Habitaciones

El búho nos mira,
Calla con los ojos,
Tu mirada esquiva
Inunda los rincones de la cama
Con tanto miedo nos buscamos
El abismo nos juguetea entre los dedos grises y los nudillos carcomidos.
Mi juicio que es el del tonto
Quiere obligarte y yo quiero cesar.
César de obligarte.
Aún así soy la canica que queda en la línea de tierra y no se sabe quién pierde.
No hay marea y no hay laguna
Apenas las gotas de un silbido de sal.
El aletear despierta, casi huraño, tu cariño.
Vuelve el beso y vuelve y vuelve.
Que no vuelva.
Cada que vuelve, el búho parpadea.
Y la sal, la sal se rinde.

                                      Daniel Diner.

Helena

Si tú fueras como Helena, yo no podría ser Paris.
no te cambiaría de isla,
no te arrancaría el vestido
con el olor de otro.

No bebería de tu oído
no recogería la vista,
no te lavaría el rostro.
No moriría por ti
no cargaría tu culpa

no sacrificaría lo que vi.
no te escondería entre mi ropa.
Pero no eres. niña mía, Helena

al ver arder la flor rota
el silencio abarca cada gota.
Y mientras te miro irte serena

no muero inmortal
la pausa a la caída.
No muero caballo,
la pausa al sueño.
nada permitió la huida.

sólo escapa el atardecer bello
de esas garras tuyas de sal y espuma
si acaso Apolo,
si vuelves bruma,
si acaso no me ahogo.

la dulce sombra susurra al viento
si yo pudiera princesa al cielo
gritar de frente,
notar el lente.

A lo lejos aletea
el infinito ojo,
la sangre corre de
la arena que broncea.

Aún así te pido mía
que me acaricies
que vuelvas mía la sangre tuya
y que fundas, que fundas, que fundas.

Que paso a paso
corras envuelta al rebozo,
que no asfixies, que vivas, que crezcas.

Ave dulce de buen volar
no cierres más caparazón,
no agites más el agua tibia
sino sumérgete a nadar.


                                           Daniel Diner.

Intoxication dû mer, du soleil.

Too tired to sit still. Barely breathing, too weak to stand up.
The fluent blood felt sticky inside the veins, every heart beat hurted. The air that barely came across the throat became water inside, taking away tiny cords of the life left.
Sick in the middle of the tiniest bed. Bleeding water from the pores. The screams wouldn't reach anyone who would care. Was there someone, anyone from all of those which I talked to, which I showed my will for support, my inner strength, was there someone outside the room who would have enough hope inside for helping a brat like this? I had one name on mind. Should I? I will talk about her, maybe, if I get on my feet again. Thirst. Call her. The hope of knowing that she would absolutely answer and agree to help kept me up. For hours.
The rain made a strange symphony which I like, I could accept that as a sayonara. The pride of being strong enough, was I? Am I? How about all the times I've been wrong? What about the powder and the dirt? All the times the rice was not ready but still... What about the sea?
What about the wet toothbrush reflecting the tiredness? What from the pain? What from the sweetness of success? Call her. Call her.
 You are still alone. And you will always be. But if I call, the no will make me loose the hope. Hope is what keeps me here. Still. Breathing, bleeding, dreaming of pasts where everything was simpler. When I could keep my eyes open and blink on choice. 1 Rimbaud, 0 me.
Faim
Si j'ai du goût
C'est ne guère,
Que pour la terre et le pierre,
Je déjeune toujours de l'aire.
Les roc, les charbons, le fer.
Le loup? Or Le salade? Or Mangez?
Mqngew le cqllieux aue un bruse, les vielles pierres de egliese pqnse sqîes dqns les vqille grissssssssssssssssssssss
Gris gris.
And my French is so bad. But my memory is worse. Why can't I just get to a point where I was still playing, risking it all, never taking too seriously not even the sickness. And now for a bit of insanity, I am here, hopeless, surrounded by 37 million of nice people which will always help me to get anywhere I ask. I never asked to be here. Irashaimasen! Irashaimasen! Welcome, welcome. But welcome to what? The fridge will be as empty as the one Murakami drawed in the second bakery attack. And I don't like Murakami, I feel that he keeps on talking about the paradise he had drown and he will show us, but he won't. Who am I to not like him? A reader. Just that. A moribund reader. A bleeding, not breathing reader. Take the opinion as it is more useful. Rimbaud was right about the hunger, but I eat too much air, too much metal. I drank it melted, with soo much sugar. Menowarionegaishimasu. Always menowari. The heart hurts and now the head. Twenty million neurons are tickling, and now I do could sleep. The broken and dried lips play the jigsaw of perfection. And how beautiful! When things match, when things are made to be match. The itch it is evywhere. I feel sleepy, my eyes are closing. Call her. The throat closes more. Gris gris grisáceo. Qué bonita palabra. Me recuerda a níspero. Gris gris.  Call her. I don't even know why I write in English. My French is perfect. My memory is perfect. Are we a jigsaw?
Good morning Tomigaya. The sun had raised and sink so long ago, so many times. Call it Edo, Jimbocho or Shimokitazawa. Past, Past, present. No matter the order. Present future, past. Present past, future present, future past. Future future. Le loup. Le salad. La araignée. Mangez. Elle est retrouvée, Qui? Le éternité. C'est la mer mêle au soleil. La mer mêle au soleil.  There is no place nor time for love in Tokyo. There is no place nor time to love in Tokyo. There is no love. There is no place in Tokyo. There is no time in Tokyo. There is no place. There is no time. There is no Tokyo. There is love. Just love. Without just.
LOVE

