E S C A P I S T C H R O N I C L E

                  Beneath the streetlamps that dimly populate the strand, he delicately arched his torso

                  Sharp and sequential

                  He submerged his head [which inevitably will be lost between his supple shoulders],

as wind filtered through his porous body

                  And with open flesh –  like an eye –  

he twisted his neck against reality: the taut rope strangling in spiral

                  Until at last he entered a narrow room with scarce,

compressed

air

                  Icy and stiff like a dead man’s lips

                  He bellowed:

                  - I always spit- he said- my star-shattered words against the wind

                  (The metal spheres let their weight be felt on his shoulders)

                  He closed the door with a click

And pressed <play>: The tenebrous voice of a dark vocalist[i] crests that electric mountain which shakes the hypothalamus

                 2

                  Slowly he takes in the scene

                  [A black banner waving in the sector]

                  [The deep growl of engines]

                  And from the compact agglomeration of shadows, sways a voice - that could be a bell –:

                  –Heroes are born with a bullet between their eyes

                  Spun in the air like curtains which fall swirling and swirling in a whirlpool he arrived to kiss a dark ring – which could have been the mouth of a gun–

                  Then the drums rolled

                  (His veins open)

                  He raised his hands and extended them: three membranes distended.

White bones

                  3

                  And a violent sequence multiplying itself in his blood

                  4

                  Then, he wished to move the world between his thighs and give it a squeeze

                  He lit up a cigarette –because that’s how it was always meant to be – and the revolver’s thin lips trembled

                  And he trembled, too, like a wounded mortar

                  [I’ll stay and wait for an eclipse / pursuing an enigma to the tune of the hours/ drawing an ellipse (I’ll stay) between the sun and my heart][ii] he mused

                  Until at last everything darkened, as was foreseen

                  [His head rang like a bell tolling at the height of its own structure]

                  5

                  And a prayer rebounded from the sleeping one

                  5.0 A L O V E O F M O R T A L N E C E S S I T Y

                  Curvilinear, with soft skin and burnished hair, he pressed a kiss onto the black revolving chamber

                  A certain pain gnawed at him: the nerve, twisting, distended a vein

                  The icy lips

                  -Allow your icy mouth to touch me

                  The pallid skin, so radiant and pale

                  A suicidal tear venturing into the vacuum

                  -The weight of my temples,

the dagger that bends me down,

the spur that scrapes me

for your primrose breath- he recited, already dark

                  The one who had been his was satisfied,

                  And biting her swollen lower lips: you no longer exist

                  5.1 T O R S I O N

                  She watches the wheels spin and – on their axles – disintegrate, waving

                  Taken aback by the force exerted by the rigorous mechanism, she empties the enormous bags of rain that swell beneath her eyelids

                  Her earlobe swells

                  Her chest bursts

                  And with fleeting emotion –goodbye– a faint alveolar shine is lost beneath the rouge

                  -Dissolve two grains of salt, let them be shed

                  He travels with the white spheres

                  He is filtered, cooling his spinal cord

                  She lay down but continued to exhale

                  She saw her prayer rebound from the one asleep

                  And the dance exploded with the force that trumpets proclaim: she bends low letting scars escape as he spins, twists; takes flight and jettisons (V. cortejo funebre)

                  And, so,

it is too late: the watery prism disintegrates her gaze,

falls,

and in the form of a liquid kiss

spreads over the one asleep

                 5.2. S T I F F E N I N G

                 -Hit your mark,

skillful lady, aim well

                  (Tight held the candelabra, tense the myocardium) SHE FLIES:

                  Aloof to the asyncopated pulse

                  To the robin’s blue song

                  To the great sobbing of the opposite sex

                  (Slow the rupture, brief the stammer)

                  Between bell tolls

she ripped out a splinter

and expired on his chest

                   5.3. T H E R E C K L E S S S P I N O F T H E S E N S O R S [C o r t e j o F ú n e b r e][iii]

                   Black birds wriggle along pecking at the clouds

                   An elastic ray lashes the leaden hill

                   Wide are the drops that the sky discharges in thick crystal drops

                   Wide are the skies that fall on his blurry and fragmented body

                   With his face blurry, disintegrated, he raised a question: do you hear, up in the heights, the knife penetrating?

                   And then another: Do you shelter, Father, some Holy Pain in your chest?

                   (He collapses): Did some red rose, on your side, open its eyes? Is your sky-blue solitude as brutish as mine? Do you get red like this, when you love? Do you become gelid, do you stiffen? Do you really tremble?

                    Listen: Does gold pour from your eyes when you see me prostrated on the ground?

                    He lifted his lips and prayed: Only open a hole in the galaxy for clotting, far from your dreadful gaze, Lord of the Tremors

                    He lifted his lips and a grenade flowered on the tip of his tongue.