Spanish poet born in Argentina. Member of the Spanish Association of Literary Translators and PhD in English Philology.

Someone's fucking next door
a sort of whisper, scarcely panting
yet increasingly so,
water running, a flowing murmur,
in expectation I 'm listening in the dark
clouded in unknowing,
for whispers to climb up a
ladder to a certain sky
not feeling particularly jealous either
since their spontaneous concert is open for us all
to listen to and thus share
holy communion

the moaner
- a female, I can't
thorougly sympathise with
the breathless male her companion
only judging from the pitch of her moans,
but that's uncertain
does not prove the quality of encounters,
just her ability to state pleasure aloud,

Who knows about hidden tenderness,
the compassionate knots,
brocade of coordination
melting flesh into soul
and viceversa?

Wait, a night mare will rise on the edges of dawn
trotting into their bed, into their minds
to lie in between embracing them both
a night mare from the edges of dawn... 
something made of flesh and bones and soul...
Look at the three animals perspiring

Metamorphosis or crossbreeding?
 This story is about a cat
who fell from a window top
(being fond of hights and space and pigeons,
mind you)
and was turned into a dove
in midflight or in midfall

Down he went and up he flew
in a turmoil of the breeze
from the eleventh window floor
to the next branch of a beech
a few meters from the road

Neighbours witnessed this event
and will testify as to
height of building, distance between window and beech
and the colour of the dove.

Watching TV one evening
as it was getting dark
I heard a whisper, I heard a voice
calling my name, and then in scream
 words I will not forget


"Feel your anguish grow
as slowly as your nails after death
beyond this life and beyond
the cosy sky of your thighs

"and feel something grow
like a hidden penis while naked men parade
in a nightclub
behind the screen
whilst you fully tied up, cuffed and gagged 
beneath the trees of paradise
neatly ironed angels' wings
without promise, all their faith

"in their pubic hair, cascades of hair
covering your eyes
as cuffed and gagged you fall asleep
thinking of  snowhite."

Don't think I want to write
any more poetry
any more prose, your bread and water
they turn sour and polluted
unless poetry is a weapon
or a poison in your lips
"Whose lips?" you'll ask
and you will know instantly whose lips...

But not me, I don't know:
riddles torment me, 
puzzles shock my trembling hand
as I read 
About African babies dying  on the streets
of nowhere, and newly borns despair
Where is poison for their killers' lips?
Where the gun?
Metamorphosis is a gun
turning South into North
white into black
greed into words
bureaucracy into poetry
and a murdered President's son
into milk for the Unknown.

Find yourself a place to hide
in a garden of delight;
burn your arms slowly in this fire
lick your tongues behind this wire
(un)less senses learn to grow
all your craftsmen will get old

Burn yourself within this pyre
lick your soul, jump from the tower!
Give me water, bring me news
to lift my heart, to lift my eyes
from this valley of your sorrows
to the never-endless hills
of the damned, the fool, the grieved
those who mourn and those who slip
down a piece of paper blank
as a blanket for the night

Music turning me on
driving me mad
turning me off
switching my flanks
licking my toes
creeping up my shoulder blades

sharpening bones
tickling my ears
scraping my flesh

outside me, inside waves
of electric colour light
like saffron as if I was
a plate of rice served
on the dancing floor
at a disco so well hidden from your eyes

your eyes
all over the dancing floor, turning
and spinning
again and again

I am, darling, a mad
mad eardrum
or a horse
trapped in arrears

turned off by this vibration
at the bottom of my spine
and
upper lips...

Keep dancing
keep, keep forever spinning
your time around
the clock the prison the madhouse

the Earth

the floor
the jumping dustbin
o sweet dark music of the times
when
i was young