Sorrow is hidden in a head crowned in blood
Towards the wisdom called Jerusalem
You are killing the man who listens to the distance
Is “Ecce Homo” truly there
The higher hierarchy of Spain
While time flows despair descends to haemorrhage
Never painfully, not admitting pain
A bird I am
A bird with a desire to die in Spain.
I will write in the report
She is hiding in soft fruits
Mortified Julia Burgos
Otherworldly memory ticks away six o’clock
Vanity on the fox’s trail
Behold, a miracle!
Supposedly one-sided at instants
Suitable for a scrambled moment
The martyr and her daughter who wash their feet
Tasseled with nails instead of sandals
Anything but sough
Shores and scrapings fantasizing
Daughter do you wish the powder to slip you
To disturb the onus, non-being and tendrils
Wistful across the stones you overcome
Blacker than night
You fear there will no longer be vertebrates
It is the third hour in the night After
You do not grasp – the spilt blood is chiming
From unveiling you wrongfully dread
In agony of you yourself
While we pine atop Grecian terraces.
Still, rivers are audible in endeavour
And at that conjoined
In mirrors is the road to land of the dead
And worshippers of the chronometer
And the unachievable bloom of summer
Put the pigeon on the fire my daughter
We are going to satiate ourselves
Grasshoppers as well my daughter
Before they abandon us through the windows
I forefeel that the unreliable man
quiets his breath and embarks on the way
of Beauty, Ordinance and Wars
The signs along the path are the only thing left for you
Is pride rolling like wheels
in your brain’s sheath?
Will you spin
on the table on screens
of the safeguard,
confinement plum with means
to place wings barred
from air’s ring!?Judgement has to encounter those
whose feet have been walking astray;
to have drama ram them, dispose
their whole being on the same day.
Coal and smoke, tar sills quivering in rage
so big to us from the peasant suburbs;
a delay in morale, in a scarce age
the fury’s fist against the wall perturbs.
Like rats playing wheels with their snouts wide-jawed,
ragged railroader skin-tanned by the sun’s flames,
list to my voice that’s both flawless and flawed
and somewhere behind it a lot of names..
I live as a woman,
I’m dying a Roman!
Is regret lodging in your head, Charlene?
Cynics vomit her
Midwives truth-birth her
And since always
Welcome her on hands
That insidious trash
To fill their pitchers
With her feces.
Born from the spirit of pride
From the spleen of law
From the blood of forefathers
From the womb of lies
The fools loved her
Saints like a knick-knack
Showed her on the fair
Liars about her
Spends her life next to Dionysius,
Bloodless turkey cocks and donkeys
Smell her sacred beak.
Crowned with laurels
Permeated with boredom
In the tasteful asylum
And she sings in blood
To dampened strings
While watching her reflection
In the lavatory of Hades
Now already an ageing whore
Arose from the dream
To maintain the dream.
processing attempts as each memorising
sublime flash of evil genius
penetrates my mind
blinding ringing echo of fire
awaiting for the return of some being
I personally have never witnessed before
and yet continue bearing like
a treasured secret code of the heart
to share yet long as if to cherish
as the 1st discoverer
place pregnant backup aids by not
cherish its prized moments
along well-penned lines of living it.
Fates will always be differentiating
between origins of true life.
However, origins of free will
truthfully never differ
in any fate brought
between those trying to be heard.
A whisper triggers thirst for knowledge in
While a panicked scream can send us running
in the wrong path, secluded from all else
I can finally close the lid of my eyes
in being inspired, eyes wait not for
the dawn’s whistling birds’ dream
in sync with mine of better days break for all
to see us walk past through another evil eye
on its way,
of poetically rhythmic challenge
to pledge in well-penned form.
Everything is without my past weakening crutch
in our daily healing needs
if ever we hope to carry our torches healthily
throughout our chosen marathons of life.
to share something as oneness itself.