...algo se rompe en dos...
.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
A little tale from the flat Earth
According to our days
in sadness or the joy
we were pilgrim shadows by this valley
we never knew, in our days of sadness and the joy
about good or the evil
and as the time was flying by
in our days when we didn't care.
Sometimes I just wonder what
the future could bring
and sometimes I cry
but really, it's ok I guess
no: it's not ok...
save me please, because I am truly lost.
Tell me why the shades win
they seem like taking everything
and myself, I'm almost buried
like a pilgrim shadow on this valley.
.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Intro: xane of the night
...Weaving her threads by the river Navia
xane of the night can be a dream of love
or the reverie of a reality.
Nightsong, mirror of pang or disillusion
she weaves her threads, leaving them be bathed
by the moonlight
so the first sun ray will turn them into gold...
Run, run away damned-little creature; escape in the night
as I did once.
Escape until the pain turn into invisibility
until the fractured love turn
into oceanic fog
as I did
once.
.
The cuélebre and the xane
.
The xane was sitting down, down sitting by a river of summer.
.
The xane was sitting down, down sitting by a river of summer.
The afternoon was green in the forest; and as the xane was whining her disgrace, and as the xane was whining, the immense wings of a cuélebre were heard, before it were seen.
Heard it were, like a thunder rolling amongst fallen leaves & the air of the autumn.
Then, seen it were: their giant size projected a horrid shadow on trees & the river Eo.
With the repugnant sound his sibilant wings produced, moved heavy & slowly across the summerair, the cuélebre was landing with abominable majesty close to the xane.
The xane felt fear, though fear the xanes seldom feel, but grief.
The red and flaming eyes of the cuélebre were fixed on the xane: after some minutes, he talked at last...
"Mine these lands are: who are you?
whoever dare to roam by lands that mine are, from the river to this side, and over the hills, and far away, my automatic property is.
Donzelle of sad eyes: what your home, what your land is?"
Silent during some minutes the xane was, fixed on the green soil her eyes were; finally with an enigmatic stare, answered these lines to the cuélebre, who listened with profound attention...
"Strange creature, my brother from over the hills and far away, tell me: where am I?
I come escaping from the fury of the countrymen of Bisuyu: they accused me of being who stole their children.
The children of their sweetness have disappeared, because the mother Earth took them with herself: their blond hairs were not seen anymore under the snows of winter or the delight of summer; because the mother Earth has taken them into her entrails.
The days of my sweet love I've spent by the river Narcea, in unknown corner for the men, except one.
The long-misty days of summer our sweetness, loving eternal was, and only that river can feed the mirror of my soul, because now I cannot love.
Some time now that escaping I've lost my way, the way to my forest lost I have, strange creature, my brother from over the hills and far away."
The cuélebre kept a long silence, while the rumours of the river were background for the mild glory of the summer afternoon.
And so the afternoon was passing by, while both, the cuélebre and the xane, were being secretly observed as well.
And so the afternoon was passing by, slowly, like a whisper of love amongst two obscurities.
Like our life itself.
.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
☆Sweet Magic Midnight Mania☆
Sweet Magic now has Midnight Mania its so awesome, come and get your free gift!
The trafic is awesome in the mall
come and check us out.
We have stores available
100prims shops for 450
50 prims shops for 350
The trafic is awesome in the mall
come and check us out.
We have stores available
100prims shops for 450
50 prims shops for 350
Dormida en la Jaulita!
No tengo Dueno, Amo o como se diga. Solo recoria este lugar y me meti a la jaula. Me veia linda!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
666
.
...Then the Buddha of love was substituted with the Love: man in the prowl, I am.
The ochre and saturated pastel colours of an afternoon in Shanghai, the fotos from Cantón, the fish soup of the mountains: show me your damned individuality: where is it?
Who, who are you..?
We have been constructing this wall since always, it’s ours, and we are its: the popular republic is our god, and we honour him with fat drops of sweat falling from our loins anyday.
Man in the prowl, am I? I’m not even human:
I am Chinese: you couldn’t guess the variety of plastic my entrails are built in.
The world cannot understand: we follow
what we follow? Who wants to know.
The world cannot understand; we turned the doctrine into our own flesh, and now the last vestige of humanity has flown away, from our open mouths.
The world wouldn’t understand: Marx was only a white westerner; or maybe Jew. And we are not that, we had to go beyond: we’re the perfectors of Marx. And the angels of Engels: walk away from here, nobody will talk to you; get out.
There is no place where the Monster cannot see us: He’s got one too many heads, and on each head, thousands of electric eyes: He’s our nuclear Buddha of Love.
