"This is a spiritual, never-ending travel; journey of 200.000 kilometres or kaleidoscope.
And always ends, to start again; once again.
The eternal journey towards the Hawk Wind from 1976..."
As the morning was sunny in Buenos Aires, over the paving stones echoed the waves of yesterday's coaxils.
As the last night's rain.
Those streets had something of magnetic, maybe because it were isolated so apart; or maybe because of the angel of the loneliness, who, thank God never believes what he hears...
There was a plenoptic caravan towards the north: I understood this many years after...
When the turbos of Varig Cruzeiro were overflying over the white sands of the atlantic Brazil, we felt a 767 gaining height terribly on through the whitest clouds you could ever see: the clouds were down at our feet, the celestial conch was under us: where we were going..?
...In the night, that was a day, we crossed sat down the colossal dorsal, cutting it like a blade of jade would cut the gaseous cellophane of that so feared Heaven...
We were sleeping over the legends of the mysterious Africa and its pluvial nomenclatures: the islands of the men-ape were at our right side; but the everything was just a long-black crossing, into a long-black night.
A night that was day. And we were sleeping in it...
...As we did wake up in the south of the classic continent, there was there La Polizei and its tortuous lanes: angel of the loneliness...will you dance once again among the poison ivies in the cold of the winter?
I suppose that the window panes were steamy that afternoon: someone cried in Piazza Spagna, among fallen magazines Marie Claire and cynical doves in flames...
In flames like seraphs of Canaan or the pink fire of the solar vagina...that was smiling over Piazza Spagna...
Nobody told us about the marathons de La France nevermore.
The Republic hailed the heroes of the reconstruction with its arms hold up et la soleil de la patrie was all asphalt aluminium and euphoria sur les filles, androgynes de guerre amoureuse.
It was the day I knew I had to run to the end, and never stop, until...
We didn't know how we reached the electronic Benelux: our goal was the wet streets of the Japan of the wind.
The wet streets of Tokyo were antesala and semaphore for the wet cunt of S.
Her tits were like cups, and her slit was soft delight: merely physical, S. was like a sexual toy or reverie inside a reverie: her eyes were mirrors for the story of S.
A story inside another story inside another story...
...Intertwined feverishly with the girl with no name on her path where everybody fell...
Why we entered into the imaginary Russias one day?
...As we arrived to the federated republic of Yamalo-Nenetsky, the warm people of the Russias were on the streets for trade with cheeses and love.
As we breathed the love of the distant Hawk; hormonal and bleu from the roof of the planet...
...As the wet streets of Tokyo were recurrence and antesala; doorway for a travel that never could end, as the very life.
Streets of the Hawk, sempiternal chaos that I lived, springtime, cops, collapse: in the nights, les étoiles des filles mortes, cry for that true love that never came.
...Back in Buenos Aires; I felt a strange sensation of vigour and grills.
...Intertwined feverishly with the girl with no name on her path where everybody fell...
The girl of the iron courtain; the cyrillic queen of the office and the furious blowjob.
The nymph of all the russian deviations: she is an eternal tango on the snow.
She is someone and no one; her sweet bisexual lips got lost in the vice; lover of cocks and cunts: she, turbid river...
Why we entered into the imaginary Russias one day?
The people of the land gave us a welcome from the hazy distances.
From the tubular greenhouses, annihilated by the vanillism and the low-frequency emissions of an oblique Sol, lover of the men...
...As we arrived to the federated republic of Yamalo-Nenetsky, the warm people of the Russias were on the streets for trade with cheeses and love.
And love it was.
The Sun was a yellow bear in love: love; the land of the love and the honey.
And honey it was...
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Entrance to India: from the abysmal jungles to the fried perfumes of Calcutta:
As we breathed the love of the distant Hawk; hormonal and bleu from the roof of the planet...
...As the wet streets of Tokyo were recurrence and antesala; doorway for a travel that never could end, as the very life.
Streets of the Hawk, sempiternal chaos that I lived, springtime, cops, collapse: in the nights, les étoiles des filles mortes, cry for that true love that never came.
They cry, like thunders in a black sky that succumbs itself into an interminable vortex-abyss.
...Far away, in the suburbia, the ragged panthers crawl their erections for the night of Venus; under the fig trees scorched by the corrossive oxygen of the sexual ardour...
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The day when we crossed the Mongolian prairie of the eternal löve.
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The day when we crossed the Mongolian prairie of the eternal löve.
...The route was unfolded in itself, like a double-sized jacket: upside was down, downside was up: we were behind another ocëanic crossing.
And in front.
Long was short; deep was shallow; sound was vision:
Aerolíneas Argentinas: Atlantic crossing in the neverending route towards everywhere: l'amour chaud du Brésil.
Aerolíneas Argentinas: Atlantic crossing in the neverending route towards everywhere: l'amour chaud du Brésil.
...Back in Buenos Aires; I felt a strange sensation of vigour and grills.
The snack-bars were all closed close to La Boca: it was a sunny Sunday and I was fractured, but...who I am?
Who is the real me..?
Who was; who will be?
