[Best_Wordpress_Gallery id=”38″ gal_title=”Featured Artist of the Month: Hector Castells”]<\/p>\n
These poems belong to the Puddle Heroes series, by the hectic fish. <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Puddle heroes is a collection of pictures of puddles with people on it, people not necessarily drowned as much as free floating<\/em><\/p>\n They are the icons of all the rhymes that follow.<\/em><\/p>\n All the photographs have been turned upside down, which is an involuntary tribute to the photographer dyslexia<\/em>\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n The idea behind it is that sometimes reality is better upside down, likely always.<\/em><\/p>\n And the idea behind is also that water dignifies, which is something that funerals do as well, for they are the only places in humanity, besides puddles, where people understands silence and go without themselves. <\/em><\/p>\n Or their ego.<\/em><\/p>\n It is the great thing about working with people reflected: they are egoless for they belong to your imagination. <\/em><\/p>\n all verses are written in pencil because sinking the tip of mine on photographic paper is an experience as silent and devoid of ego, as water and poetry are<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n rubble fish<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n my heart is a red fish my heart is the on black sundays my tongue skips and rhymes idiot as it is the algorithm where Newton shines <\/p>\n BIRTHDAY WAYS<\/strong><\/p>\n Coming to an age there\u2019s one tear and my rage. .<\/p>\n once there was a notion could have been an orchard all my branches are now empty, CHIT FUCK YOU CHAT\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/strong><\/p>\n oh my dog, your acid work this is not my fault. I gently spike the bushes, out of control, not aiming the fucking interstellar shithole you use to rhyme your words, white forests came too early this is you and me same sugar, identical dopamine; CHIT FUCK YOU CHAT me no more,<\/strong><\/p>\n as your sweat drips I neglect the errands, it\u2019s equally maddening to think that you sink the air shaking, spinning in layers <\/p>\n LITTLE GOAT<\/strong><\/p>\n a little goat sighs above my head. weekend fades another little goat smells the air the skylight bleeds
\nthat eats blue rubble
\nand loves scrabble,<\/p>\n
\nred playlist
\nthat you yellowed
\non crystal sand<\/p>\n
\nwhen the lord fails to
\ndeliver shelter
\nand the cripple crumble
\nlong before
\nthe corporate rumble<\/p>\n
\nwhite canvas and blue velvet
\nas my keypad chooses the sky
\nagainst my tendency to sly<\/p>\n
\nstupid is it not<\/p>\n
\nkeeps playing
\nsongs of love
\nand wisdom<\/p>\n
\nin his own rainbows<\/p>\n
\nMy skinny tree has blown all its CV\u2019s,
\nfloating leaves with former articles and ex professions;
\ncolliding against empty trays&huge depressions.<\/p>\n
\nand two degrees.
\nthe spirit of democracy
\ncost me all amphetamines
\n& a PhD.<\/p>\n
\nwith a lemon tree;
\nthought I knew
\nI wanted to be free<\/p>\n
\ncracking slowly as one deep wrinkle.
\n36 dilemmas and a skinny rope
\nshould be enough to roll down all my hopes
\n\u2026
\nend of September
\none more millimetre.
\ndripping like serum
\nin cold plastic bags,
\nearly ages are crawling towards
\nits aftermath<\/p>\n
\nme life for a Xanax
\nYves Tumor song
\nis a sonic sword;
\non its tip, we rattle.<\/p>\n
\nkeeps on dripping
\nlike a double-bassed
\nlittle green devil
\non sixteen deafening speakers,
\nsliding so close
\n& far away;
\nin absolute disarray.<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s my fucking fall.<\/p>\n
\nits lighters and its promises,
\nwords pouring away
\nlike little green devils<\/p>\n
\nat one single point
\nbut wondering what\u2019s
\nthe whole fucking point
\nof your endless black pint<\/p>\n
\nwhere I CHIT FUCK YOU
\nCHAT you for hours,
\nwhile you dripped
\nand repeated
\nall your never-ending routines.<\/p>\n
\nin mathematical equations
\nof love and wisdom,
\nwhere I was the cat
\nand you were the snow<\/p>\n
\nlike some guns
\nor most of the flowers,
\nthat rarely appear at the start<\/p>\n
\ntogether in our mayhem
\nso inescapable and reversed,
\nlike a Friday
\nin a nasty Monday way<\/p>\n
\nyour bluntness grew fat
\nas you kept the cheat and the chat,
\ntrading dolphins
\nfor mosquitoes<\/p>\n
\nmy body weakens
\nonce you\u2019d reach your vein
\nI\u2019d lonely lose my name.<\/p>\n
\nand make amends
\nwith mistakes
\nby fucking them slowly
\nup and down,
\nnice and gently,
\nin all directions;<\/p>\n
\nabout the island by your shore,
\nrealizing that I’m here
\nand I\u2019m not<\/p>\n
\nand I don\u2019t<\/p>\n
\nfucking crunching the barley
\nof your CHIT FUCK YOU CHAT
\nits endless swifts
\nin bloomless fields<\/p>\n
\nerratic onions:
\nin every thin line,
\nlies a fat oblivion.<\/p>\n
\nsoftly wrapped in Sunday dreams,
\nher lightened breath
\nsweeps tomorrow\u2019s beams.<\/p>\n
\nmonday dead.
\n\u2026
\nyoung ibex
\nswapped the heat
\nfor two cold feet.
\nher former curls
\ngot frozen under wool.
\nnow she is like a woman
\nlying by some pool.
\nthe sudden stop
\nof skinny orgasms,
\nkept her kind of cool.
\n\u2026
\nwind quite blows
\nuncompromised frights.
\na bunch of punctured clouds
\nare gathering to fight<\/p>\n
\nand sees the cliff.
\nIt only takes one memory
\nto get her belly stiff.
\n\u2026
\ndirty rain recalls
\nthe flavour of her pain.
\nthere was no hope
\nin those remote slopes.<\/p>\n
\nnorthern thunderlights
\nare freaking out her tail
\ncreature turning pale
\n\u2026
\nrun run run,
\nlittle young ibex.
\nthere is no fun
\nin repressed sex.
\nfar away from your jungle,
\nthere\u2019s an irish psycho
\nand a triangle.<\/p>\n