Today is National Barbeque Day.
Here I have an overpainted collage
with my favorite (monkey) dog.
Monday, May 31, 2010
happy memorial dog
Today is National Barbeque Day.
Here I have an overpainted collage
with my favorite (monkey) dog.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
mouse'd skull
I like this, drawn from a blue canvas
article showing work from Rodrigo Cifuentes.
Walt wouldn't like this...
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
my red dog
try and get him to sit still for a painting.
he really doesn't like it when you "stare" at him
The meat of my last days in the zone
(January 2007?)
January:
Afternoon.
The high-speed dirt of the city get stuck to my eyelids; 15.000.000 stories stroll dumb under a Sun, dumb, dumb, all is BuenosdumbAires! Fuck.
Crestfallen trees accompany a boulevard of austral steps and streeter food's smell, while the black 'n' yellow taxis *brand Peugeot brand* drive the grand ladies toward the aristocratic northern zone: food food food food food food.
A Scottish church's façade aaaAAAAAAAHHHHhhhhh throws screams over old women all dressed in Chantilly suits, the Sun is omnipresence that saturates my anxiety: that smell, what can it be.
Evening.
I'm on the streets picking the litter, would kill everyone at sight. How I would beg for the soft peace of your silvery lips...the centre of Buenos Aires is an ant-hill in the arse of Benny Hill, mozzarella & leather, everything is semen, except the trees: meanwhile, the concrete's skin of the enormous city is caressed by the oblique light: why, fuck why.
At the hour of the scandalous twilight, when everything gets yellow and red, and the schizoid urban collapse gets blended with the pouring rain, then.
Then I search you among the crowd...then! Then! Then! Like a raving demented jumping among yuppies and grey suits, is this fair!
Did you know that ain't no love in the heart of the city?
Nigh(t).
I'm feeling like a woman who's going to give birth at a crossroads tonight.
Nobody feels like, anybody feels the way I feel, and I'm crazy; you know, you know I feel crazy. You know, you know; I feel maybe...
Every town has its history, and its story: which is yours? Once I demanded the world to hear, with all the rage of an afternoon in the lungs of HELL...now I am just letting this lettuce, letting, lettuce, letting, lettuce, letting, lettuce go...
January:
Afternoon.
The high-speed dirt of the city get stuck to my eyelids; 15.000.000 stories stroll dumb under a Sun, dumb, dumb, all is BuenosdumbAires! Fuck.
Crestfallen trees accompany a boulevard of austral steps and streeter food's smell, while the black 'n' yellow taxis *brand Peugeot brand* drive the grand ladies toward the aristocratic northern zone: food food food food food food.
A Scottish church's façade aaaAAAAAAAHHHHhhhhh throws screams over old women all dressed in Chantilly suits, the Sun is omnipresence that saturates my anxiety: that smell, what can it be.
Evening.
I'm on the streets picking the litter, would kill everyone at sight. How I would beg for the soft peace of your silvery lips...the centre of Buenos Aires is an ant-hill in the arse of Benny Hill, mozzarella & leather, everything is semen, except the trees: meanwhile, the concrete's skin of the enormous city is caressed by the oblique light: why, fuck why.
At the hour of the scandalous twilight, when everything gets yellow and red, and the schizoid urban collapse gets blended with the pouring rain, then.
Then I search you among the crowd...then! Then! Then! Like a raving demented jumping among yuppies and grey suits, is this fair!
Did you know that ain't no love in the heart of the city?
Nigh(t).
I'm feeling like a woman who's going to give birth at a crossroads tonight.
Nobody feels like, anybody feels the way I feel, and I'm crazy; you know, you know I feel crazy. You know, you know; I feel maybe...
Every town has its history, and its story: which is yours? Once I demanded the world to hear, with all the rage of an afternoon in the lungs of HELL...now I am just letting this lettuce, letting, lettuce, letting, lettuce, letting, lettuce go...
Thursday, May 27, 2010
mr barrel cactus whale
the desert chameleon-the barrel cactus whale blends perfectly into the desert landscape
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
mr. barrel cactus
a highly acclaimed resident of the desert;
mr. barrel cactus, perched in the rocks and soaking up the sun .....
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Rotten rhapsody in 3 parts
.
A) Ivory stairs, trash, disorder: the walls became sperm, the velocity of my veins pump in the corridor. Really -->
This hospital is a cemetery, a bedlam where inebriated moskitos dance like cossacks on the dry piss and get fulminated by the electric dream. Apart---->
B) This doctor-morbo and his sado-helper-nurse-dominatrix took me by force to the raving lunatics' pavillion where, under a Sicilian sun, the psychos shatter themselves, and dancing cretin funks, they go sleep suddenly with their eyes too open, and lanterns turned on under their pillows. Really.
Fortunately I could escape.
Escape!
C) Escape toward these iv(or)y stairs: ivies of perversion (behind the).
Here there are mechanical cocks, automata graced with cunts built in PVC, rampant örgasmatrons: I'm into my synthetic paradise now, surrounded by sugar walls, surrounded by virtual beings made of silicon and androgynous flesh.
