autumn morning

The eternal dawn at different hours tells the day 

that this is the occasion 

for another day to live under the ubiquity of the sun’s light.

If you ask me the time and day I will tell you

it is not the moment you are thinking of, but the sounds are the same

in any early morning, the park and its trees

are empty of the physicality of life. But I’m not there

where I used to be

walking with Romeo dreaming and waiting for the goddess of love. 

Nothing is the same again, my friend is travelling

where only the gods of Olympus live. Today I’m looking for traces

of the past but I only find the present at the bus stop.

Past and present, two concepts for books of maths and maybe

ideas from the book of revelations but nothing about love.

From maths I learned to write and put together flowers on the table

next to the dark window.

How much for hours of knowledge in the big sale of the day?

I am not the seller.  I’m only the lover round the moon

waiting for the next time the philosopher comes to paint the tree red.

Let me tell you the metro buses are never at the bus stop.

Buses are for travelling to the bullring. As you know, it’s the place

where bulls are killed for pleasure.

Tomorrow is the last day of October.

Halloween for the lovers of death, with the spirits flying everywhere.

Business as usual at the banks in the City of London 

at midnight the number 8 bus crosses Bank at Princes Street.

the midnight party

In Shoreditch the ghosts are marching in front of the old cathedral

the horses are dressed in white ready for the crusaders.

It is the tradition to pay in silver and kiss the king in times of war

vases are needed to take away the rich bounty.

I wish the dark and sticky trophy would cover Smith’s army

and the profit fulfil the desires of the capitalist dream.

The Baroness is happy in her golden sarcophagus

while her consort goes around town looking for sainthood.

Tonight she is smiling down the stairs of the seat of power

so I will dedicate to her one of the sonnets

of my friend Shakespeare.

The one he liked to recite to the sorcerers at the hour of darkness.

Well if you say so.

Do not forget that it’s also for her Anglo Saxon generals.

Under the naked peach tree the sorcerers dance for the bag

with the golden coins.

He, the joker of the eternal smile, fills his tall hat with stars

from the fig tree.

Don’t tell me, we know he is the thief

who stole the yellow pumpkin from my window.

The face

looks from the same window where I like to drink my whisky.

Just a long goodbye before the midnight party

I need for tomorrow’s memories. But I’m sorry to tell you,

he is still like a cold fish.

He was killed just before the dinner party

when they planted a candle in his heart and his glittering eyes

lit up with fire.

He smiles, what a glorious smile! A yellow smile with cash

for the shareholders and their guests.

Dear friend, dress normally and don’t forget the witches,

the broom is waiting for you. At midnight the bankers will pay

the interest, and don’t forget

you have to pay for every penny they give for tonight’s party.

autumn equinox

The irreverent tic toc of the clock opened the wall exactly where the door

is closed and the tic toc travelled through the transparent rooms.

I have other moments in my memories, a democratic space,

a space to dissolve my dreams in the lights of yesterday.

Then nothing or everything with black birds flying in different directions.

Next day after the autumn equinox

it will be impossible not to notice the tilting of the big star.

They are two faces looking at different days

past and present in one hour.

Well how will the dark side of the nothing of thinking

look a minute after the light comes to the horizon of the zodiac.

I know Sun god and the lovers of power. On my left is the other day,

in front is the emptiness of the nothing in the history of mankind.

Venus and Moon flying,

one or two over the yellow trees forming the night, and the hot Moon

submerges herself in the infinite blue space.

Nothing is known of where the light of millions of times lives, 

till the self becomes memories in stones 

painted by the constant going of the winds.

My boat goes to the end of the day, on the other side of the frontiers

is the yesterday marked with millions of dark lines.

And who opens doors to answer the dialectical question on the genesis

of the original world?

Again the nothing is everything in the space, the power of the unknown

opening into the affairs of space-time.

The abstract synthesis of millions of hours of time and life

without the sun’s universe in my little space.

Let me tell you, freedom is the prison of one episode in the clock

of a second.

Today I have the same questions in the circular dimension of the calendar.

What is the outside of the eternity of the one and only number,

the zero and the infinite of the finite of reason.

And the tic toc of the mind

continues marching to the dialectic ideals of everything in one logic question.

How solitary will tomorrow be?

Tomorrow the trees will be naked and they will go to bed to get up again

before love is transformed in the atom of a red apple.

The sky will be closed for new visitors so I invite you to open the other 

doors and together see the second before the hour.

Death is when the tic toc gives me another touch on the shoulder.