New York
This village was born into itself
And died somewhere in the outskirts of the city.
The lampposts kept company with ghosts
And each admired the moon's dim glow.
Roses wept in the public gardens
And wore the pale color of melancholy.
The streets were busy naming themselves
And in the end will die with no names.

The beggar dies in the heart
Of the city,
And the only news of his death was kept
In a single drop of blood.

 

Emblem for a keepsake Locket
Your heart is like a little house burning
with no love
to put the fire out.

 

I wrote this while very drunk, so what?

Between all the empty bottles
And cigarettes and women
You've lost the sense of love.
Numbed to the depraved
Abandon your body
has suffered your soul
To suffer
Is no longer in touch.
And the way she looks at you
Says I don't think nothing at all.
 

Untitled

The four of them were drowned:
Peter, in dreams and
old inkwells.
Michael, in a column of dust.
Rose, in the dark woodland
regions
Of his heart.
And Angelica, in a shower
Of blue butterfly wings.