I don't mind my mind, I'm just another rubber toy; we're just latex in this garden; a sweaty miracle of the science. Really.
.
A) Ivory stairs, trash, disorder: the walls became sperm, the velocity of my veins pump in the corridor. Really -->
This hospital is a cemetery, a bedlam where inebriated moskitos dance like cossacks on the dry piss and get fulminated by the electric dream. Apart---->
B) This doctor-morbo and his sado-helper-nurse-dominatrix took me by force to the raving lunatics' pavillion where, under a Sicilian sun, the psychos shatter themselves, and dancing cretin funks, they go sleep suddenly with their eyes too open, and lanterns turned on under their pillows. Really.
Fortunately I could escape.
Escape!
C) Escape toward these iv(or)y stairs: ivies of perversion (behind the).
Here there are mechanical cocks, automata graced with cunts built in PVC, rampant örgasmatrons: I'm into my synthetic paradise now, surrounded by sugar walls, surrounded by virtual beings made of silicon and androgynous flesh.
I don't mind my mind, I'm just another rubber toy; we're just latex in this garden; a sweaty miracle of the science. Really.
.
[Fanfare for a] sado-Polanski in Summer leather
.
Night horses and I dislike this place.
Dancing, falling, veins, veins all around.
The placenta of these blue skies, symptom of the Jonesy.
And a fluo screen all covered in monkey crap, now listen:
the national roads were all-wet under a summer sun, naked girls were inhaling nasty gas whispered in my ears like a magnetotherapy; you cried.
The deep-blue space was prologue and insolation: now they move like mechanical puppets goin' toward their own Altamont; all this sucks, give me a fuckin' break!
Sharon Tate was our name back then, blackened in the dark; the day presented itself limpid and vaporous, like the daughters of Zeus Hospital during the Olympiad: oh flummoxing sanguine addiction of the silvery gods! Repugnant rites! Won't they never ever stop this torture?
I saw Roman Polanski sitting down at his dark living room, he was watching theeeeeee...ehhhh???!!
Watching the TV; European movies, great filmmakers, smoking a Virginia Slims 100's.
Polanski was watching Altamont live, the whole slaughter was at hand, by means of a wired remote control. The color TV wanted to GTFO...in the outside a simultaneous rain was breaking loose: heros were raining, Batman and Merman and the Space Ghost falling on the Polanski's patio: the profound terror provoked some nausea in my psyche, I felt like puking.
II)
Roman was all in sado-black leather, but In the interim, the Polanski's face experienced a violent transformation, a radical re-shaping (sic): his chin started getting stretched like an inflated pear, and his chin, crawling on the blue carpet of the living room, went happily outdoors, getting entangled among the laurels and the baobabs of his sophisticated micro-garden.
The stoned chicks came in, and the orgy started.
Porn movies were played in Betamax and the kilometric Polanski's chin penetrated a playmate: everybody was fucking, they brought Egyptian hyenas and Italian pizzaiolas.
Hot areolas.
And hot trolas.
And Enolas.
Little more to say actually from a feast which finally turned into fiasco
just a chronicle from some night in Bel Air: the Beverley Hills' police.
Came.
In the rain.
With John Wayne.
Night horses and I dislike this place: a raped fairy was screaming hanging from the ventilator, the floor: all covered in used condoms; black chicks, Asian chicks, cops all around, lots of nasty gas, the radio blasting Engelbert Humperdinck out loud, disorder, trash, radio out loud.
Radio.
Estadio.
Escabio.
Favio.
Labio.
Labia.
Rabia.
Arabia.
Fuuuckkk oooooooffffffffffff!!!
.
Night horses and I dislike this place.
Dancing, falling, veins, veins all around.
The placenta of these blue skies, symptom of the Jonesy.
And a fluo screen all covered in monkey crap, now listen:
the national roads were all-wet under a summer sun, naked girls were inhaling nasty gas whispered in my ears like a magnetotherapy; you cried.
The deep-blue space was prologue and insolation: now they move like mechanical puppets goin' toward their own Altamont; all this sucks, give me a fuckin' break!
Sharon Tate was our name back then, blackened in the dark; the day presented itself limpid and vaporous, like the daughters of Zeus Hospital during the Olympiad: oh flummoxing sanguine addiction of the silvery gods! Repugnant rites! Won't they never ever stop this torture?
I saw Roman Polanski sitting down at his dark living room, he was watching theeeeeee...ehhhh???!!
Watching the TV; European movies, great filmmakers, smoking a Virginia Slims 100's.
Polanski was watching Altamont live, the whole slaughter was at hand, by means of a wired remote control. The color TV wanted to GTFO...in the outside a simultaneous rain was breaking loose: heros were raining, Batman and Merman and the Space Ghost falling on the Polanski's patio: the profound terror provoked some nausea in my psyche, I felt like puking.
