Each day has its night, every day the skin of thought is subtracted from the world and through devours their sex impulse as slowly as possible. Marchal Lord would say: "Animals pragmatic, have subdued the man, but the beast on the loose" in honor of his words have gained consciousness, we have scaled all over the brain for the first cell, breaking unnecessary penetrations, hanging our will with the moral rope, tying our arms to the ideal of love, false love, false harmony. We should, by merit of true selfless conscience, release the beast that slumbers us, awaken the primitive desires, our flesh deliver without hesitation to the charms of the night, flogging imposed.
never have the heart in the chest, the eyes give meaning to the flesh that surrounds us, we pause in time, a relentless desire for vivacity, inhabit the error in each act, engender boredom and we prolong in the slightest way.
Let then, the medium in which thought suppression, the greater essence of nature is misunderstood. Original Breath of Genesis first, in which all actions are possible and that the real evil looking coat.
At the request of the presence par excellence, day summit on the sorrow night, we take the big leap into the abyss of our absence, at least offends our conscience, our smallness, tear off the flesh of the flesh to give life to only true reality.
Poems in the Anthology of Renata University of Antioquia.
Confession in Green River
I believe in God, I live in him and he will live
loading
own ashes under his arm .
I will be remembered,
appointed
feared.
I'ma poet's death,
forty-eight works
a tribute to the charms
sold on street corners.
Ridgway, strong hands
bodies climbing up tearing the flesh, a game where you bet
life, I do.
Nights in candles acres
asleep on white and cold skin that
flicker in his mind without voice or palpitations.
Death
nude art.
I confess, I am an artist of many deaths
not remember his muse and his life,
forty-eight women lying in its history.
The Awakening of the Shadow
am not wise nor seek knowledge, seek
the essence of time than under mine. I am pleased faces
still in my hands without connections or limbs, that intention
abolished on the edge of existence.
In a static existence.
I like to play mad, hiding among bodies
jovial,
between terse veils marked by my tracks.
I am the oldest existing possibility, that renaming
eternal smile
prompting
movement of the legs, inside and outside
generating life, death.
An insight that continues,
and nothing can stop him.
Bundy,
A name marked by blood,
am the law and the commandment,
and sometimes the hand that punishes.
I'm excited all colors,
all the smells, the bedding and shapes. Habito
your shadow on your skin And I hold,
gently, as a hope
prohibited.
Piénsame as a God
dissipated in the empty skins
tempting to raise its truth.
unleashed the world over time,
create a sky rain
sterile, infertile.
walked on one line
to paint the sky with the ink
secrets of man.
wolves
pack a pack that lurks,
the father teaches his children the way
each line in the skin is a truth that does not support
that life away.
Manson, the great director
of eternal symphony.
The movement of your hands
contains death,
follow the pace, the road. We
a wound to his word.
contains The night we
and frees us,
master of life and virtue.
proclaim his psalm
and we projected in its shadow.
More than art,
death is a truth that between edges
help you to discover.
Every drop of blood
build a road.
open the doors and bring you before God.
In-Touch
I destroyer of forms,
limits.
latent end I know,
uncompromising, scathing.
I can build where many have died,
playing with skulls,
carve your name on them,
deleted,
invent a new language or paint the silence.
'm waving,
sometimes stained with blood of others.
the female's charm is its walking serene, sex
mine, knowing my absence;
I bow in her chest, lick his eyes,
the road slowly, without haste tear.
sighs Evoking the
rushed into the great abyss,
have been a victim of my deception,
that fire that burns and burns.
I have been sex in their walls,
in heaven, in their warm beds excited
violence degenerated
me and I restrain myself,
flirting
moan to keep the charm.
The
took my hands and they tied me with his legs, wanting
in himself, with unsuspecting forward
awaken all my fears.
Sometimes, too, have been death, traces
asleep somewhere,
moisture down the neck, lips bitten
, loose skins
to write my name without knowing it.
At the end of the night,
breath stops on the edge,
discover me, I rebel.
Give three cheers to Mr Marchal.
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