In the garden I will die. In the rosebush they will kill me.
I want to be a poet, from head to toe, living and dying by poetry.
My God, I have come with the seeds of questions. I planted them, and they never flowered.
Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verde ramas. Green I love you green. Green Wind. Green branches.
I put my head out of my window and see how much the wind’s knife wants to slice it off. On this unseen guillotine, I’ve placed the eyeless head of all my desires.
Theatre is poetry that rises from the book and becomes human enough to talk and shout, weep and despair.
In our eyes the roads are endless. Two are crossroads of the shadow.
What’s the furthest corner? Because that’s where I want to be, alone with the only thing that I love.
Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.
What matters most has an ultimate metallic quality of death. The chasuble and the wagon wheel, the razor and the prickly beards of shepherds, the bare moon, a fly, humid cupboards, rubble piles, the images of saints covered in lace, quicklime, and the wounding edges of the rooflines and watchtowers.
At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone.
The bride, the white bride today a maiden, tomorrow a wife.
All one’s personality is embedded in gloves and hats after they’ve been good and used. Show me a glove and I’ll tell you the character of its owner.
Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death, but genuine pain doesn’t live in the spirit, nor in the air, nor in our lives, nor on these terraces of billowing smoke. The genuine pain that keeps everything awake is a tiny, infinite burn on the innocent eyes of other systems.
Death, lonely death, Beneath the withered leaves.
I’m satisfied. I am progressively making my life and my name in the surest and purest manner. If I catch on in the theater, as I think I will, all the doors will gladly open wide for me.
The moon carries the masks of meningitis into bedrooms, fills the wombs of pregnant women with cold water and, as soon as I’m not careful, throws handfuls of grass on my shoulders.
Hail, mute devil! You are the most intense animal. An eternal mystic of the fleshly inferno...
Men like to pleasure us, girl. They like to undo our plaits and give us water to drink from their own mouths. That’s what makes the world go round.
Fire is fed by fire. The same small flame destroys Two stalks of wheat at once.