Raven Riley Full Length

The city lit up full of shadows that revolve around the city embedded autumn days without rest and withered, the city of dreams and people chained, naked city and yet so discreet now escapes me hand, is lost across the river H udson at dawn edging between my desires ... looking Asked when he felt a body in your body ...

Possibly lost among millions of spaces described by space / time dragged night. And that laugh crossing the discontinuous space and across millions of silence, inventing forever.

Flight

desire through eternity and look for the lost laughter of a friend of millions of voices that are crying come watch whistle speak are shredded and re-up every day in this city that burns coolly .. .

New York's snowing for the first time this fall silent, the city feels bipolar in these times of heavy rains, one is lost in space and time where the dream begins and ends desire. I asked someone if I could take his memories and he said yes, I felt a big difference between people who face their demons and angels retrieve their dead and struggling ever but confront them up for fear of being alone and safe. D think he faced some time, let your laughter among perpetual dark nights and desires, many of our thousand deaths lost in the desert between pictures and words full.

The train moves cautiously through the tunnel, there is an unprecedented silence despite the crowd inside, until a voice behind me out of my station continues delirium. Do you like regae? When I find myself looking up with a greenish look about me an iPod, I listen to Red Wine, UB40 that old song that was sung originally by Bob Marley, I loved listening to at that time. I like it ... I replied. And they began to sing " Red, red wine / go to my head / make me forget That I / Still Need Her So / Red, red wine / It 's up to you / All I can do, I've done / But memories will not go / No, memories will not go / I'd Have sworn / That with time / Thoughts of you / Would leave my head / I Was Wrong / And I find / Just one thing / Makes me forget ... " time I was in a surrealist and seductive. Oddly

said that music combined well with freckles, I was looking puzzled, took leave crying profusely while typing with one finger on the window your cell number, it reminded me of a TV commercial and I began to laugh, I dismissed them as if she had known forever ... is that it is snowing? and makes an unusual conversion in humans that surround and listen ... you need the resurrection of desire in the snow, part of what filled the land that never stops spinning and stuns us among so many on both sides.

feel the heat from cold to hot, cold stuns and sleep. I understand that d at the time was right and the desire to condense in the memory of a laugh at dawn and your question, you like Bob Marley? And I find my desires packed in snow, withheld as punishment angels. I hope the city is open and my skin as it used to take her laughter encourage all my demons.

leave the link of Red Wine English: http://www.letras4u.com/bob_marley/red_red_wine.htm

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desire Snow Tear lives Where live

When the body burns in rain is silent watching through their thoughts. It is not saying anything, remains silent screaming inside. When the body calls for eclipse craves a black summer, lost in shadows of nothing. Today my body is crossed by the rain and not get wet, my thoughts are full of burnt autumn leaves crackling listening to lies. Lies silent that I should lose and run out of words, laughing in a vacuum. I will not be word or smile or eyes Nothing. At the third glass only eternity and bustle in the human paradise. Humans gods themselves.

At dawn, crossing the memory smile against the wind, looked around me and the shops are opening. A light drizzle hit my face still lights up day and I feel I should know what's in my thoughts. I am burning, is a day gone by days gone by. And treading the trails as clouds trapped in the earth. Levanto face to the sky and suck the moisture that seduces me. I climb on the bandwagon and low in the 34St, I feel lost placidly amid the Street, crossing the streets from side to side. At that moment I understand that many things end up when the bodies stop touching. I stood before the inevitable, in the middle of a city that beats inside of me.

How strange it feels the street when it is too early, no need to go on a train to see borrrosas people who are spinning around you. They are seen at the insistence of relentless pain and uprooting, turn and keep turning pierce and one is standing there waiting for nothing. Hot tears Mourn Girondo Oliver would say, to mourn jets, mourn the dream, opening the floodgates of tears, soak up the soul flooding the tracks, mourn memory, improvising, crying all, mourn all day. the evening, want to stop time and change the direction of space is impossible. One is retained to be implacable and submit it to oblivion. The phone rings, I am reminded that it is Thansgiven is a very important day for many New Yorkers: the day of thanksgiving.
I looked into the distance, sunrise again. I cross my heart and smile ...