West

I had been out for a while. 

Life sometimes lead us in different highways than we were supposed to be in. 

So I left my beloved Country, Mexico. 

Heading west, as west as it is possible, to some island, somewhere. 

I don't know how did I got here. I don't know why. 

-Tokyo? Asked the Lady at the airport looking at my luggage as if she wanted to imagine what would I take to Tokyo. 

That is what's written on the ticket- I tried to be funny just to release some stress. 

She gave me back the ticket saying: First gate to the left.

Didn't look again at me, no more curiosity, no more dreams. 

So I waited. For the plane, for walking in the bridge that leads to the stunning metal flying boat that would take me to Oriental earth. 

Just fourteen hours I said to myself. Just fourteen. 

Tired of the unsuccessful hours trying to sleep, non vegetarian insipid food and looking for some worthy movie to enjoy. 

I walked out from that plane while in my head reminded the phrase in that English classy accent: "Remember, remember!  

    The fifth of November, 
    The Gunpowder treason and plot; 
    I know of no reason 
    Why the Gunpowder treason 

    Should ever be forgot!"

I saw the day pass and the sun was hidden behind clouds and small drops. 

I felt as the day before a big party with a hangover of memories. And the big city was there, waiting for me. 

Build for the tiny ants to work and build a big refuge for the future. 

We are living the future now! 

Alan Rickman

The man.

Have you ever met someone that when are around she or he is magic?

The rarity of an empty feeling inside is mixed with the bitterness of missing.

A man has died and he is worth to be remembered.

Death has its own language and I do not plan here to decipher it, not even try.
But if there is something from him still alive; lets let it boil , let it surround us between mountains and dreams.
Sadness does not leave , even if it is just a romantic idea of ours.

I fill my being with this inspiration, but inspiration to live life. Not to be mirrored in an inertia that seeks the art and not find it.

He is still alive in his voice, exquisite English . Beautiful secret with harlequin taciturn mask. For giving names to new allegories and symbols blurred between poetry and forehands.

But is his mind which will make us live in the moment, drunkennes , fortune and defeat.

Thanks to Christopher Raid.
You are still alive Alan Rickman
No more foreplay.
Enjoy to tears.

http://putlocker9.com/watch-the-song-of-lunch-tv-movie-2010-full-movie-online-free-Putlocker.html

The Seed Of Quetzalcoatl Part 3

Part 3

When I was in front of the seed, it was just a simple seed, as simple as any seed. No matter how much I tried, I could not find any I expected. But I remembered your image.

Your hair as feathers, your skin as a snake skin, your eyes of a goddess. I realized then you were the real seed of Quetzalcoatl, and that had been everything about, the closest to him I could be was you. I ran desperate down the mountain, my steps were doubtful between hundreds of snails, and the roots of the trees that were stairs became obstacles. The mameyes did not feed me anymore and I understand myself lost in a moisture and frightening abundance. The birds shouted laughing. I got to the place I left you, and found only feathers and squama from a struggle against the rocks.

I walked aimlessly the 7 days I needed to return, confident that my mistake was about to cost me my life, with the understanding that if I had not left your arms I would never understand what I had in front of me. And I noticed the stupidity of leaving away for the understanding abandoning of the wonder of feeling.

