POETS PAPER PENCILS

I write dramas and passions

to please my pencil.

I write as one draws a sheep

for a barbecue, paper, pencil.

Ink winds,

on the desert white leaf yellowing

to build the structures of an imaginary city.

We are prisoners of the city poetic.

Eternal escaped a logical universe,

we must nourish dreams.

Hungry creatures.

Dark unfulfilled.

Drought dehydrated.

The desire of the Sahara

was moistened

a slush Swedish.

He was jailed on a postcard from China.

Snow on the asphalt.

Chalk on slate.

Psychotic Ink Spots.

Poetic delirium.

The drama of characters when they are alone;

is that everyone makes their mouth.

They come together to make words

rotting on legal contracts

flowering or in a text by Rimbaud.

Unity is strength

lack of paper, we take the bark.

Poets, paper, pencils.

Rock, paper, scissors.

The modern era and its screens.

Finish the reign of the typewriter.

These texts that you type violently

with typos and white liquid.

Appeared in 1997 in the journal Zero de conduite