Tea poem from the tea bag she gave me

It was getting more

and more obvious

that she

would never be convinced

to join the

5 o’clock ritual

with me.

It was,

you might say,

not her cup of tea.

To be in love

To be in love

sucks more than

love itself.

They both suck, actually.

Nothing sucks more

than the awkward sensation

of flapping butterfly wings

inside your stomach.

There you are,

a nice decent fellow

and the next thing you know

you find yourself smiling

like an idiot at the sight

of a devilish lady.

To be in love

hurts more than an open

surgery

without anesthesia

or a hundred broken bones.

To be in love

is a fucking disaster,

World War II reloaded

or just the simple equation:

(Hiroshima + Nagasaki)²

To be in love

is craving for attention

like an ego maniac

lost in the ego trip of

his own desires.

To be in love

is the blind gesture

of counting the petals

without realizing

the irreversible damage

you do to a flower.

To be in love

is forgetting to eat and

thus devoiding yourself of

protein and filling your heart

with maple syrup instead.

Worse than being in love

is falling in love,

that split second that led to

the retarded decision of giving

attention to the chimera

who will devour

your soul for the rest

of your life.

It´s not about

It´s not about

the one true love of your life

the soulmate you think

you have just met

but about all the others

you previously failed

to love.

It´s not about

the future you are dreaming for

but about the past

you were never aware of

and the present

you often dismiss so easily.

It´s not about

the one true God you think

you finally found

but about all the years of ignorance

before that.

It´s not about

the adorable kitten you are

now affectionately caressing

in your lap

but about all the others

you drowned

at birth.

It´s not about

private jets and bullet trains

but about the pedestrian walk

our ancestors used

for so many generations.

It´s not about

one inspired poem

but about

the previously aborted ones

and all the failures

that made you who you are

right now

and from now on.

Scar song

I have more scars

than a war veteran

but despite their disgusting

appearance

women tend to find them

sexy.

Not a single woman

has stopped dating me

after I acquainted them

with my scars.

First, they stare at my scars

as if they were some kind

of surreal masterpiece

signed by Dali

with a toledo sword

and then timidly

ask me

if they can touch them.

Then, they beg me

to recount the story of

each one of them

and are very insistent

about it.

So I chronologically

start my scar odyssey

with the one just above

the belly button (given at birth),

continue the journey with

the one on my left elbow

(won at a penalty shootout in

my early childhood)

and abruptly end my voyage

with the nastiest of all

(tumour extirpation)

along the femoral artery.

By the end of the story

some of my listeners are so impressed

that they begin to cry

as they bend over and tenderly

kiss my scars

as if they were some kind

of sacred icon.