9-05-17

The furnaces burned high in the distance, tinting the smoke in the air a bright orange against the black of the night. The man walked in the hills seeking the warmth of the fires even if his lungs screamed for air. The acidic smoke tasted sweet in the back of his throat.
The furnaces tall like pillars holding the weight of the sky. A long figure in a hood, holding a staff and skinny as a stray dog waited atop the bridge to the nearest furnace.
It waited for the man.

17-06-17

A lo lejos se escucha una batucada, el ritmo de sus tambores embriaga.
Mueve mis pies mientras leo, sigo sentada.
Hace frío y hay fuego en mi mente, una gran hoguera se bate contra el hielo de la noche, mientras los artistas danzan con cada golpe de sus tambores.
Están descalzos sobre la arenilla de la plaza, entre eucaliptos y arbustos bajos.
Probablemente el líder va marcando el ritmo con un pito, pero no lo escucho con la distancia.
Probablemente esa persona es quien da el primer paso, a primera fuerte pisada contra el suelo cuando empiezan a tocar, orquestando su inicio.
Los perros cantan a la luna menguante, acompasando el ritmo, tiñendo de notas lánguidas y melancólicas.

16-06-17

The house trembles.
The rain falls hard.
The wind howls into my window.
It’s been quite some time since we had something like a storm.
The wind howls.
The house trembles, it moves.
A wind-born earthquake.
The green crystal chime bangs against itself. It’s going to smash into my window.
I can taste it, the air on my lungs.
It calls me.
Yet, I stand here, sat.
As the window moves on its rails.
AS the bark of the trees cracks in rhythm.
The wind bears force, strength, but still, I am unable to grasp it.

A man's body

It was a busy day.

Midday.

The sun was high and hidden between clouds.

Men in suits dressed the streets carrying their cases filled with papers and charts and contracts.

Then Bum.

He smashed the wall of the stairs; he came rushing from his apartment on the 5^th floor.

He didn’t scream, he just felt he hit on the wall and stopped for a second to recover. Then he kept on running.

He ran out of the lobby to the streets, now screaming for help.

The men in suits only diverted their eyes and made room for the mad man to keep running, screaming his lungs out for help.

He was dressed in a sleeping robe, loose, tied on his waist, so with every step he took everyone could see his genitals and his hairy legs, his balls and penis bounce, like dead skin hanging.

He screamed and screamed, words without meaning for those who heard the sounds of despair.

He was dying, he felt. People only saw a crazy man without his medication.

So he kept on running and screaming, his balls bouncing, his hairy legs trying to take another step.

And the people in suits only made room for him, too busy with their own lives.

The man in loose robes eventually slowed down, his throat sore and dry, his muscles itched in exhaustion.

People did not mind him.

And he fell to the floor. Dead.

No more words from that empty mouth, that distressed mind.

He fell to the floor and people in suits surrounded his corpse. They stood there in awe, only death could disturb their routine.

A man threw his hand over another to keep them from getting closer.

A silhouette raised from the corpse.

Slowly a dark figure of a female body raised from the man’s body.

Her soul was free from his old body.

The silhouette though faceless still conserved the distress from her body in her shape; a tragic pose as her ethereal existence dissolved.

- Inspired in a Picasso sketch: “Estudios para evocación” 

Written 12-03-17

Staircase

- What are you? – he asked, stepping down.

                The staircase led faraway at his back.

                The shadow moved closer, it was as dense as smoke, staining the white emptiness that surrounded them.

                He took another step back, his balance precarious on the stone steps. They were cold, they were hard, they were real.

- What are you? – he asked again, the tremor in his voice hid fear.

                The shadow took another step towards him. It lifted the mass that was its head. It pointed at him with what could’ve been a long, crooked and ghastly finger.

                The smoke touched his chest.

- I am you in human form. – it said, as he fell down the stairs.

Written 3-06-17

Fire pit

We were running. We stopped.  The fire pit lighting the woods ahead of us. It wasn’t pretty or even hopeful. It seemed like god was crackling in the embers, cracking, burning. The god of the forest waited.
The entity had sent their beasts after us, they had risen from the mud, the putrid pestilence of decay. They raised as the forest ate our steps.
We knew it was the darkness in the side of the fire, as it the god of the woods crept impossibly in that place. It was the impossible, it was the immediacy of the light, the sharpness of the edges of the shadow.
We looked at each other’s eyes, searching at for an answer, a path to follow.
It was an easy decision, not a decision at all. Be eaten by the places and the memories that hunted us. We walked forward.  One foot just ahead of the other, sinking lightly in the organic mud, warm because of the decomposition of flesh and feces. Mushroom were anchors to our heels.
A full stop at the edge of the small grove ruled by the light of the fire. We stood in the realm of the shadows, not that was division made only by the fear of our minds. We knew that it was the body of the god. They breathed in our lungs by the sweet (…), they licked out blood in out mouths. They were the air and the soil.
We stood there weighting our presences in the grove. We didn’t had such thing.
The fire cracked, an invitation and a timing waiting. We set a foot onto the lighted mud and grass and stone. The fire burned from the embers that beat with a pulse, it was out. Our hearts, the contraction of our veins, we were at sync.
The fire pit was taller than us, small moths towards the light of (…)
The wild fire burned, its ashes flew in circles, carrying the heat. This was a heart. That was to burn to burn it all, shunning the dense fog away as the humidity of corpses left. It wanted consumption of the remains, a fair trade for the lived.
We knew.
We had to carry her here. That limp body, hard meat for the maggots, the strong smell of our sin, the blood of the deceased.
We didn’t feel the presence of the god in the grove, we felt it everywhere, even in her. We only realized only now that it had been with us every step, that it had been everything.
We stained our wounded hands dragging her here. She needed fire.
And the fire burned.