(this is for you, you know ... that one of these days we cross the bridge together and no one else among us)

Silvery Taste In Mouth

I FOUND Raron face up pointing his eyes to heaven, a heaven dirty and discolored by rust and neglect. A halo of light crossing the corner of the room, seemed to be the sanctity of men before the abstraction death. It was midday in Queens Village, eyed him with tears and rotting for two days of waiting. Thousands of maggots came and went through his body as walking streets and avenues lost in time. Sinovac
inhabited by the disorder, restless pendulum of memory was a man in a dark room without being noticed. People came and out, and played a symphony foul smell bitter and disenchanted. Within all this menace, I recognized a slight whiff of laudanum and azmiscle, strange mixture that disappeared into the back of the house. Just to visit someone, you pass through that door and saw the man lying by the window. I took the Q43 bus that left me in the subway to take the F. Had in my mind a strange scene, chocolate and dry milk for days, a mixture of smells absolute wrinkled card with a poem by Benedetti in English and her own room. Inhale, it may take thousands of puzzles in my memory.
Queens Borough is not any , is the largest in New York, considered by some to be the bedroom of the city. In it are scattered bodies of hope and time. The blues and hip hops , the cry of some drums at dusk and the dark silhouette swing smoke. Then crossing the subway across the road, an hour from Manhattan. And now I feel like flying in an evolution of the return, I meditate on the lost time at a station, in the distance my mind overflowing with the most accurate way, in expectation. Currently

is limited to toy many decisions while thinking that chocolate is my passion. What sense could have one thing to another? There million nin guna connection. Are important for many tastes and aromas of solitude and privacy, from a hot chocolate batter reading a book until a body of pure desire for chocolate. Arriving at West 4, I bought one for me was the time delay. I walked several blocks to remind your Heart Breastplate Benedetti and so trite to many and English next to the chocolate waiting. I suddenly found myself in front of Barnes & Noble, a large bookstore in Manhattan, among many sites and searches found their own room and read Virginia Woolf to be able to carry independent living and develop their own creative nature you need a separate room with a lock and five hundred a year . They still will not understand that writing is this insane, I tell you I found a room far from my own room, to where I want chocolate aroma intoxicated and words. It could be a crazy assumption, or truth. That image just transports me to my rulings that I make.

I have to take my perfume, my hot chocolate and find another room on your own and let the memories slip away through the opening along with the rain. Here is dawning and I gravitate about that I must do later, under the circumstances looking at the l one by the window. Disorder and the immediacy of silence overwhelm me, there is a sign of disbelief in hope. However, I could unravel the enigma of the man, waited for years that she came back and squeezing your card expired the weight of memory. There in that little dark room, he mentioned to forget to listen to him as when she said she would return. The wait was very long and she never returned, and found him looking at the sky stopped because dust will be dust in love.

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forgotten dreams Theorem

The music flowed which lost labyrinth between our ears, it was customary to hear that kind of music on a train to Manhattan, my long hours merged incredible tedium spoken silences my inner turmoil tearing. Puccini, fighting through the crowd at noon. Where we try to sleep, to get to where we expected. And there Puccini's Nessun Dorma stretching between the passages of each lane, giving ethereal in our hands, for which we would gently like a dream waking. The speed passed through the window leaving only catch fleeting seasons blur in my mind.

I wanted to see who brought the music, but never found. He was still on the first train and I needed two more to get to NJ, Hoboken Terminal. The mixed feelings and mating speed in me. The car was r Eplet of people and was imp ossible learn that. I went down on 34 St to the Path is going to NJ, as he walked out looking to make the connection, I thought time and laxity in the history of Turandot, which This opera is Puccini. The proclamation of Princess Turandot that nobody sleeps until the name of the unknown prince, who launched the challenge that if your name is not found, the princess will marry him. Calaf sings explaining with certainty that the search is in vain. He came to my mind a dilemma over speed and laxity, not dialectically rather as a temporary dilemma dealing with the circumstances. The impossibility of forgetting at the memory. The need for certainty in the future for each of us, whether tomorrow or in a month or years.

