My Girlfriend Ítala eats flowers

My girlfriend appeared trembling in a bookstore
She showed me lonely street papers and slashed whores
She gave me lovely stones and seashells
An old engraving of untied horses
My girlfriend was on her way from the sun and looked like a gypsy
She told strange stories about twin souls
My girlfriend had a blue dress
She fell in love with me and my sandals
My girlfriend would read Boris Vian
She took a shower bleeding and gave me a body that smelled like nothing
I fell in love with my girlfriend
I braided my hair and took her to the movies
My girlfriend had an ugly blonde child
We would inhabit the city of fog or beyond the seas
My girlfriend became my girlfriend
My girlfriend pashira and ficus colony of herbs graft of flower-eating doves
I loved my girlfriend
My broke girlfriend sold earrings in the markets
She would bring me mandarins when I was in solitary confinement
She would undress in front of bored old men
I was my girlfriend
She adored Fabio and had a balcony to jump from
And it’s just that my sad girlfriend looked like a desolate Maga
My girlfriend was a star
I would have died without my girlfriend
One day my girlfriend said we were looking like open wounds under the sky
That she’d take up the lab books again
That she’d stop sleeping at the foot of the bridge
I didn’t pay attention to my girlfriend
I let her mix Pelusa rock and biology texts
Víctor’s punctual visits and kitchen habits
Johnny’s accurate punches
And it’s just that my girlfriend didn’t wanna eat flowers any more
So then I thought about giving her what she deserves
I’d take her to the mountain top
I’d bathe her in the trail’s creek
Then I’d bombard her with bougainvillea petals from above
I’d spray her with French perfumes
And knowing she was in ecstasy I’d cover her with baby poo
So she wouldn’t stop being my girlfriend
So she wouldn’t get sick of eating flowers
And it’s just that sometimes I don’t feel like being my girlfriend’s boyfriend
Sometimes I don’t feel like being anyone’s boyfriend
But yesterday I saw my girlfriend
She had ripped shoes and she gave me a glass pearl
We looked at a strange dress that cost as much as two hundred cigarette boxes
We talked about banquet fruits with bread and jelly
Because you really start to get sick of eating flowers
But I told my girlfriend that we’d always eat flowers
And I understood my girlfriend
And my girlfriend understood me
But sometimes I worry about my girlfriend
Because my furious girlfriend is capable of hoisting the boy and hitting him like a piñata
She’d shoot her mom on a holiday
She’d blow up the lab with sodium
Because my girlfriend is a beast
She’s a chill she’s a star
And I love my girlfriend
And I know she’ll appear on the avenue singing
She’ll scream absurdities only I understand
She’ll put a knife to my belly button
She’ll say: “Man, take off your pants”
Because my girlfriend’s my girlfriend
Because I know my girlfriend
My eternal girlfriend my girlfriend Ítala
My crazy girlfriend
Ganja plant
And spring.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 17
About this poem:
I did read this poem in a newspaper on the street, it came to my feet ...I love this poem wave
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Too Much

do you remember the first time you were called annoying?
how your breath stopped short in your chest
the way the light drained from your eyes, though you knew your cheeks were ablaze
the way your throat tightened as you tried to form an argument that got lost on your tongue?
your eyes never left the floor that day.
you were 13.

you’re 20 now, and i still see the light fade from your eyes when you talk about your interests for “too long,”
apologies littering every other sentence,
words trailing off a cliff you haven’t jumped from in 7 years.
i could listen to you forever, though i know speaking for more than 3 uninterrupted minutes makes you anxious.
all i want you to know is that you deserve to be heard
for 3 minutes
for 10 minutes
for 2 hours

there will be people who cannot handle your grace, your beauty, your wisdom, your heart;
mostly because they can’t handle their own. but you will never be
and have never been
“too much.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 11
About this poem:
This poem is part of “Pethetic Little Thing,” curated by Tavi Gevinson
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"Veño do país da chuvia eterna,
veño do fin do mundo.
Son de onde a auga cambia a eternidade en melancolía
e a melancolía convírtese en nostalxia perenne.
Veño da máis fermosa terra que a natureza, na súa
eternidade, puido parir.
Veño da pedra e o vento do norte, xélido e eterno.
Son do país que os homes chamaron Gallaecia.
Son da terra que os deuses quixeron chamar ETERNIA".