II)
Roman was all in sado-black leather, but In the interim, the Polanski's face experienced a violent transformation, a radical re-shaping (sic): his chin started getting stretched like an inflated pear, and his chin, crawling on the blue carpet of the living room, went happily outdoors, getting entangled among the laurels and the baobabs of his sophisticated micro-garden.
The stoned chicks came in, and the orgy started.
Porn movies were played in Betamax and the kilometric Polanski's chin penetrated a playmate: everybody was fucking, they brought Egyptian hyenas and Italian pizzaiolas.
Hot areolas.
And hot trolas.
And Enolas.
Little more to say actually from a feast which finally turned into fiasco
just a chronicle from some night in Bel Air: the Beverley Hills' police.
Came.
In the rain.
With John Wayne.
Night horses and I dislike this place: a raped fairy was screaming hanging from the ventilator, the floor: all covered in used condoms; black chicks, Asian chicks, cops all around, lots of nasty gas, the radio blasting Engelbert Humperdinck out loud, disorder, trash, radio out loud.
Radio.
Estadio.
Escabio.
Favio.
Labio.
Labia.
Rabia.
Arabia.
Fuuuckkk oooooooffffffffffff!!!
.
Vera
Good morning Vera, my trance; you know I'm not good.
Not in their sense of goodness; you know: I'm naked in front your eyes, I can't lie!
Maybe I'm too stupid, or maybe I'm too clever, Vera...and like you, I haven't what I want.
This mörning the winds came tall from the south
the iron wine still is in my cup.
Good evening Vera, my thorn; if I could analyze myself, in a cold equation
cutting like a vivisection across the heart...I'd realize that you're all I need
But that's another story, Vera
a long story, as long as the time.
Time.
Not in their sense of goodness; you know: I'm naked in front your eyes, I can't lie!
Maybe I'm too stupid, or maybe I'm too clever, Vera...and like you, I haven't what I want.
This mörning the winds came tall from the south
the iron wine still is in my cup.
Good evening Vera, my thorn; if I could analyze myself, in a cold equation
cutting like a vivisection across the heart...I'd realize that you're all I need
But that's another story, Vera
a long story, as long as the time.
Time.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Begging for the new dawn
.
The angel of retribution's iron wings displayed a camp of ice in the city today.
That angel from Germany, broken his ankles, dressed in a black wool's tunic? Himself: you know him.
His curled hairs did sway slowly in the blizzards that himself created, and for a while, his deeds were not matter of ulterior judgement: for a while, the time did stand still (phrase which contains a paradox, as you can see).
Standing at the city gates, he beheld this Babylon with fury: the angel stopped the Sun on its path, and the sleepers who, slowly, started waking up, realised that the Sun was an absent friend that dawn: and it was in the middle of the Summer...the population was begging for the new dawn to come.
The sunrise was verified at 7 PM.
That day, the roosters crowed in the evening
along with Saint Joseph of Arimathea and his teardrops: green evening for a red Sun
the angel left, taking all the ice toward Germany, homeland of the ices.
That year was named the Green Year, because of the green evening, and because of the green eyes of the angel, and their furious stare; the ice was green too.
Saint Joseph of Arimathea returned walking slowly, full of peace, by an eternally sunny and dusty path, toward the celestial Ieru Shalom; where only the circumcized enters: and the goy and the dog and the whore, they are rejected, and die fulminated at the gates.
Fulminated at the gates.
They die fulminated at the gates.
.
The angel of retribution's iron wings displayed a camp of ice in the city today.
That angel from Germany, broken his ankles, dressed in a black wool's tunic? Himself: you know him.
His curled hairs did sway slowly in the blizzards that himself created, and for a while, his deeds were not matter of ulterior judgement: for a while, the time did stand still (phrase which contains a paradox, as you can see).
Standing at the city gates, he beheld this Babylon with fury: the angel stopped the Sun on its path, and the sleepers who, slowly, started waking up, realised that the Sun was an absent friend that dawn: and it was in the middle of the Summer...the population was begging for the new dawn to come.
The sunrise was verified at 7 PM.
That day, the roosters crowed in the evening
along with Saint Joseph of Arimathea and his teardrops: green evening for a red Sun
the angel left, taking all the ice toward Germany, homeland of the ices.
That year was named the Green Year, because of the green evening, and because of the green eyes of the angel, and their furious stare; the ice was green too.
Saint Joseph of Arimathea returned walking slowly, full of peace, by an eternally sunny and dusty path, toward the celestial Ieru Shalom; where only the circumcized enters: and the goy and the dog and the whore, they are rejected, and die fulminated at the gates.
Fulminated at the gates.
They die fulminated at the gates.
.
... and the wind cries; jimi
after a painting by David Choe in this months issue of Juxtapose.
He uses everything he's got in the studio, from spray cans to pencils. He's got the energy
Sunday, May 23, 2010
double nested
Sometimes, sharing the "nest" can seem a little crowded....
but snuggling can be nice...