Getting off the second train coming to NJ, came to my mind a poet v ivió part of his life in New York. He felt the music in his poetry and made it vibrate differently in his verses. Poet in New York and Poema del cante Jondo of Federico García The rca, two such different books composed by the same hand. Forcing my mind, watching the sea Hoboken dock to remember, scrutinizing each of his poems lost my neurons in my memory. Two poems came to my mind the poem about the death in "three cities" and the city and death in "Streets and dreams." Two different perspectives of life written at different times. Felt the air hit my face hard as if to tear it and throw it into the sea. The rain completely covered, as are all relentless fall. In my anxiety generated in retrospect, that memory is left floating and only revised it in the rain, through music or by the sea. It was impossible to get away from my thoughts against these three elements.

Nobody sleeps in the dream, though it seems contradictory is what we all want to feel the lapse of time as it is coming within us and intoxicates us, leads us to hover over our desires and perpetuities. Therefore, that speed was needed to accelerate my anxieties and a bit laxar the oblivion. Dry air kisses you and feel your lips swell with his approach, could edes close your eyes and imagine any sleep and produce it in a minute. Finally, the third train arrived, I was exhausted and smiled, feeling pleased to have beaten to oblivion. And I could figure something strange in my mind, the desire to see an old movie from the heat of an oven, covered with blankets looking at the window. Cutting these movies romantic comedy which I'm not adept, but sometimes I hide 'em. Nessun Dorma With and recall the nostalgia came The Mirror Have Two Faces really a very old film with a final spectacular, well worth the movies in that court, the few acceptable in my book. The woman looked at me side all the way, my smile was possibly evoking the surprise of seeing it again sitting in the wind with the warmth of someone special.

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chaotically The days passed one after another with their flats and their inconsistencies. The sun rays were extinguished one by one. The wind began to unfold and rocked anxiously on the skins of thousands of pedestrians in this city. Only silence at sunset and fading fragments of time behind the melancholy that autumn brings. The wind
throwing leaves face the despair of the season and his silence over their faces covered and thoughtful. And as penetrating gaze for a dark tunnel, I found the painting of Van Gogh's heart beat me to pieces. My encounter with color, light and wind together in unison, was a domestic green that made me tremble; met my feeling constrained. As the scrutiny of your domain, approaching stealthily waiting before her image. The feeling was unexplainable. Van Gogh and the Colors of the Night one of the most beautiful shows I've seen in The Museum of Mode rn Art (MOMA). I could hear the roar of the wind to escape through the frame to my ears, the light direct me to the face and imagine the stars from his eyes. Felt to be on that night piercing through the canvas, trapped in the "Starry Night" by Van Gogh. The power of the painting was overwhelming, a lot of us wanted to see, touch, smell and feel the warmth indomitable strength. That afternoon saw many classical paintings. But none like this one picture that was there own. Was a week ago I felt the color of images that I saved in my imagination and pushed me to write some ideas about there.

However, week was stark and strange in many ways. I regained my sanity for hours, which led me to reflect on different situations. I resumed reading an old book The Art of Loving by Eric Fromm and threatened to reread it and found myself questioning variety of questions about hate, love and understanding. What relationship could exist between a great painting and the most banal human feelings? Definitely all. I remembered that I felt joy, sadness and loneliness, looking at her.

Today I went to turn and meet the streets and I thought that love is an art as it is an art to live. And how all art need to know and to abstract it as such. I thought Fromm interesting as between the visions of love through the mistakes that you understand about what is to feel love, through theories. And it presents initially as three common misconceptions about what you think is love, the first attraction as a result, interest in something specific to one side, second those who are guided by the appearance and others say about your choice as if elected a commodity (the object desirable from a social point), and the third error (as Fromm) that lies in the confusion between the initial experience of falling and the situation of staying in love. Call the miracle with an onset of sexual attraction and consummation. However, the time to know people think it is durable but only sameness and safety. But not love. Exhaust only be looking for company in his solitude.

