the year we found (black) magic.

i dont like hot weather.
i'd rather stay in.

this is what he told me, at 2am. while i tried to read in between the lines. while we were legs and arms intertwined beneath the covers of our make believe life.

i like the rain best.
i like it when its cold.

i said this to him, noticing the far away look in his eye. he was always someplace else. always not with me. maybe trying to escape me, mentally. emotionally. i always tried my best to pull him back in. with words of love and encouragement. but it seemed to only work when it was words of hate and discouragement.

us two together, were warped twins.
friends called us the terrible twosome
and i cringed when i saw lovers carrying on happily. hugging and kissing in the street.

inevitably, the conversations turned into ugly little things. like,

i cant stand to hear your voice

or

i dread coming home to you

oh, but weren't they such magical moments we had even just for a little while? atleast when things turned shitty, we managed to set eachother free.

me: riding happily in the single lane
and you: with a girl that looks just like me.

success machine.

sitting inside this stillness.
inside this place where it all begins.
waiting and waiting
for something to happen.
and if it comes (as it usually does) then i'll climb on top of it
and ride it straight into
it's sweet,sweet glory.
and if it never comes (it sometimes doesnt) then i'll just throw down this towel and just say,


fuck it.

the beginning of the end.

monetize and scrutinize
transformation and metamorphosis
the cultivation of
the cultivation of

i had a line in here somewhere waiting to break free but its struggling to come out. it started with transformation, formation and turbulent endings or beginnings or sometimes they're disguised as both. dont scrutinize. we're all liable. wrapped inside these conditions, formulating our death wishes. last rites. dont put up a fight. bleed it out until youre dry. i had a line in here somewhere that haunted me from 2am til it showed up in a dream where i was 8 years old, trying to run away from it. i had a line in here somewhere. its saved in the distance between you and me, or between me and the stranger in line next to me, or me and the shattered 5 year old me. its written somewhere in a filthy smut magazine. revolutionized, categorized, memorized and coming down with frost bite. wait,i'm trying to express something. trying to expose you. me? me through you? i'm trying to say something that i haven't said before. i'm trying to be my own muse, but am turning into a poem whore. i'm trying to give you something you can't refuse! I had a line in here somewhere...

the sound of glass and black hearts being broken.

the cultivation of sweetness
can never actually be cultivated
when youre a raging bitch
and have mutilated a few hearts
with your eyes and your mouth.

it doesnt matter though
if no one really knows

about your rotten heart
and the black emptiness
you call
your personality.

youre really just a shithead
parading around as a great friend

but

no one ever see's you coming
like a right hook to the face

and

no one ever see's you leaving
like a thief escaping without a trace

wrestle with this.

dirty fingers
reaching up towards heaven
with filthy hands
i am well practiced at the art
of manipulation

i still feel joy, somehow.

dreamed last night of broken teeth.
they all fell out one by one
while i screamed at the reflection in the mirror
of someone who was not me

i feel relieved, somehow.

these dirty hands
this dirty mouth
shouting out
obscenities
cultivating this fungus
growing inside of me
i asked you for something
you eventually forgot to give me

and i feel redeemed, somehow.

dirty hands
reaching up
dirty mouth
screaming out

dirty girl

but you love it, somehow.

Fire & Movement

tell me your secrets
and i'll show you
everything
from the inner atmosphere
of my body
to the depths
of my vulnerability

i dont want to break free
just keep me tied to you
bury me deep
inside your wounds
i'll lick your pain away

transform this lust
into a cocoon
we both can occupy
seal me tight
with your spit
and i'll
open myself up
bit by bit
take you in

tell me your secrets
show me where to begin.

i wrote this, then deleted lines, then got pissed off cause i lost my momentum and now i just dont care about it anymore.

losing sleep
short shelf-life feelings
damaged back door woman crawling on her skinned knees
sharpening the knife
thrust it deep,deep

broken free

little exploding orgasms, illuminating my lust

inner turmoil making this an adventure

broken hearts, souls, minds break free, finally

close your eyes now
the damage is done.