Two words
Since I can remember I was an absurdist, in the Camus or Kierkegaard vein, possibly this characteristic took me to act in a way that the people many times didn't understand. Many times (mostly), behind a weird, borderline basic, sometimes too allegoric sense of humor, there is a message, a symbol which is reflecting about the futility of the existence, and about all the injustices and the nonsense that this life of ours seems to be, only ruled by the fortuitous: agents of fortune that don't belong to the realms of the intelligent or the intentional, only to the casual.
I would like this were different, would like an universe ruled by an intelligent and sensible love, without unfairness and suffering; a world where the dreamers were not scorned and where we could wait for something else than the predictable mediocrity and cruelty, and something else than that blind coldness of the impersonal concatenation of facts we are living in: the blindness and deafness of an universe that seems to be a meaningless void, without an aim, which is looking at us, without seeing, and without understanding or feeling a thing.
About my brothers the humans, deep inside I love them all equally, sometimes we are like the blind universe each other, many times our sense is stupid and we become unfair and wrong; we hurt and we hate without a reason, disliking the others just because that is an easy thing to do, safe, and we don't lose anything in the process.
But I still hope we will learn to love, but really.
About the feeling and the concept of a life without a meaning, of an universe buried into the futile and the absurd lack of reason to be, I just will keep on believing, hoping: maybe loving is the only way to obtain a (at least moral, or nominal) victory on the death, on the nonsense and on the cold oblivion: our only way to shout at the death and to the final nothing; and in the end, to obtain our eternity.
But we should keep on hoping -even with a bleeding heart broken in pieces- that the existential futility was defeated, already, somewhere.
Maybe within another cosmic reality.
I would like this were different, would like an universe ruled by an intelligent and sensible love, without unfairness and suffering; a world where the dreamers were not scorned and where we could wait for something else than the predictable mediocrity and cruelty, and something else than that blind coldness of the impersonal concatenation of facts we are living in: the blindness and deafness of an universe that seems to be a meaningless void, without an aim, which is looking at us, without seeing, and without understanding or feeling a thing.
About my brothers the humans, deep inside I love them all equally, sometimes we are like the blind universe each other, many times our sense is stupid and we become unfair and wrong; we hurt and we hate without a reason, disliking the others just because that is an easy thing to do, safe, and we don't lose anything in the process.
But I still hope we will learn to love, but really.
About the feeling and the concept of a life without a meaning, of an universe buried into the futile and the absurd lack of reason to be, I just will keep on believing, hoping: maybe loving is the only way to obtain a (at least moral, or nominal) victory on the death, on the nonsense and on the cold oblivion: our only way to shout at the death and to the final nothing; and in the end, to obtain our eternity.
But we should keep on hoping -even with a bleeding heart broken in pieces- that the existential futility was defeated, already, somewhere.
Maybe within another cosmic reality.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Explanation in blood
.
A) Inception/time on my hands/the prince
_______________________________
Heretofore was I a hippish child. A Velazquez' bad dream was my morning star.
Weeping harlequin under a misty light cast by spiders, little prince of the kingdom of the lazy tedium, savage and intractable; I was.
My loneliness incarnata: in Delacroix and Goya's nightmares she never left me alone.
Because my dreams were:
-interminable stairways to escape from myself
-that terror of the diffuse European things
-perverse angels moving between pines of aggressive green
-the cold as soul-flesh
-lakes like profound and sombre mirrors
-a labyrinth of rain
-threatening faces that never could be seen
-desperate race (the more I ran, the less I moved)
-walls
-corridors
-brown bricks with incomprehensible signs
-the smell of rancid humidity
-a (never) complete obscurity
-jails
-pits, and...
B) End/la miel du Diable/ the beast's issue
________________________________
I was the pariah who knew how to see, in all the strange and disproportionable things a balsam and a home.
My echo was estranged on through the big forests in 1000 ricochets. Like a wild beast running blind, I tried to reach the source of all the nonsensical things: the art of the demented ones, the children of Gaia playing naked on Adriatic shores, the silvery aeroplanes of the prehistoric India, the laser of Mu...disgusting solar rites...
But I just found a stranger, a fantasm in myself.
Then it started raining.
The grey honey of the Devil started raining.
And it found me disguised like a buffoon with broken hands...
Still I'm here, just a shade in this hospital lit by a ray of winter.
And while this rain still falls, I'm ready to jump like a frenzied hyena.
Like a horrible, wet dog.
.
A) Inception/time on my hands/the prince
_______________________________
Heretofore was I a hippish child. A Velazquez' bad dream was my morning star.
Weeping harlequin under a misty light cast by spiders, little prince of the kingdom of the lazy tedium, savage and intractable; I was.
My loneliness incarnata: in Delacroix and Goya's nightmares she never left me alone.
Because my dreams were:
-interminable stairways to escape from myself
-that terror of the diffuse European things
-perverse angels moving between pines of aggressive green
-the cold as soul-flesh
-lakes like profound and sombre mirrors
-a labyrinth of rain
-threatening faces that never could be seen
-desperate race (the more I ran, the less I moved)
-walls
-corridors
-brown bricks with incomprehensible signs
-the smell of rancid humidity
-a (never) complete obscurity
-jails
-pits, and...
