nunca he sido un buen amigo

nunca he sido un buen amigo
no recuerdo cumpleagnos,
ni bodas, ni aniversarios
ni borracheras, ni lagrimas

olvido nombres facilmente
asi como olvido caras y promesas
olvido los odios, los amores
las canciones, los poemas

y todos, despacito, con el tiempo
se hacen viejos, lejanos,
obtienen gestos irreconocibles
me hablan de pasados inexistentes
y es como si hablaramos en silencio

siempre me presento como un muerto
"de pocas amistades", "de malas pulgas"
y dicen que tengo cara de malparido
pero no importa, ya no importa
nunca he sido un buen amigo,
todo queda enterrado
bajo el peso impertinente de la memoria


y en la mas absurda oscuridad
todo queda en blanco.
y es perfecto.

Ivan.

Death of a Super Nova

I started to write a poem
black ink deeply in her spine
her bleeding skin gave birth to a song
higher notes that i couldn't sing
so i cry, and my drops mixed up her desire

sing that song for me,
once again, once again
i will devore you in a blink,
infinite times, i will be there

I started to write a poem
and they looked at me like a phantom
my words are dead, my words are fiction
the burning words that killed her
have dissapear in her womb,
and they will stay there, like an angel
like a stone gargolye, inmortal,

I never want them back
i will die in isolation
like a perfect portrait nobody recognizes
that nobody painted
i will die, like so many others on the past,
condemmed to be priceless, unsigned.

I wish i could tatoo my body
with the lyrics on her eyes
telling an undecipherable story
unavoidable, endless
all the things i will never be
and she wants me to
everything we never said
cause we thought we never felt

I started to write a poem
i wanted to light the house
and let the bats hanging from my ears
fly away,
but they went deeper into the dark
and it hurts to be so deaf

sing that song for me,
once again, once again
i will devore you in a blink,
infinite times, i will be there
before i turn into a monster
before black wings grow from my back
and finish writing,
like an absent landlord,
the poem in your spine.


Ivan.

fuck

fuck if is late
and fuck i am so tired.
fuck it, i am not writing a shit tonight
fuck poetry, fuck concept
fuck this fucking cold night
fuck all the promises,
fuck it, i am going to sleep

Ivan.

solicitudes

Sabes, ciertas cosas tienen memoria
un camino, una piedra, la luna
tu argolla en el cielo, incandescente
pidiendome a gritos
no ceder ante Isis
abajo, en el precipicio

como estos labios secos
una cancion, un delineador, el cielo
todos han aprendido a callar
amenazan de muerte en la mañana
y en la noche te devoran
pidiendote a gritos
que no seas humano, que seas Dios.

the pone call

For her, it was just another sunday. i still can't understand why she didn't pick up the phone.

I used to believe that life is just a composition, like an opera, love tragedy, comedy, everything on it, with an addictive rythm in the background.

I wanted to believe that every moment has to be lived as the last one, that you couldn't miss any part of the song.

But that sunday it just seemed as if the song was coming to an end, or a long silence, nothing happened.

Was i alive at all ? I went outside to have a cigarrette and icontemplate the buildings flashing like an old christmas tree. No signs of life.

Only the nicotine going ndown my veins seemed to be alive. ironic, you keep living while enjoyinf little breaths of death, until one day is the last breath.

I wonder if i am going to enjoy it as much as today.


Back inside i kept feeling empty, i haven't talk to anyone for almost a week, I think i am starting to talk to myself these days. you know, just to hear some human voices, but you can get easily bored listening yo yourself, you always know what you are going to reply or at least, you cannot be surprised.

That's what i needed, a surprise, something new to turn my clockwork running again.

That's why i decided to call her, but she didn't answer!, so i wondered again " am i dead ?".

30 seconds after, the screen of my mobile was flashing, i couldn't answer, i didn't wanted to talk anymore. t was enough to know that she heard my call. That someone, at least for a moment, stoped one second of his life and thought of me.

It's feels good to prove your own existance, but now i just want to go back to sleep, i will be wondering why she didn't picked up the phone.

it was a normal sunday for her, not for me. I will call again next week

Ivan.

30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30 30
24 24 24 24 24 24 24 24 24 24 24 24 24 24 24 24

1 Month.

definition of life

Life is like a fucking melody
that someone played over and over
(just so you hate it)
and somehow, against all odds
you manage to forget it.

Ivan

No title, disambiguation and prose are back.

No title, disambiguation and prose are back.

It was going to be hard like trying to stand on a ladder you are just building. Like invisible steps on the mist of emptyness. Can someone teach me the ritual of life?. Was it brave ? was it destiny ?. the red line that takes revenge, it hurts cause still means happiness, you will never know how long it is, or it was. And when your feets give up, you will have to walk anyway. Down the cliff, not darkness, not death, but regret, betrayal, of that unique and tormentous momen when you decided who you were going to be.