I don’t know how to grow, where to go, or what to think anymore.
I am just another gear of this huge, celestial cemetery-state.
And some days; just some
I’d like to be crucified, like that Nazarene of Palestine.
II)
What are you doing here? You’re entering into the worst place of the world: shout; ‘I don’t wanna be exploited!’ shout.
The Buddha of silence will suffocate your echoing insanity with his goodness in the smile, nobody will hear: here the cities, they are too distant each other...
...Now the paper houses fall irremissibly on their knees under the appalling monsoon:
we don’t only eat rice and sweet pork: we eat corruption: shout; ‘I wanna be treated like a man, not like an animal!’ shout.
The Buddha of compassion will shout with you, echoing in dementia and a smile.
A wide Chinese smile: the ministers will come and will break your knees in pieces, for you to fall irremissibly, under the appalling monsoon; for all to see: now get buried with (in) your dreams, or go away.
Because they’re so-called angels of the shadows.
Don’t touch me: I’m the holy man of the misery’s temple: I’m Chinese.
Don’t touch! I’m the insane hermit on the hill of Erysichton: I’m the man who devours himself.
The Saint in His Holy Stone Capsule; my temple of time...
So the time goes by in this interminably extensive temple with no roof
And there will be an end to know?
Apocalypse, infernal dream: who did await for the arriving of Him, whom was going to save us?
He’ll have the power in the mind and jackal eyes
No, no (like an insane I’m talking only lies)
Black sign: to feel oneself the owner of his self-destruction
Buddha, eternal, of the eternal construction
Damned.
"...But now please show us...show us how these things will be and what we got to see yet. Yet, under this Empire of horror..."
Man in the prowl. I am:
who are you?
.
...Then the Buddha of love was substituted with the Love: man in the prowl, I am.
The ochre and saturated pastel colours of an afternoon in Shanghai, the fotos from Cantón, the fish soup of the mountains: show me your damned individuality: where is it?
Who, who are you..?
We have been constructing this wall since always, it’s ours, and we are its: the popular republic is our god, and we honour him with fat drops of sweat falling from our loins anyday.
Man in the prowl, am I? I’m not even human:
I am Chinese: you couldn’t guess the variety of plastic my entrails are built in.
The world cannot understand: we follow
what we follow? Who wants to know.
The world cannot understand; we turned the doctrine into our own flesh, and now the last vestige of humanity has flown away, from our open mouths.
The world wouldn’t understand: Marx was only a white westerner; or maybe Jew. And we are not that, we had to go beyond: we’re the perfectors of Marx. And the angels of Engels: walk away from here, nobody will talk to you; get out.
There is no place where the Monster cannot see us: He’s got one too many heads, and on each head, thousands of electric eyes: He’s our nuclear Buddha of Love.
I don’t know how to grow, where to go, or what to think anymore.
I am just another gear of this huge, celestial cemetery-state.
And some days; just some
I’d like to be crucified, like that Nazarene of Palestine.
II)
What are you doing here? You’re entering into the worst place of the world: shout; ‘I don’t wanna be exploited!’ shout.
The Buddha of silence will suffocate your echoing insanity with his goodness in the smile, nobody will hear: here the cities, they are too distant each other...
...Now the paper houses fall irremissibly on their knees under the appalling monsoon:
we don’t only eat rice and sweet pork: we eat corruption: shout; ‘I wanna be treated like a man, not like an animal!’ shout.
The Buddha of compassion will shout with you, echoing in dementia and a smile.
A wide Chinese smile: the ministers will come and will break your knees in pieces, for you to fall irremissibly, under the appalling monsoon; for all to see: now get buried with (in) your dreams, or go away.
Because they’re so-called angels of the shadows.
Don’t touch me: I’m the holy man of the misery’s temple: I’m Chinese.
Don’t touch! I’m the insane hermit on the hill of Erysichton: I’m the man who devours himself.
The Saint in His Holy Stone Capsule; my temple of time...
So the time goes by in this interminably extensive temple with no roof
And there will be an end to know?
Apocalypse, infernal dream: who did await for the arriving of Him, whom was going to save us?
He’ll have the power in the mind and jackal eyes
No, no (like an insane I’m talking only lies)
Black sign: to feel oneself the owner of his self-destruction
Buddha, eternal, of the eternal construction
Damned.
"...But now please show us...show us how these things will be and what we got to see yet. Yet, under this Empire of horror..."
Man in the prowl. I am:
who are you?