B) End/la miel du Diable/ the beast's issue
________________________________
I was the pariah who knew how to see, in all the strange and disproportionable things a balsam and a home.
My echo was estranged on through the big forests in 1000 ricochets. Like a wild beast running blind, I tried to reach the source of all the nonsensical things: the art of the demented ones, the children of Gaia playing naked on Adriatic shores, the silvery aeroplanes of the prehistoric India, the laser of Mu...disgusting solar rites...
But I just found a stranger, a fantasm in myself.
Then it started raining.
The grey honey of the Devil started raining.
And it found me disguised like a buffoon with broken hands...
Still I'm here, just a shade in this hospital lit by a ray of winter.
And while this rain still falls, I'm ready to jump like a frenzied hyena.
Like a horrible, wet dog.
.
I, the fool one
.
Day 2! The wind do-does the fandango among the curtains.
Oh baby (you don't even hear): ain't the life that miracle? I saw an arch in the sky, built in patience and festive feet; and I saw even more!
Saw the smile of the derelict ones, and a dead angel who was born again: he made the others smile, but he couldn't smile. Poor angel!
And I saw you out of tears, and I...
Miserable puzzle, my life, oh insane heritage of the western races!
Condemned the west was to see the steely meanders, the titanic diamonds of the Abaddon's path.
The svelt ozone of the night sky Belzebub? (sic)
Wait! Who are you! I don't recognise you, leave my miseries alone! Cruel of mine, cruel!
Do-I-have-to-put-the-scalene-structure-of-the-cosmos-at-your-feet?
Do I have to turn myself into a man-dawn, relaunched into a holographic body, señorita?
I CAN'T, MONA! CAN'T YOU SEE MY VEINS? THEY ARE OPEN!
I'm dead.
Hey, day 2! I will settle a flag on my brow like an opprobium, and I won't say a word anymore.
By savage, sublunar lands I roamed; at the edge of the terminal barbarity I sat down, to watch the world with albatross eyes.
And your arms?
Arms of extinguished star for me: en bonne santé I shot myself with a gun of repugnant winds every fucking night.
And the constellations just pay me back with the baffling shouts of the idiot?
My dodgy diadem, ensign and Lucifera of my complex pain...je ne veux pleurer pas.
As in absurd procession I went by, along an interminable road; they did cover my face with spits, I smiled mechanically like a marionette: where's the helping hand?
Day 2: when? Tell me: when?
If I tell you I adore you, I don't lie, possibly that's my fault. The life is a miracle, I keep on stalking my own shadow, like a raving lunatic...
In the halcyon afternoon I'm dead, hurt and hopelessly sad. Here I puke my dumb communiqué.
.
Day 2! The wind do-does the fandango among the curtains.
Oh baby (you don't even hear): ain't the life that miracle? I saw an arch in the sky, built in patience and festive feet; and I saw even more!
Saw the smile of the derelict ones, and a dead angel who was born again: he made the others smile, but he couldn't smile. Poor angel!
And I saw you out of tears, and I...
Miserable puzzle, my life, oh insane heritage of the western races!
Condemned the west was to see the steely meanders, the titanic diamonds of the Abaddon's path.
The svelt ozone of the night sky Belzebub? (sic)
Wait! Who are you! I don't recognise you, leave my miseries alone! Cruel of mine, cruel!
Do-I-have-to-put-the-scalene-structure-of-the-cosmos-at-your-feet?
Do I have to turn myself into a man-dawn, relaunched into a holographic body, señorita?
I CAN'T, MONA! CAN'T YOU SEE MY VEINS? THEY ARE OPEN!
I'm dead.
Hey, day 2! I will settle a flag on my brow like an opprobium, and I won't say a word anymore.
By savage, sublunar lands I roamed; at the edge of the terminal barbarity I sat down, to watch the world with albatross eyes.
And your arms?
Arms of extinguished star for me: en bonne santé I shot myself with a gun of repugnant winds every fucking night.
And the constellations just pay me back with the baffling shouts of the idiot?
My dodgy diadem, ensign and Lucifera of my complex pain...je ne veux pleurer pas.
As in absurd procession I went by, along an interminable road; they did cover my face with spits, I smiled mechanically like a marionette: where's the helping hand?
Day 2: when? Tell me: when?
If I tell you I adore you, I don't lie, possibly that's my fault. The life is a miracle, I keep on stalking my own shadow, like a raving lunatic...
In the halcyon afternoon I'm dead, hurt and hopelessly sad. Here I puke my dumb communiqué.
.
The greed and the idiocy
What should a man do? SometimesI feel and think like a woman, what's a man anyway? God..? Silence...
Our happiness never will be complete, because we know we'll die; this shadow always will darken our mind.
Is the life worthwhile?
How something so sacred as the life is can escape from our fingers? There's an afterlife? And if there's not: what does remain? (Sun chastises the sidewalk; idiot's smile).
