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Nadine
I listened to it,The night a liquid pour filling the barrel.Dawn, a gray light I didn't want to wake up to.The smartphone,a surface for humidity and the alarm the doom.Cold outside the duvet,Black cat whiskers against my cheek.However, Monday. Groceries was the order.Job?I work Sundays, holidays and you tell me when I'm not. Even resting I do so.For a writer even when not writing,All the time is thought. [Nadine, en interacción con el sistema frontal número 4, mantendrá el temporal de lluvias torrenciales en la península de Yucatán y el sureste de México. Comisión Nacional del Agua | 19 de octubre de 2024 | Comunicado]
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La reina de los no muertos
A casa llega y entre libros se queda.Los pies sobre la tarima,Té a la mesa y migas en las rodillas. De ella sale y entre historias trajina.Las palabras describen cada piedra y pececillo, un lirio o un yelmo.Un cauce definitivo.Extiende la mano,Flotando se posan en ella.Por color o tamaño,En blanco, inacabable.De tinta, infinito.Ligeras estrellas como cometas.Y entonces de vuelta,Mirando infinito,Un océano oscuro y maldito.
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Mi venganza
Y sin anestesia nomás,La hipodermica me clavó.La satisfacción no fue menor.Aunque la evidencia quedó,(una mancha bolita en la pared).Pude aplastar al traidor...¡A la maldita chupa [sangre] que me dejó picazón!
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Trapped
Despite his size, he moved the body or to be precise, the unconscious guy he had tied.A spin a time,A spin in life.Tomorrow it would be a feast,All liquified.
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Cocoon
In her shrine,The front paws in pray.I don't know to what.A dream, a stay.Doubt scintillates,What's next brings a demise.The many legs left behind,To be reborn a kite.
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There
Bloated and forgotten.Lying on the way to rot.Gray instead of white.When white was the colour it should had.Changing day by day,Into mushroom pie.How did you die that even ants are not touching your remains?
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Rastro
Redonditas bolitas negritas,En el alféizar.¿Dónde está el gato?En la cama.El culpable inclinando una rama.Menudo de tripita con muchas patitas.Y no es uno,Son muchos... Muchas.Que traerán sus espejos y huevos después de soñar.
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Too wet
Under the bucket,Pink thready meat of sorts.Survivors of the cats and dogs it rained.Without a place to go,Anywhere to happily hole.
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Stories
Oh, I’ve met poetry.I’ve seen it parade over there, above.It goes from sapphire to metal.It is a storm in lie.A wait in velvet for the light.From the whitest white to the most royal of purples.Green it likes.And over brown it fawns.Skies where you want to meet your dreams.Solely to say goodbye.
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My garden
And I let the rage howl among the roses.For the tiny white clover to bloom lost among long blades of fondness.All disorderly, untamed.It seems opposite and quite contrary to order and purpose. It flies savage,Dandelion white whirling.Weedly basking in the unknown.Enchanted butterflies and bees buzzing in and out.Madness.Still it thinks and fruits, my garden.