cheap poetry

I - Shooting Star

His face naturally familiar, the warmth of art and the complicity in the rhetoric of our criticism, museum dreamers, lights of darkness. In my chest the nostalgia of other days is reborn but here we are laughing, enjoying the smoke of our cigar looking into each other's eyes, recognizing the melancholy of the facts renewing our complicity now aged just like that friendship covered with love that now changes skin as a snake, that same cobra that developed sadly in my libido, dedicating our love to self-destruction, now reborn as the phoenix with another form of glass enclosing our hearts in the immaculate beauty of the podium surrounded by stories, caresses, colors and shapes which the love of Dalì and Gala became eternal with art as you will be the eternal Venus of this, our museum, always alive while someone feels our words always alive while we continue to convert in love our foolish but necessary melancholy.

II - Smoke in the coldness of the night

Maybe if your name was not so common, I would have forgotten you. Thus I deceive my conscience to silence the muffled cries of my soul, perhaps if I were not a drunkard and did not enjoy the lascivious sweetness in my throat, the cheapest liquor that accompanied by cigarettes sealed the shine of our eyes in a ephemeral but beautiful promise. Why should your lips be so soft? Why should they make me feel in the clouds? ... Or at least while it lasted Why do your eyes emphasize your madness? that in the end it ends up being your honey and for my case, bitterness. But bitterness in the quantum sense of the word because I swear that never by your side I felt this bittersweet taste that now invades me, if bittersweet ... Because still to this day I am unable to not rejoice at the thought of your aura and in the one that seems eternal nostalgia. How I would like this to be the world of never ever and so be able to draw on fresh castles of gold leaf just to venerate you, my muse with the same passion with which I thought you during whole nights only in the light of the moon making your memory smoke in the coldness of the night, finally we were ... -Hummer in the coldness of the night.

III- Venus

Now Venus dances in an exquisite rhythm with the quantum, her legs rise on tiptoe and she falls floating in spirals through the air, I made a rock I can see the muscles of her back, she drops her elbow in my arms, I receive her as if the catastrophe had never happened, his eyes no longer observe my lips, but at least they talk to me, their nerves have disappeared, we are the same as always, in my mind the beauty of the human knots that we were is drawn. For a few seconds like a shooting star I kiss your forehead and Venus finds refuge in my chest, like a shooting star only in my mind.
We return to the crystal, melancholy separates us beauty of indelible love just like the ink of the engraver on paper, just like the oil on the canvas, just like her Murano and I of stone.

IV - The Swamp

Is it the Gala of a Dalí, or the Juanita of a Reverón? I will never deny my vows of eccentricity, or rather madness and how it will happen Venus is transformed now everything happens in a slightly macabre, suspense and fear. Playing love cards like poker is dangerous, how will this end? I'm a jerk who had fallen in love but now Juanita has to put up with Reverón, will that be love after all? So why did not Dalí put up with Gala !? Or perhaps why Frida cried her whole life ?.