Our feelings, so immense, of love and that sensation so similar to the sublime eternity, the best of us; all our wishes, dreams, love for the beauty, amazement for the art, innocent kindness: where all this goes?
Our noblest attitudes, our respect and tolerance each other, the alms we give to the dawn; that unlimited tenderness that resembles the interminable blue space, even our lust: where all this goes?
Our electricity, energy and life's strongest ties; ourselves as individuals, and in loving connection with the others: is this condemned to be erased at once along with the dead flesh? The mankind is a stupid vacuum cleaner.
And our unselfish commitment? Where it goes, sky of mine?
When we die.
§
I'm an opaque man, and my own greed is becoming every day more feeble and diffuse; but the life out there: ain't grotesque? (the mankind is an old woman's ass soup).
I hear a distant music, festive music of happiness: aren't they absolutely deaf and stupid?
Oceans of doubt suffocate me and whisper in my ears: "is not the quest for happiness a ridiculous rat race?"
I gathered all my pity in a fist, and I just got dirty crumbs of uncertainty. Should I wish or desire anything? Did I want to live, did I ask it?
I start to feel the -everyday stronger- suspicion that everything is meaningless. A suspicion too similar to the certainty.
So I could end these cheerful lines with some poetical attempt of exorcism ("sideral emptiness", "Eyes of my honey", "I'm tired of asking").
...But the death, the life and the nonsensical idiocy don't accept any exorcism.
Our happiness never will be complete, because we know we'll die; this shadow always will darken our mind.
Is the life worthwhile?
How something so sacred as the life is can escape from our fingers? There's an afterlife? And if there's not: what does remain? (Sun chastises the sidewalk; idiot's smile).
Our feelings, so immense, of love and that sensation so similar to the sublime eternity, the best of us; all our wishes, dreams, love for the beauty, amazement for the art, innocent kindness: where all this goes?
Our noblest attitudes, our respect and tolerance each other, the alms we give to the dawn; that unlimited tenderness that resembles the interminable blue space, even our lust: where all this goes?
Our electricity, energy and life's strongest ties; ourselves as individuals, and in loving connection with the others: is this condemned to be erased at once along with the dead flesh? The mankind is a stupid vacuum cleaner.
And our unselfish commitment? Where it goes, sky of mine?
When we die.
§
I'm an opaque man, and my own greed is becoming every day more feeble and diffuse; but the life out there: ain't grotesque? (the mankind is an old woman's ass soup).
I hear a distant music, festive music of happiness: aren't they absolutely deaf and stupid?
Oceans of doubt suffocate me and whisper in my ears: "is not the quest for happiness a ridiculous rat race?"
I gathered all my pity in a fist, and I just got dirty crumbs of uncertainty. Should I wish or desire anything? Did I want to live, did I ask it?
I start to feel the -everyday stronger- suspicion that everything is meaningless. A suspicion too similar to the certainty.
So I could end these cheerful lines with some poetical attempt of exorcism ("sideral emptiness", "Eyes of my honey", "I'm tired of asking").
...But the death, the life and the nonsensical idiocy don't accept any exorcism.
Miroir
The ovaries of the galaxy shine. Blackened supernova, muddy and heavy.
Black oxygen and magnetic meat; speedy Ohms per/volt.
Any art is an art of death; of death, understood like a Velazquez over an abyss of vaginal flux and machines.
The titanic lynx of the black, the cosmic-abominable monster and its computerized retinas.
How?
Look, love: impossible angels are coming to our Earth to start the Apocalypse: I salute your hips and your cunt.
Look, love: Canopus shines more tonight; the semen angels will fight against vampire gauchos: your tits are remarkable.
Sometimes I would like to hate you, especially on that Saxon day, Valentine, don't know its actual name.
The ovaries of the galaxy are your ovaries too, you: blonde secretary in miniskirt: who cares if the world is ending, let's go fuck under the desk.
Any art is an art of life; of life, understood like a frozen Picasso in the Manchurian prairies, like Aristotle in Finland.
I dreamed a strange nightmare, I dreamed that I woke up in the Americas, and you were naked. Your navel was the Sun, and your tits were our amorous Moons at night.
The wind was our son, and he was raised among the coyotes.
How?
He was the titanic lynx of the black, the cosmic-abominable monster and its computerized retinas.
...As the ovaries of the galaxy shine...
Black oxygen and magnetic meat; speedy Ohms per/volt.
Any art is an art of death; of death, understood like a Velazquez over an abyss of vaginal flux and machines.
The titanic lynx of the black, the cosmic-abominable monster and its computerized retinas.
How?
Look, love: impossible angels are coming to our Earth to start the Apocalypse: I salute your hips and your cunt.
Look, love: Canopus shines more tonight; the semen angels will fight against vampire gauchos: your tits are remarkable.
Sometimes I would like to hate you, especially on that Saxon day, Valentine, don't know its actual name.