One day away of staying forever in that place I stopped walking. I sat under a tree and watched my last day on this world, now as the first in another.

I forgot everything and spent the whole day with crossed feet until it rained. The cold waterdrops washed my spirit and my guilt, preparing me to accept death.

I opened my eyes and saw a shape moving. Dalia was walking as lost. I ran to her, I wanted to apologize and hold her forever. When I approached I noticed that her steps were uncertain, slow and she walked as wounded.

-My dear -I whispered holding her in my arms.

She looked at me scared. And did not give her arms to the embrace.

-Who are you? -She asked pushing me aside.

I saw her wounds in the legs, and understand it all. I had you again you, but you did not know who I was and would never remember.

The blood from your legs had a bright orange and some spirals of that cursed plant, the one the tlatoani told me to be aware of, the leaf of forgiveness was still in your skin, but it will never give you back your memories.

I tried to make you to remember but it was useless.

All you seemed to remember was the way back, It was like a muscle memory, because your face showed you did not know where would you get.

We leave the jungle and were greeted with applauses and hugs, but soon they realized that Dalia was not herself anymore.

In the last fire in which I cook my return to wherever I came from, boils the recipe to heal the pain from poison of oblivion. And the fire burns the promises of eternal love that we made.

But now the promises burn to ashes in the same fire I am using to heal you. And every hand I use to heal you is a new wound to me.

Now that we're together I feel all we lived as big as if it had been eternal, as you wanted it. I wish I had stayed that night, I wish I could go to the past and change my decision. All I can do now is carry on my back my mistake and your past, the few I knew from your lips.

The seed of Quetzalcoatl Part Two

Part Two

(...)

I woke up shouting of that nightmare the 20 days of the entire month. But as she promised, if I could stand sleeping outside with my dreams and survive the mosquitos, fleas and spiders, she would take me to the mountain top to see the seed that was given from him. As a light of a Prometeus given to blind men. The fire that never taught them to love.

At that point she was not so cold. Her hostility became a bit familiar and even soft and cosy. She would laugh some day to my jokes and bring me some water to pass the increased fear and shouts from the last dreams. I felt I had knit something between us, something like a different air, a known air. Warm as a secret blanket, and just understandable between us. I created something we could call us.

I gave her one flower, simple but beautiful, it had two different white infinites, one pure as its color, another covered with pink stripes, converged in a yellow dot made of fertility from the earth, as the sun, it warmth her heart for me.

The whole town was accepting my presence, maybe they were forgetting me. I could not say I was becoming one of them, I would never be one of them but I was constructing a mask with my body, so my scent would not make them repulse me. So my skin would not be so different from them.

Working their work, eating their food, sleeping their nights, loving them as mothers and brothers, loving their women, loving their flower, dreaming their nightmares, loving Dalia.

The ritual for the ones who walked the road for the seed was the first day of the new month. The tradition was that the boys and girls which aged eleven should go together the day of the serpent, the day of darkest passions and deepest anger, and pray to the living piece of the god, so he will decide which of them survive and come back to be part of the humanity.  This time it was just Dalia and me who will go.  Dalia and her gods, me and my gods.

So the ritual started.

With terrifying masks naked man and women walked upon us making a circle around. With a terrifying shout one fire spread to many torches, lightening horripilant masks as brought from hell itself, until a gigant with the biggest torch had fire. Another ones, painted all with a black tar that stinked as the proud of an assassin, they hold and tied us to a woodpole encrusted in the center of the circle. At first I was not afraid, I knew it was a ritual, everyone there had lived it, but when I saw those faces looking at the empty space, looking for something I always had run away from, as pursuing death, threatening death with a knife, and capable to burn that girl and me alive, mercy had left their souls.

It just had started and I felt that was the very end of my life. I asked for Dalia’s eyes, but there was no calm but thunderstorms of fear and will to escape. She was sweating cold drops in all her forehead, arms and chest. Although I was frightened that image remained into my cornea, I was desiring her skin, desiring to confess my love before I died, I wanted to fusion myself with her, and maybe that could save us. Love could save us from death, but she never looked at me. My left arm had contact with her right arm, I was up to give something and she was about to receive something.

The fire was been left at the floor and everyone left.

It is over- i thought.