what do you say, morphine sister?

my morphine sister resides in the pockets of my brain. my brain, too jam packed, plays blues and jazz whenever it rains. its like an endless loop of Miles Davis and sad saxophones. my fingertips are searching for something new, they reach out into darkness, searching for you.

one day, i'm gonna write a novel

and it's going to be called, Hurricane Season

and it won't have nothin to do with

the weather.

my melancholy heart is clipped onto the clothesline, flailing in the wind. my frozen fleshy belly counts to 10 and wishes it had other things to do. You just cant help this sickness. what do you do with all this flesh & bone, brains & soul, perfect comedic timing, the ability to empathize, and the quick wit to put an out of place comment back in line. Just what do you do, morphine sister?

her glass eyes, distant and cold say nothing

to replace the silence.

when i write that novel, things are gonna change then.

destination: nowhere

i sit here
locked away in this dungeon
eyelashes scratching my eye
cat meowing in the corner.
the world outside is bustling
moving about
they know nothing of
this girl, locked away in her tower.
there are moments of clarity and
brief moments of anxiety, panic, depression
but nothing big enough
to get sick about.
i write letters
and sometimes i mail them.
i write short stories, long stories, poems
and sometimes i like them.
truth be told,
i don't mind being alone
its just when the loneliness creeps in
like an unexpected guest,
is when thing get a little hazy.
still,
i'm locked & loaded
full of imaginary scenarios
and in this particular one,
i get saved.

100 ways to escape.

there's an old drunk who lives in a shack somewhere in that urban jungle of concrete and broken pasts. He sleeps on cardboard boxes, folded in half, lays his head on a pillow made of regrets and warped memories. he's got 4 children, born of him, born from him, who are much like him, but stronger & wiser. They bear the kind of wisdom that is gained from being thrown in the trenches at such a young age. An age when one should be thinking of toys and friends and school, instead they thought about new schools, 100 ways to escape and the difference between apartments and living under random relative's roofs & rules.
That old drunk who lives in a shack, carries his curse and his wounds in a crumpled up paperbag. he pours it into himself as a way to wash the past, forget the present and to spite the future.
That old drunk with the empty soul eyes, cut his heart out long ago when he left behind a young bride. memories of a girl climbing out the window to escape into a life of struggle and near breakthroughs, but the life she imagined, never did come true. she is now a ghost that walks through his dreams, while he falls into his soft and hazy sleep while every night will blur into eachother creating a string of days and nights that happened or never did, or maybe have; he can't remember.
This old man, drinking himself into uncertainty, until he'll be found at 4am staring up at the ceiling of his own self-made nightmare drained of all memory, wounds, plans and hope. Looking like a used up angel, a little boy lost. Sad. Desperate, but finally, relieved.

-Barrios

Universal Theme I

heart full of dust-
it's a desert, a barren landscape.

I'm a fraud.
when held in place,
when told to relate,
when asked to express
these secret words.

the truth is revolting
but I'm willing to be shattered.
spinning my own web,
I'm making it easy
to fall, to collapse, to destroy
this heart,
which is more like a curse,
than a blessing.
more like a burden
than a pleasure.
more like an excuse
to dive into the bottle
or a beckoning river
or an emotionally unavailable & resistant lover.

I'm making it easy
spinning this web
thinking and collapsing
destroying myself, reminding myself
as I'm watching you
drink your coke
on a Sunday afternoon.

drifter and a moment of clarity while thinking about karmic retribution.

a
cup of
cold coffee in the morning
and
a mix of blood
and
a mix of anxiety
stirred into breakfast.

a loss for words.

alone and aware
from the wreckage
left behind:

the collision of memories and emotions
conjure up spells
and this veil has been lifted.

weak bones, jealous bones
our corpses entangled in lust.

a
shot
in
the
dark
for you,
sweet drifter,

vanish off into the horizon
into the sun
into this life
into this violence
into oblivion

then wake me when it's over.