how do you truly win in life?

All this time spent
struggling against
dreams

a goddamned life time

He'd fall asleep
and the darkness that fell
around him would
manifest as
one being
that would hold him
tight in her
embrace and bite
at random from his flesh
and tear
until there'd be nothing left
but pure pain

Darkness
was the world

And the world was dark
because he had
labeled it such

Darkness...

Enlightenment then
comes when one is able to
emerge from the darkness,
to leave it behind, to
win over it

Or so it is
thought

But those who are truly
enlightened know
better, don't they?

You cannot possibly win a fight

It's just not how
it works

Your decision to fight
the darkness
or anything else
is your decision to fight yourself
and yourself alone

Thus you lose even if
you win

So then how do you
truly win in life?

Well, have you
ever thought about
not fighting in the first place?

To fight with the world,
be it the real world or
the world of your dreams,
is to fight with yourself

Stop hitting yourself
in the face!

And maybe start
embracing yourself?

Do so with the world

And what do you think?

Will you not find that
the world replies with the exact
same treatment?

I believe that's what he did
in his dream world
too
The next time the world turned
into pure darkness
and came to eat him
he just offered himself to it
instead of trying to run away, hide
and fight back

The result

was nothing short of
amazing

That I guarantee

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "how do you truly win in life?"!

Check it out HERE!

https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B09C46RMPS/allbooks?ingress=0&visitId=96628550-28a0-4f19-9a78-7717f0614bbd&ref_=ap_rdr

Thank you!

23 October 2025 2

you are empty

this Saturday
he wakes up in the
afternoon
and
curses his dreams

Goodness, how long
has it been
since the last pleasant
dream?
What about the last
nightmare?

Even nightmares were
better than
what he was having now

A void
a nothingness

empty

Which does remind him of
an older day when he
used to play some
videogame titled
‘You Are Empty’
on big bro’s computer

fairly good times
with nightmares that were
better than dreams of
nothingness

The game, horror though it
had been, did not give him
nightmares

big bro did

"Since you wanna play so hard,"
big bro had said, "we gon’ make
it more interesting.
Every time you die,
Perro gets the can!"

Perro was the little parrot
dad got him
before going away. It stood
in a small cage in
the hallway

and the can… It was
a can of bug spray big bro
used to spray the
poor thing with
when he was in a sadistic
mood
which happened too often

Mother was away
at work
or in the company of some
new man she was
trying to convince to
become a stepfather

She had very little
success with both. With
everything.
And she was tired.
At all times.

Big bro had all the power in
the house
so how could he not
abuse it?

It’s just normal to
abuse power
when you have it

The miracle is when
you don’t

but there are no
miracles

So Perro got sprayed
a lot

And got sick a lot
but didn’t die

His feathers fell off
and the scales of his
little feet
peeled off and looked
like boiled corn flakes

yet still
death would not
take him

Abused creatures have
their own way
to spit back into the
face of their abusers

It’s for this very reason that he
decided today
to make another visit
to his big bro in prison

Maybe even buy
something
nice for him

Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "you are empty"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

22 October 2025 7

beer mixed with tequila

I felt it in the
side
as I woke up

some kind of cold
claw scratching
gently, playfully at
my ribs

I blinked a few times
and turned to her

“Hey!” she said. “Get up
and buy me some
beer with tequila.”

I opened my mouth
and she immediately covered
it with her claw. “Not
separately,” she said.
“I mean beer mixed with
tequila. There’s gotta be
some brand like that. Look
for it.”

“Who’re you?” I asked

“Just another one of
them, dear. I don’t
care what you name me. Let’s
just go get that mix
of beer and tequila. See, it’s
not exactly a cocktail. It’s
more of a beer, like, in
a can, but it says on
the label that it’s
mixed with tequila. Uh,
something like that.”

One hour and some
minutes later I’m in the
supermarket
and I spot a girl that
looks exactly like
her
minus all the
non-human features
like that claw and the sharp
teeth

So often it’s the things
you think least of
that
are the most beautiful

We’ve been tricked into
liking supermodels
and superstars and all
the TV people and
influencers

meanwhile
gods and demons alike
bow their heads in shame
when they look at
your local grocery store
cashier

How in the hells
and heavens alike can
some people be so
pretty, so gorgeous
I’ll never know…

Well,
anyway
let’s get that
beer and tequila mix
real quick

I wanna enjoy it
with her
while we write some
dark poetry

Life is
good

Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "beer mixed with tequila"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

18 October 2025 4

Schopenhauer’s car

he was working on it for the
past nine years

and the car still
wouldn’t
start

It was still sitting, rotting, in
front of the apartment
complex he was
kicked out from
after that messy divorce
from nine years ago

He wasn’t much different
before though. Every time he’d have
a fight with his wife
he’d get out
and find something to do
with the car

change a tire
replace some bolts
wash it
wax it
and so on

Nine years ago he had a name
but today they
called him Schopenhauer
because he slept with a
poodle dog
in the car

It wasn’t a neighborhood of
learned people
so not many got the
joke anyway

And it didn’t matter. The one
thing they could all
believe and understand was that
Schopenhauer’s car will
surely
start again
one day

soon

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "Schopenhauer’s car"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

23 August 2025 8

had it been that way

she vomited and came
out of the
bathroom with
colorful spit on
her chin
and in her hair

lied down in bed

"Better on your side," I said,
"not your back."