.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Summertime
[Vagabonds in the Western World]
All the national roads of Europe burn now melting under the magnetic twilight: summerlove for a purple Sun disguised of heavy shower: in fact: cars like fast-orange cockroaches run between the forests and its pines electric. Neurotically...
The ardour of the sky; sunny incidents of the childhood, desperations of summer: hours of silver by the river (that the Sun owns).
River, green lips, purple Sun. Neurotically...
The summer contains a music that is like the clue of love: naked people travelling towards the Mediterranean, Northern, Atlantic shores: sister Mediterranean, sister Northern: I am Atlantic; where are you sister? The yesternight sky has seen you: the sky that lies under, one of both mirrors; sister...
Overcrowded trains go towards the English Channel now, because the sky is closer to the Earth in summertime! And your lips are greener!
Where all those Renaults, Citroens, Peugeots and Fiats go?: Just to reach the horizon, the end of all the roads fulminated in the skyline itself?
Only the cricket of the wet sunrise knows...
...Over the villes, the sweaty copulations and all the disillusionments of yesterday, only the ventilators keep on türning; like idiotic windmills, like electric automatons of nonsense.
So come on; not all is lost yet (not the blue gold, not the nightmares that turn into golden dreams); and is not lost, because it is...dance time!
Dance, till the red Sun, or the luminous pouring rain announce
...us...
that the night it’s over; neurotically...
[Vagabonds in the Western World]
All the national roads of Europe burn now melting under the magnetic twilight: summerlove for a purple Sun disguised of heavy shower: in fact: cars like fast-orange cockroaches run between the forests and its pines electric. Neurotically...
The ardour of the sky; sunny incidents of the childhood, desperations of summer: hours of silver by the river (that the Sun owns).
River, green lips, purple Sun. Neurotically...
The summer contains a music that is like the clue of love: naked people travelling towards the Mediterranean, Northern, Atlantic shores: sister Mediterranean, sister Northern: I am Atlantic; where are you sister? The yesternight sky has seen you: the sky that lies under, one of both mirrors; sister...
Overcrowded trains go towards the English Channel now, because the sky is closer to the Earth in summertime! And your lips are greener!
Where all those Renaults, Citroens, Peugeots and Fiats go?: Just to reach the horizon, the end of all the roads fulminated in the skyline itself?
Only the cricket of the wet sunrise knows...
...Over the villes, the sweaty copulations and all the disillusionments of yesterday, only the ventilators keep on türning; like idiotic windmills, like electric automatons of nonsense.
So come on; not all is lost yet (not the blue gold, not the nightmares that turn into golden dreams); and is not lost, because it is...dance time!
Dance, till the red Sun, or the luminous pouring rain announce
...us...
that the night it’s over; neurotically...
The symbol on the mud
From the three of Joh, came Jemuel; walking with a cane his shadow; projected three legs across the lacteal valley; his shadow projected.
the old man blind, sat at the door of his house built of bodoke and ox shit, asked him:
'Jemuel, if seven trumpets sound for the ones who cannot hear, and seven lightnings strike for the ones who cannot see: what the time will right be?'
The young man left the erected donkey tied by a fig-tree, did spit on the cracked terrain of Phallustein, and did draw an enigmatic symbol on the mud.
The Suns were falling down, hermetically towards their tomb, the starry night of the desert: the conchoid, black sky itself...
the old man blind, sat at the door of his house built of bodoke and ox shit, asked him:
'Jemuel, if seven trumpets sound for the ones who cannot hear, and seven lightnings strike for the ones who cannot see: what the time will right be?'
The young man left the erected donkey tied by a fig-tree, did spit on the cracked terrain of Phallustein, and did draw an enigmatic symbol on the mud.
The Suns were falling down, hermetically towards their tomb, the starry night of the desert: the conchoid, black sky itself...
Sunday, July 5, 2009
List of The Post Office in Riau Islands,you can send and receive money too, national and international
|
No |
Name |
Address/Road |
Phone |
| 1. | Tanjungpinang Post Office | B. Katamso | +62771 313038 |
| 2. | Tanjungpinang Kota PO | Merdeka | +62771 21071 |
| 3. | Kijang Post Office | Kijang | +62771 61542 |
| 4. | Tanjunguban Post Office | Tg Uban | +62771 81345 |
| 5. | Batam Post Office | Batam Center | +62771 462033 |
| 6. | Batam Nagoya PO | Nagoya Hill | - |
| 7. | Tanjungbalaikarimun PO | Karimun | - |
| 8. | Ranai Post Office | Natuna | - |
| 9. | Dabosingkep Post Office | Lingga | - |
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