A couple of jaguars

laying

in the summer

of your skin.

Caresses

“And between us and it, the thunder…”

D. H. Lawrence

I

I breathe you

and from the blackberry tree

a commotion of butterflies

announce the cabbala of your dreams

II

There is a breeze arising from

the centre

of your body

an iconoclast fleurette.

A simple touch.

A simple touch of a

light aestival day.

III

I breathe the river

of your lost desire,

the one you postponed

under the forbidden meaning.

The one that is determined to be your guard,

stubborn kiss.

IV

While you are sleeping

let me write your dreams.

Just let me, with the morning drizzle,

sow every single word

and your sigh

will announce me

the harvest time.

V

Your hands resting

in my chest

brought my thoughts

to the age of innocence

when the satisfied desire

wasn’t a question

nor an answer,

just a state of grace.

VI

I breathe you

at this exact time,

neither more, nor less:

Punctual.

Time has been an issue

since the end of the world

was announced, and your

theory that it is better today

than tomorrow legitimatize me

to inventory your scents

and bring together

musk and cinnamon.

Your aroma:

ocean where I submerge

these dreams

to inhabit you

filled with you.

I breathe you.

VII

Taciturn and distracted,

I let my kiss

live in your island.

Free to migrate

from north to south

pursuing the variation

of your spring days.

Byron González,2005

                                                                                                                                                  “Give birth again

                                                                                                       to the dream.”

                                                                                                                  On the pulse of morning

                                                                                                                        Maya Angelou

                                                                                             To: Fenske’s

Loud love

Perpendicular

The midday touch

Secuent zenith

Its is history

Simple seed

Simple song

Memoirs of piano

And

Solo voice

Chorus

The plural pronouns

Fiercely

The lyric

Letter by letter

Word by word

We

Sing

And

We sung

And

Still

Around

The seed

The proveb true:

As the roots

Are

You will know the tree

Andantino-allegro vivo

Andantino sostenuto

Piu andante

Open your eyes

Sleeping beauty

Voiceful grow

Young and strong

Filter the light!

Let the sun

Inmigrant soul

Begin its job.

Nov.8-Dec.22, 2003

Let clarify and define

the borders

allow me to punctuate the i.

First of all, accept

the thunder.

Let recognize the lightning

through the night:

It is out of discussion the intolerant need

of a solitary shoulder

where tears may rest.

Words has been my world

and will be.

The fusion of their passion,

the clairvoyant tour describing

the texture of the skin;

the lonely observatory,

the lighthouse where music

redeem his empire:

drums in the middle of the sun,

the flourishing allegro irate

of poetry.

I demand to be here

in full command of my capacity

even though there are clouds

and foggy sidewalks under my foot.

I am here:

Opened skin, incontinent riot.

Byron González

There is not eyes but ours,
clandestine,
definitive escape.
Silent sibyl syllabify situations,
sycophant of routine, routine  your self.
Triduum, triad, tercet,
wheat has not eaten.
The same game,
imaginary sand.
Seed that has not sprouted
from the ear.

But, deserved to set in act:
hand but sap,
but sapience.
Hands that start chipped this body,
candid contemplator
of your weave, Ariadne .

To this innocent creature
you have created him a new ghost:
The gift creator,
or better,
the good donor.

I command you: Do your job,
carve him up,
leave him naked
with his   nobles parts
in the air;
disillusion him up
of the trinity this  tritheist,
this archangel  Saint Gabriel
who in holy crusade
brandishes his ardent, flashing, peels sword
to exile him self.

Byron González

Dew
over
the nipples.
Lips
over
the pistils.
There is no frontier
just
the conspiracy
of
this eruptive pleasure.

Byron González

“There is no penance due to innocence.”
John Donne

The desire grows up between, slowly and tender.
Experts knowing the field, we began to build the words.
We perfectly were aware of the horizons of the nails.
We discover that desire is not a palliative,
 is a response,
a state of knowledge.
Desire is just the signal that solitude
imposes
as a need to cover its dusk.
In addition,
we enjoy it.
This space is music’s dominion.
No intermezzo is allow,
just allegro crescendo and percussion.
This passion is a path,
a guide for listener apprentice.
Here there are no rules,
just given.
The borderlines
of our chants
and
the finger tips
recorded the sinuosity 
of our dreams:
The pleasure,
The indescribable pleasure
of the enjoyment of the flesh.
No regrets,
not a single
rumor,
not ambiguity begging.
Desire demand satisfaction
not devious sob,
not a mea culpa of devout believers
of a indefinite present.
Pleasure comes to ours eyes
with its suzerainty
integrity and grace.
There is no doubt about it.
And if there is a hesitancy,
please,
put it beside
and let listens the accord.
The punishment is the myth,
that our innocence use
to create the melody.

Byron,2oo4.

Night, it is already night.
Inebriated, he walked.
Hanging from his tatter
the memories,
and of all of them
one
stands out victorious
hidden in the corner of his lips:

He knew the flavour of the snail,
was dazzled with the hidden amber,
recognized the differences between the honey and the sting.
No one will be able , now,
to captivate the scent of the saffron
and
the incandescence  of the labium.
The same that
- even in his solitude-
he maintains 
tenderly in his lips
and his tongue
keeps it awake.

Byron González