And she said, "Does it ever grip you?"

"What? Hangover?"

"No. The longing to... to just
return home.
Home where you grew up. Where
the world was introduced to you."

"No."

"C'mon, really? Never?"

"I do get nostalgic at times. But
then I remind myself that
nostalgia is just another
form of depression. The most
pleasant one, but... still a form.
I have enough of
them, and an extra one is not
welcome. Not as long
as I can do something about it."

"You're cold. But I don't mean
nostalgia. Not exactly.
Look, you ever, uh, planted
flowers in the garden?"

"I don't remember. Why?"

"Well--"

"Actually, I do remember this one time
when my little cousin and
I placed an apricot seed in the
ground.
Of course we hoped for
an apricot tree to grow but...
Well, you know how it is
when you're a kid, patience is
never among your attributes. The younger
you are, the less you have.
My cousin, he was younger than me.
So he lacked patience more
than I did.
As the days passes and the apricot
tree didn't show up
from the ground... his patience
reached its end.
That was it, he wanted to dig it out
and look at the damn seed,
see if it sprouted or whatever.
And I told him, begged him
to stop
that stupidity and give it
more time.
I was very serious about it.
But the more serious I was
the less serious he grew
until eventually it was a sick game
or him versus I
with him constantly threatening to
unearth the seed, a menacing,
cartoon villain grin on his face all the
while.
I had to hold him
back
and then, still grinning, he'd swear
he won't do it if I let
go.
I let go and he immediately went
back to the spot we buried the
damn seed and
after he did it a few times
I... guess I snapped.
I punched him square in the face.
Pretty damn hard indeed. Hard for
a kid, I mean.
Immediately the blood came rushing
out and fell on the ground. Right
on the spot where we buried the
seed.
Now, I know it would've sounded so
damn poetic an' all if I said
the apricot seed took his blood in
and grew a tree, but c'mon, this is
real life we're talking
here.
He just bled from his nose and shrieked
like a fucking devil
and I wanted to just
punch him again. Harder.
Yeah... I didn't do it.
It was too late anyways. Grandma came
to the commotion and
I got my punishment. Nothing too
extreme, just... just something
to remind me
of that time when I tried to
plant something, create life, and...
failed because of
somebody else.
That's my only memory of trying
to plant something.
Not very happy as you can see."

Right
but
she fell asleep
in the middle of the story

wouldn't be
the first time

this is
real life after all

it can't go like in
fairy tales
or even ordinary tales

Had it went that way
she would've
empathized with my story, I guess,
and seek to console me
in some way

had it went that
way
there would've been some
poetic justice
somewhere, just ready to poke its
magical head out

hat it went that
way
she would've been
real

But this ain't no story

it's just
real life

Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "had it been that way"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

19 August 2025 9

stay in the game

he found one crumpled cigarette
in his breast pocket
straightened it gently, expertly
between his palms
put it between his lips and
lit it

He was on the
roof
watching the afternoon skies

a bit drunk

He pointed at the plume of smoke
he exhaled and
said, “The trick is to stay in
the game until
you’re the only one left. It don’t matter
how good you are or
how you evolve. Just stay
in the game until you’re the last one.”

The smoke vanished
before him, raising
to the
skies

He nodded. “That’s what I’m
talking about.”

He finished the cigarette
and went back
down to the wedding

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "stay in the game"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

14 August 2025 4

too good at picking opponents

we weren't speeding or
anything

there was four
of us in the car

rainy night

and we almost bumped into
him at the intersection

a raggedy
bloody mess
he was

"The hell happened this
time?" we asked
but we knew it had to be
another street brawl

He was known around
town for those

for always starting
shit and
then losing horribly

There's no honor in
winning
he used to say.
If you win
it just shows you picked on someone
weaker than you

Wise words
of a drunk man

"So who was it this time?"
we asked

and he said, "Some fucker from
the bar."

"No shit. And why though?"

"I heard him talking. Said that
his wife ran away
from home and
left him with the kid. Some
four year old.
So I asked, where the kid at
then, an' he looks at me with the
side eye and says
the kid's at home.
An' I asked how the hell he
leaves a four year old alone
at night like that,
and then he tells me to mind my own
business.
He probably locked the kid in
the basement so he could
come out and drink and get shitfaced.
I know motherfuckers who
do that.
I used to be one of 'em.
So... I hated myself through him
and him through me. And
there was but one quarter of
a step from there to a fight.
We held it outside
an' I got my ass kicked. Meaning I
chose my opponent wisely.
I always do."