"Vengo del país de la lluvia eterna
Vengo del fin del mundo.
Soy de donde el agua muda la eternidad en melancolía y la melancolía se torna en nostalgia perenne.
Vengo de la más hermosa tierra que la naturaleza, en su eternidad, pudo parir.
Vengo de la piedra y el viento del norte, gélido y eterno.
Soy del país que los hombres llamaron Galicia.
Soy de la tierra que los dioses quisieron llamar ETERNIA"

"I come from the country of eternal rain,
I come from the end of the world.
From a place where water changes eternity in melancholy
and melancholy turns into perennial nostalgia.
I come from the most beautiful land that nature, in its
eternity, could have come to an end.
I come from the rock and north wind, frozen and eternal.
I´m from the country that men called Gallaecia.
I´m from the land that the gods wanted to call ETERNIA
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 6
About this poem:
...and I´m on the road again grin
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Oceans of love.
Rivers of patience.
We´ll dance in the rain,
while world becomes softly blurred.

You and me having the ilusion of melt into it,

We won´t drown this time, It´s a promise.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 31
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The Genius Of The Crowd

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 18
About this poem:
Calm down and drink ....Posca! wine
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As one listens to the rain

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we were and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 4
About this poem:
from my black notebook
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The Bridge

Between now and now,
between I am and you are,
the word bridge.

Entering it
you enter yourself:
the world connects
and closes like a ring.

From one bank to another,
there is always
a body stretched:
a rainbow.
I'll sleep beneath its arches.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Feb 27
About this poem:
Sleep well poets wave
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And when from the depths of song
A note vibrates, grows and wanes
Until in other harmonies
It melds into the depths of silence,
Hark! there comes another silence
Atop a steeple, sharp as a sword
That soars and lifts, suspending us
And as it soars, it lets go
Memories and hopes, lies big and small.
And though we want to cry
In our throat, dies the scream:
We flow into the sea of silence,
Wherein all silences are mute.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 3
About this poem:
About music
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A Sapiosexual woman

She could not abide a stupid man.
If you could not feed her curious mind
then you would never satisfy her in any manner.
If you looked like a Greek god but were basically a dolt,
she might have a motherly affection to you,
but you never would truly able to pull at her lust.
No, it was not a man's physical beauty
but his brains that turned her on.
If, when she was with you,
her mind could stretch deep into a galaxy
or swim in an ocean of philosophy
then you had what it took to open her up.
And when she did,
open up,
well f*ck!
It was like a 3D Georgia O'Keeffe painting.
You were lost in folds, creases, valleys, and fascination.
And then that's it,
you were ruined to all other women.
You would love her until the end of time
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Feb 25
About this poem:
No thanks -I do not want to tell anything about this poem- wave
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Not A Good Place To Be

This is the room where the shadows gather
The ghosts of memories past
Of other lives thrown away,
This is the room where they fly in the corners
And puddle on the floors.
This is the room of the path not taken
This is the room where mirrors smile
And reflect stories of another day
Of how things might have been
If different choices had been made.
The mirrors lie.
This is the room of the voices whispering promises
Unkept, and songs unsung
This is the room where hopes go to die
This is the room where they are reborn
In different form.
The light swims through the shadows
The past falls to the floor.
The dreams rise from the dungeons
And it’s yesterday
It’s yesterday once more.
This is the room where the dead stay unburied,
This is where they take revenge on the living
Suck away the happiness of today.
The dead are jealous
Of life.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Feb 9
About this poem:
*Would you shut up!!!!
*Never mother, never!
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The Other

Who am I?
I am the Other, the other brother
The brother you would rather forget

I am the shadow shivering
Under the bridge
When winter comes;

The child selling cheap pens
In traffic jams.

I am the one you make fun of
For eating with my hands
For not speaking with your accents

I am the Other.

I am the one who does your slave work
I am the one who cleans up after your party
I am the one who pays with my blood
For your Eternal Frontiers.

Laugh at me, snub me
For I am not like you.
But some day I shall rise,
I, the Other.

I am, I will be
The stuff of your

Fear me.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Feb 9
About this poem:
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Dear dream of utter aliveness-
Touching my body of utter death-
Tell me, O quickly! dream of aliveness,
The flaming source of your bright breath.
Tell me, O dream of utter aliveness-
Knowing so well the wind and the sun-
Where is this light
Your eyes see forever?
And what is the wind
You touch when you run?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Feb 5
About this poem:
2 to CS
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This is a list of Crunia's Poems. Click here for Crunia's Poem List

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