The ovaries of the galaxy are your ovaries too, you: blonde secretary in miniskirt: who cares if the world is ending, let's go fuck under the desk.
Any art is an art of life; of life, understood like a frozen Picasso in the Manchurian prairies, like Aristotle in Finland.
I dreamed a strange nightmare, I dreamed that I woke up in the Americas, and you were naked. Your navel was the Sun, and your tits were our amorous Moons at night.
The wind was our son, and he was raised among the coyotes.
How?
He was the titanic lynx of the black, the cosmic-abominable monster and its computerized retinas.
...As the ovaries of the galaxy shine...
Friday, May 21, 2010
Abstrakt cosma
.
Under a hostile moon you join fissures; images from 1988 that come to your mind in whirls, like the worst nightmares you've ever dreamed.
Titanic shots from a Polaroid that don't want to disappear, making history [in horror] at every image.
They are like your insecure part...I always give you all, though sometimes I keep something in the dark.
You sleep wrapped in fish nets made of rope, as your Gemini throws riddles under the water.
Your sleep is built in riddles under the water, symbols, enigmas.
They are like my insecure part.
.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The bull
.
There was a castle by the sea, so-called castell by the villagers of the comarque; a castle over rocky cliffs which settled was, and watching toward a bluesy blue sea it was built; built by the Moors it was, long, long time ago.
A castle abandoned and lonely as it seems, since the king died alone, and nobody else did go in.
The king's corpse, left somewhere it was. In some of the 113 bedchambers; the king's corpse.
Nobody else durst to go in, since the well-known, dark, macabre events.
And in the nights there's no light or candle inside; and there's nobody there.
Since the mysterious, ünknown events; and there's nobody there.
Except a bull.
A huge, red bull they say; with black-shining, long horns; they say.
Some seamen swear they have seen him in clear days of haze, seen on through the tall windows of the castle; from their ships, and they swear it.
Nobody saw any bull while the king was alive, in his years, which were 101 years, they say.
Nobody knows how the bull appeared.
Some people, even, would swear that this bull has man's hands...and cries...
Nobody durst to go inside since the well-known, obscure events.
In the nights, there's no light or candle inside...
There was a castle by the sea, so-called castell by the villagers of the comarque; a castle over rocky cliffs which settled was, and watching toward a bluesy blue sea it was built; built by the Moors it was, long, long time ago.
A castle abandoned and lonely as it seems, since the king died alone, and nobody else did go in.
The king's corpse, left somewhere it was. In some of the 113 bedchambers; the king's corpse.
Nobody else durst to go in, since the well-known, dark, macabre events.
And in the nights there's no light or candle inside; and there's nobody there.
Since the mysterious, ünknown events; and there's nobody there.
Except a bull.
A huge, red bull they say; with black-shining, long horns; they say.
Some seamen swear they have seen him in clear days of haze, seen on through the tall windows of the castle; from their ships, and they swear it.
Nobody saw any bull while the king was alive, in his years, which were 101 years, they say.
Nobody knows how the bull appeared.
Some people, even, would swear that this bull has man's hands...and cries...
Nobody durst to go inside since the well-known, obscure events.
In the nights, there's no light or candle inside...
The cut
.
...The black heat is reflected on a row of black cars, while I pass by the ample avenue with long steps; slowly.
The tall-gothic dome of "Our Lady of Remedios de Escalada" projects an isosceles, threatening shade over the burning, and still colonial paving stones.
The trees sway under the summer breeze like inside of a sleep...black fantasms with blurred faces cross the boulevard moved by cell phones with blue light: their faces are like cuts.
I don't see anybody, except the slight opression of my heart; the indistinct, introspective, personal opression of the leave (because I'll never come back, I know it very well; why everything's got to be black here..?)
In the nights of the winter, when old women die, when nothing is possible; when the haze cover the dome like a sinister lover; then...
My shadow won't be found by the sidewalks. Anymore.
...The black heat is reflected on a row of black cars, while I pass by the ample avenue with long steps; slowly.
The tall-gothic dome of "Our Lady of Remedios de Escalada" projects an isosceles, threatening shade over the burning, and still colonial paving stones.
The trees sway under the summer breeze like inside of a sleep...black fantasms with blurred faces cross the boulevard moved by cell phones with blue light: their faces are like cuts.
I don't see anybody, except the slight opression of my heart; the indistinct, introspective, personal opression of the leave (because I'll never come back, I know it very well; why everything's got to be black here..?)
In the nights of the winter, when old women die, when nothing is possible; when the haze cover the dome like a sinister lover; then...
My shadow won't be found by the sidewalks. Anymore.
Hermione
Will she make me burn like a dry log?
I'm a dangerous demented...Hermione is fatuous fire, dereliction.
Walk, Hermione, walk; she's the blinded fire that makes myself be scorched in ardorous calenture: toward an unknow, mystical destination; Hermione walks...
Hermione is rejection and attraction, she's strong and weak; insecure as iron; Hermione.
And the loneliness of a wolf Hermione has; but she's a girl.