A calm passed all through my bones. I looked at Dalia smiling but she was alert, she was desperately trying to tie off the rope. I saw a boy, he might had 6 or 7 years, carrying two sticks of wood, making a cross in front of him. He was laughing, jumping and having fun, making circles around the fire in the floor. Then I saw it, those were not sticks, those were lances.

The boy stopped in front of me, he was not smiling anymore neither playing, serious he let the lances fall down a few centimeters far from my feet and left running. Dalia had lost her head, she was shouting as if she was being killed, she would not stop trying to reach the spear with her toes.

I was not prepared for any of the next. Could any man be prepared for such thing? 11 years old? Nothing on my body was enough to help me then no matter how old I was. I saw Tezcatlipoca itself walking toward us, The skull of the Smoking Mirror watched me, watched, watched.

the other of Quetzalcoatl, the mirror, death walking just as in my dreams but now I knew i would not wake up. With moves I could not see, Dalia had standed with the spear in her hands, cutting my rope and I felt all the force of a woman, protector, fearless, and gave me strength to stand up.

The battle begun just as in the nightmare. I received the first punch in my face, he was as fast as no man, as strong as no man, as deathly as no man. Me in the floor an Dalia fighting with the strength of a green light. The difference from my dream was her.

She was fighting for me, I understood I had to give my life right there, to save my soul. I took again the lance and felt strong, as if I had being prepared for that moment in the nightmare. When I had to fight in the air with Tezcatlipoca, falling to the abism and waking up shouting and bleeding water from every pore.

I fought as if I was someone else. I was someone else. Quetzalcoatl protecting his inner light against himself, against his darkness, I understood the light will win some night, the darkness will kill me some other night, and in the middle of that balance I will find myself.

I stopped fighting and hugged the man with the mask. He stopped the fight. The three of us were bleeding with the cuts of the obsidian as an obelisk in the top of the lances, the black stones were bleeding our bloods making a unity of the three of us and shining a gold inside, reflecting it from the fire in the floor. In the embrace, the man took out his mask at the sound of a simple applause, two applauses, seven, all the applauses of the earth sounded like rain, somehow healing the harmed bodies, somehow giving new scars, the tattoos of life we shall not forget. The ritual was over.

Before 3 days of healing our bodies with herbs, Dalia and I walked inside the sacred jungle following the instructions of the tlatoani. We had 17 days to get back. Or else our souls would be eaten by Tezcatlipoca and we would never find our way back.

After five days of a man walking, nothing can be the same, we thought ourselves more as a part, more as everything, in the fifth day something changed in her eyes. She trusted my steps and the pureness of my travel. The seed started flowering in both of us.

Before we slept, we ate a pear, green in the outside and white inside, sweet as honey or milk or flower, Dalia you flower of hope showed me your body of petals. We shared the secrets of a fruit which has not got any sin inside. We made the pear burn into our lips and tongues, when it was finished we ate our lips, we ate our tonges, we shared the secrets we had inside.    

You embraced my body of rock. Made it softer, softer until it was more a orange rind, then more as the skin of orange that keeps the bubbles of eyes and life inside to give pleasure. You made me yours in every shape of the jungle, in every shadow in every step and fruit until we made the earth tremble, for us and for others, up to the sea.  

You wrote me letters with the promises of your forever love.

Your skin started to change, the petals became squama and you decided we should be a sacrifice to Tezcatlipoca.
-Is there any more glorious than to be accepted with open arms from the god of death himself? Deciding it. Can there be something more glorious than accepting yourself as an offer good enough for a god? - You made a song of that and repeated it.

We had 9 days left to day 17 and we where just one day away from the seed. But you did not wanted to keep on.  You said that paradise would made both inmortal.

There was no nightmare anymore, but that night something woke me up, the wind was blowing strong, I saw a little path, you were covered till the neck and the scent of your skin made me want to lie again and sleep. But I doubted, and the chant of something made me turn, some light called me.

I got away and there was not a last kiss, that was the way to the seed and I had to take it, even if that meant leaving you.

And as I climbed, I could not get you of my mind, the colored yellow deathly spiders pursuit me, your smile, your grape lips. But over all those black eyes, now kind, affable. Golden black as your skin, as your necklace that melted in you, as the squame that made you as a mermaid. Lost in desire with your sweet chant, forgetting the paths. I am sorry I leave, but it is for the seed why I am here.

(...)

(Part three will be posted around 10th of January)