Leaving caustic Fromm and his theories about love. I read an interesting announcement on Hudson Street tavern called White Horse, where he meditated, got drunk and wrote poets such as Ginsberg and Kerouac. Irreverent poets belonged to the generation Beatnek. Men Without sanity as Van Gogh in another time spoke of the despair, the order, destruction and love. By then, ordinary beings they cried, laughed and loved to madness and despair. Like now, let us mere mortals something written just for you to read and now you're doing.

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Inter.Nos Chaos Theory . Power games

Because laughter is contagious until the wind took the time to reflect on the thousands of circumstances that crowd my mind. Leaving the car at the top, I reached out to spot from above as the cars were little frightened crossing each other, releasing. The view of the slope from Central Mall whatever name you have there. Just search for internal laughter in the air lost between the voices and cries of the people who rushed a brand clothes looked particularly out or a possible . By entering a pan a very tall woman, thin with a little sign if you want to Be like her, enter here . No more than voices, laughter, dressing rooms and the best costumes for executive, glamorous, sensual, gothic, classic or sports. And most importantly, none of that matters.

satiety and abstinence in the solitude of this city, fatigue, heart. What becomes deaf, hard and resent it. Walking in symphony with other beings who laugh and argue among ourselves. No names just faces, scented streets of foreign bodies circulating you. You understand that the world makes sense only if required to take. The priority of the most abject circumstances and resurrect you wander, because not enough die into nothingness.
Death is a flat in the quiet and smooth drags the sand runs bridges, cafes, subways and rum and coke making to be numb and not feel bad from time to time.
And the heart does not understand does not need explaining theorems, late to indulge, the heart as you have become real, to be heard in the universe. Surrounded by voices, crosses between units caustic systems, unconditional nonsense. Caught between dreams submerged in delusions, no escape. Kidnapped.

There is more to the moon, the shadow and disappointment. That time he loves eternal dazed between expectation and memory. The search for the event, which will be forgotten and the desire for an unspoilt bay view from afar on a postcard of a cabinet. We are what we all breath the air forgotten in an afternoon. He questioned the millions of puzzles like the universe is armed and I rebelled against them. I'll make a million crazy systems feel our bodies and our minds thunder. This is between the moon and I would say Li Po.

The streets, windows and more windows that watch you from the inside. Go out and find thousands of names from the streets await. You can hear your footsteps on the tiles that ring so that you feel it, you can not say that this city does not have feelings if the floor because you play brama. I'm lost among people without voice, without you, nothing. In this gray afternoon where all the birds can be fire, this city seems to me, and I want to know.

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Times when you die of starvation but you have a cell phone in hand. They come in all styles, colors, and payment systems. There is no denying it is the great invention, the delight of the gods as he always says a friend of mine. I can not deny that technology appeals to me as many mortals of this earth. Because no cell death: alien. But that 's not my interest.

few days ago I returned to my first American home of 63 of Lexington, the air calm and the streets were deserted early and somewhat taciturn. Some walked their dogs, some couples had dalliances behind a tree, small bars were still open and someone out there waiting for a taxi appeared. Walk without talking about the streets with the wind in his face, gave me a sense of serenity, solitude and power. Aisha accompanied me on my silence, like never moves, sometimes it seemed I was alone. Walking under the mist, I felt like the dogs that pull her head out the car window to suck air. Until he took the first ring, then came two or three more. Aisha had to answer immediately. Thought and protest about it, rang mine. And strangely rang the phone from the old man waiting taxi. The three sounds at once, sprayed me in an instant. And I started laughing like crazy, Aisha looked at me bewildered, his face went through five subsequent gestures. I can not deny that the ringing of the phone is powerful stole my silence and my serenity, however, restored my sense of control. A small device that is mine defective. My cell phone is always bad, never works. But that day I cried like ten times.