"The guy left his kid locked
in the basement
so he could come to the bar
and drink?" we asked

He seemed to think deeply
about it.
Wiped some blood from his
face in the meanwhile
"Yeah!" he finally burst. "The asshole!
Hey, I know, let's drop
by his place and give him a
lesson. Let's make the
night better for
that poor kid."

"Right," we said. "An' where would
that be?
Where's he live?"

"Oh fuck. I should've
asked him before
swinging at him, no?"

"You should've done many
things, old man.
But for now, why don't you go
home?"

He shrugged. "Ain't got any. I mean,
not anymore I don't."

We put together some
money and
sent him to the nearest
bar. Enough to
get him through the night

The next day there
was news of a homeless man
dying in the streets

We're still trying to figure out
if it was him or not

I'm afraid he was
a bit too good
at picking opponents

Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "too good at picking opponents"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

12 August 2025 5

The muse possesses me like a demoness

he was one of those writers whose
bio said something like
'It is not my choice. The muse possesses me
like a demoness and I write
because not to do so would mean to have
my soul tortured by a thousand
bites and scratches
of her fiery fangs and gelid claws.
The only way to delay her devouring my soul
is to put the next word down. And I
strive to do just that. My destiny is therefore
set in stone. I am a writer.'

he was also an amateur photographer
and filmmaker
Currently exploring the niche of
torture porn

He was 34
and still lived with his parents
who apparently didn't understand
his artistic side
and were constantly trying to crush his
dreams into oblivion
with ridiculous, outworldly demands
like
'When will you get a real job and move out?'

He pitied them
Pitied the blindness of their souls
the deafness to real art
and the artistic nature that oozed from his
very being

It was like they
had Jesus Christ in the flesh in their
house but would not
understand or care to acknowledge it

Poor souls

Anyway
his latest project got him in a bit of trouble
with the law

Something to do with
a seventeen-year-old staring in one of his
experimental movies

and now he knew he had it all
figured out
Just like the Messiah,
he had to die, had to suffer to no end
so that the blind herds could
come to know his truth and understand his
art

He denied his parents
when they tried to hire him a lawyer

They did not
insist

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "The muse possesses me like a demoness"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

7 August 2025 3

I’m a writer

perched on top of his
desk
the doctor looked
down at him
as a teacher would
at a failing student

"Say," began the doctor, "are
you even trying to
stay alive? Or do you seek the
quickest death possible that
can't be labeled as
downright suicide?
You smoke all brands of cigars
and add up to three and
a half packs a day
and drink random alcohols you
can pick up and keep at it
until there's no more in
the bottle.
Your liver is done for.
The lungs beg for death with
each tentative of breath. Veins are
as rigid as rusty pipes.
You don't even have feeling left
in the skin.
So what's your big idea, pall?"

Despite all his
shortcomings in the health
department
his eyes were as limpid
and innocent as
a newborn's

He pointed them at the
doctor's and said, "Oh, I have
many big ideas, doc.
Thing is, they're only big in my head.
Once they come out
and others see them... Well, they
just aren't so big no more.
Average at best.
And that's what I do all day.
I get those big ideas out
of my head and try to
show them to others."

The doctor took off his
glasses. Watched him in a new
light. "Buddy... did you not
understand the question?"

He sighed. "Doc, I think you didn't
understand the answer.
So let me spell it out for you
in your own language."
He cleared his throat. "I'm
a writer."

The doctor put his
glasses back on. "Ooooh, now
I get it.
Hah, why didn't you say so
from the start?"

"That's the problem with us,
doc. We never
like to admit it
up front.
Only the young and those who
actually made it will
say it up front."

"Ooook, in this case... Well, I guess
there's nothing I can do
for you, nor is there
anything that has
to be done.
For a writer, you're perfectly
healthy."

"I know, I know. I just
wanted to see if I could
get some morphine..."

Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "I’m a writer"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

31 July 2025 2

snow-white hair and coal-black eyebrows

she lived alone and didn’t do much around
the house

Ate TV dinners all day
and drank
and complained that she couldn’t sleep
at night

Had a pretty nasty case of
insomnia

What can you expect from a girl with
snow-white hair
and coal-black eyebrows?
some had said

Obviously they weren’t referring to
her insomnia
but her other mental issues
like being bipolar and depressed and
other such things

You could try to sleep with her and
the sex would be quick
and then you’d have to spend the rest of the
night listening to her
talk about recycling being actually
harmful for the environment

«Seriously,» she’d say. «People need to understand that
the stuff just gets shipped overseas
to third world countries
where it’s burned or dissolved in chemicals to
extract precious metals from it. That’s
how it works. And it’s harmful
for nature, harmful for everything and
everyone. People have no
awareness. They’re all so
damn selfish, it’s ridiculous.»

The last guy who fell asleep during
her speech
had his foreskin folded and
stapled shut

«Hit me!» she urged him. «Choke me
or fuck me up
but don’t you dare
ignore me again!»

Somehow she
never ran out of boyfriends

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "snow-white hair and coal-black eyebrows"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

24 July 2025 8

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