimate.

what suffocating air, i must make sure it fills me; the metal piece is ablaze, i'll press it onto my forearm; so many colors showing through your translucence, but you have yet to hone the skill; to make pivotal art, skin should be used as canvas. such arousing sabotage! when i look in mirrors i'll have not to note the most ghastly aspects of my vessel and stuffing.
fish are swimming in your arms, have you noticed yet?
my pants are too big, they're down to my hips, i only bring this up because i've seen you looking and your irked expression hurts me. does the sound the pant legs make when i walk preoccupy you? is that it? then sound i no longer will make, i bet you didn't think it could be so uncomplicated! you and me, we are on the same page, we are in the same room, we wear the same glasses and we both take them off when we eat, we both put warm foods near our face to feel the touch of another, and we both think i'm loathsome! i dare you tell me this isn't a miracle, or don't, i haven't determined what it is i need to hear and hearing something i mustn't could cause my expiration.
if she gave you sweat, would you give her blood? A+, she'd rather die than know ichor that isn't yours, you know how stubborn blood types can be.
we should build an aquarium. we could keep sea snails too, i deify sea butterflies! does their shifting repel you? i find it preterhuman, they seem confident and elegant, like the only creatures to know peace, and that is very much beyond us; by nature, we are anguished, designed to question and derive answers from the fragments we believe to understand. how do you feel about the tendency of humans to view everything as an extension of us? i find it sickeningly dreamy, so desperate to take hold of reality we distort it, and so naturally. doesn't talking about the experience of being human make you feel pseudo-human?
know her fingers and you'll know her teeth; know her teeth and you'll know her blood; most importantly, know her ribs and you'll know her whole; oh, she is of the utmost unimportance, let us cheer to that!