Maybe in the beginning was only created to speak, but the great thing about this little tyrant: the cell is also use it to text message. Many would rather write than talk. Among those I sign myself. It is often said that the paper holds everything, now would it be and God created the world and the cellular messages. Aisha and I went to a English coffee and take a dry spot to come and bring us Morfeo. There were about six people including two talked on the phone and three were laughing alone writing text messages and the sixth was asleep in a chair.

messages come and go. To return to text messages, that incident reminded me that starting in August had to go to Hokokus in NJ, and take the train to Paramus. An old train like something out of a movie from the 30's, a journey of about 45 minutes. The train was on the air and could glimpse the great scenery and several phones that sounded and the many voices talking about in different languages. Some laughed and discussed. The cell power is undeniable. So I turned on my phone and I found missed calls, voice mails and two two messages. But I did not talk to anyone and decided to write something for someone who was away. To write the damn mensajito whole trip took me because my phone was hung and nothing. End lo terminé, y aquí se los dejo. Lo gracioso es que nunca lo envié, y creo que hubiera quedado en tres partes, como hace poco alguien me comentó acerca de un mensajito que le envié porque era muy largo. No lo puedo negar los silencios están escritos en mensajitos de texto.
Como este mensajito que les cuento que escribí en el tren:

Mensaje de texto

(en un T- Mobil defectuoso)

te extraño
limpio sucio roto organizado descompuesto tibio frío fastidioso tierno
hosco aprovechado lujurioso extenuado sonriendo entristecido cabizbajo
fumado borracho preocupado left egocentric arrogant renegade arrested exaggerated horny fun
imagined angry agitated excited passionate lewd lascivious impressed voluptuous active thoughtful tired busy busy enticing gullible available cranky hungry unconscious craving cocky

only lost between my body

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are a crazy ever lost someone called me that way
truth I can not remember who was

but I've always felt the need to check my address so I
about the streets - even in Manhattan - where the streets are so obvious as I read
once in a newspaper "Lost in Manhattan is not possible"
but I've lost several times in the same place but it seems I'm not the one others have suffered the same fate
as you said a friend, is the time to me the obvious
left temporal simultaneity thinking and memory resting

belong to the race of the memory simultaneously reminding them millions of strange things - sometimes no one remembers and that only we remember - but do not remember in which floor or work
who had to call or where is Park Avenue (it was a really regrettable lapses)

'm melancholy attached to the margins of the season
if the weather is not the moon mandatory
write some urgent report lead me to blame the sack towels books laces everything in the room I make my restlessness guilty of my lack of concentration / to look for the inexorable loss of time in the blue / commonly known as flogera

NY
the deep fades of heat through the maze of streets to feel the whisper of the air conditioning on the train every day
makes me a perpetual hoarse
see through the window at the darkness that reflects the faces of other passengers becomes a tautology
sometimes imaginary - at certain times - I find the same faces
I can guess that the fat striped tie is a clerk and lives only because it takes half a different color or because their clothes are wrinkled redhead
the nerve which is located on the corner always live with someone who's harassed by the variety of cuts and bruises showing the two mulatto
speaking very strong and are desperately Housekeepers drink water from a house where not allowed to talk or drink
and many more that come and go every day


look out the window part of a routine which we must travel by subway every day for an hour
to review ads, meet waiting passengers, the homeless
and waiting for the singer on duty in each car
absorbed in the daily shows
I look forward to a break in the emptiness of
then go through the 42 of Bryan Park to see the shift
musician but a couple evenings peered someone new to the boarding
a guitarist who plays old songs from Bryan Adams - different from the shift -
(watching him every evening at Bryan Park
crossing through the window until the train departed)
strangely ago few days looking through the glass and I found her smile was surprised

I wonder if he was observed or dismissed only because that was the last time I saw him

Bryan Park now is a fate more ... Bryan Adams

without