words by Lina de Feria
Essentially experimental, the structure of this collection of poems shows an interpolation between the world’s body and the poet.
“Here I am, applying a self-hypnosis session”, his verses reveal the desperate mood of his creation.
Coming from the cosmos, his darkness is just revealing. Made of constant trips, his colors in the palette determined an unusual writing.
Grand Prix causes a war roar preceded by an apocalyptical oh-my-god cry. The seal of his verse uncovers nothing more than the epiphany of nights.
He is amazed of the “lineal brains” because being marked by an extraordinary mortality does not leave him out of the group or the truly enriched topic.
He amazes just like his linguistic promotion resembles men for perceptions.
He is not grandiloquent nor does he search for weary stages next to dromedaries.
Owning his mind, he rips the memory with decrepitude. But he finds the eternal force to digress.
The hot is foam in his days and we will always see him leave to come back. The return is a harmless topic. But he is not saying they’ll come back, for the rictus of his face.
Full of belongings, he exploits the predisposition of language.
As cooked in slow fire he tries to be cosmopolite to the greatest of the world.
And visiting New York during thaw he does not hospitalized for good.
Who would suspect there is a rogue in him?
Hostility is a slogan for his sign.
We pour a great many bunch of patience for his skill.
You see the clarinets of the day when their triumph is undeniable.
I recognize that Grand Prix has a systematic scope to achieve a worldview.