How many times my eyes sought yours, Hermione?
How many times I passed by, close to you, begging for a look?
Because I just wanted to lick and caress your white, muscular calves, your soft tummy, your forbidden buttocks smelling like oranges.
And make love to you, make you mine; suffocate this fury between your milky breasts, to be your male, loving you during a white, endless night. Fucking you without any check or restrain; loving and loving and loving you. To show what I feel: ardour, fury.
Because I love you Hermione.
Who cares?
I'm a dangerous demented...Hermione is fatuous fire, dereliction.
Walk, Hermione, walk; she's the blinded fire that makes myself be scorched in ardorous calenture: toward an unknow, mystical destination; Hermione walks...
Hermione is rejection and attraction, she's strong and weak; insecure as iron; Hermione.
And the loneliness of a wolf Hermione has; but she's a girl.
How many times my eyes sought yours, Hermione?
How many times I passed by, close to you, begging for a look?
Because I just wanted to lick and caress your white, muscular calves, your soft tummy, your forbidden buttocks smelling like oranges.
And make love to you, make you mine; suffocate this fury between your milky breasts, to be your male, loving you during a white, endless night. Fucking you without any check or restrain; loving and loving and loving you. To show what I feel: ardour, fury.
Because I love you Hermione.
Who cares?
A love
His path was forged by the stones of the road.
Her smile was like the midday sun that minces the haze in a reverie of mirrors, like the mirrors of our yesterdays.
His inner storms shaped her serene image, in seaweed and terror; in a slept sun and in empty arms.
She was like a blind child playing with rocks, she was magnetic derivation, electricity and ivy leaves.
He just was a wound that couldn't be healed...
"You'll be like a light which will light my way".
She was settled in the ample celestial blue; in the huge sky of the dead daughters.
As a constellation she was settled.
He turned into nocturnal creature or galvanic reaction...
...Far and estranged from the worldly theatre, their garden remains immutable, haunted by her amorous light...by his animalized pantings.
Will this horrid despondency, this nïghtmare without an end disappear one day?
"You'll be like a light that will light my way".
Her smile was like the midday sun that minces the haze in a reverie of mirrors, like the mirrors of our yesterdays.
His inner storms shaped her serene image, in seaweed and terror; in a slept sun and in empty arms.
She was like a blind child playing with rocks, she was magnetic derivation, electricity and ivy leaves.
He just was a wound that couldn't be healed...
"You'll be like a light which will light my way".
She was settled in the ample celestial blue; in the huge sky of the dead daughters.
As a constellation she was settled.
He turned into nocturnal creature or galvanic reaction...
...Far and estranged from the worldly theatre, their garden remains immutable, haunted by her amorous light...by his animalized pantings.
Will this horrid despondency, this nïghtmare without an end disappear one day?
"You'll be like a light that will light my way".
Tommy Chatterton or the descent into the eternal wheel
Hey Chatterton!
Beautiful boy: who killed you?
It was, it was that nektar from seraph's phallus that one day?
That one day took your days away.
Who could judge you?
You should be judged by the God of the puerile tenderness: a summer's kilohertz-eyed God, or perhaps by the children of the Slept Supernova, or by the eye that fulminates the magma, hey Chatterton..! In nights of sulphuric splendour: do you walk by Rome?
Your poor heart immense, he was affected and concerned, then you started your sentimental journey: in the climax of yöür vertigo you drank all the God's face in one go...maybe He cried in your ecstatic cheerio, too: the tina correx of the seas was replete.
Chronicles that only I know, narrate your flight over Iberian castells devoured by azured oceans; your 1.000.001 pleasures in the island of the double-sex Amazons; your descent to the Jordan...
Your voice reaches my ears, de profundis; now I know you did born again; in insulinic shock, in beggar of love, in low-frequency transmission; in high alpha sky...
And in all the black tears that you cried.
Hey, Chatterton.
Beautiful boy: who killed you?
It was, it was that nektar from seraph's phallus that one day?
That one day took your days away.
Who could judge you?
You should be judged by the God of the puerile tenderness: a summer's kilohertz-eyed God, or perhaps by the children of the Slept Supernova, or by the eye that fulminates the magma, hey Chatterton..! In nights of sulphuric splendour: do you walk by Rome?
Your poor heart immense, he was affected and concerned, then you started your sentimental journey: in the climax of yöür vertigo you drank all the God's face in one go...maybe He cried in your ecstatic cheerio, too: the tina correx of the seas was replete.
Chronicles that only I know, narrate your flight over Iberian castells devoured by azured oceans; your 1.000.001 pleasures in the island of the double-sex Amazons; your descent to the Jordan...
Your voice reaches my ears, de profundis; now I know you did born again; in insulinic shock, in beggar of love, in low-frequency transmission; in high alpha sky...
And in all the black tears that you cried.
Hey, Chatterton.
Enclosed circle/Sun of love
Here starts.
My overmodulation, my metamorphosis in knife tip.
And this flight over these clouds that could turn into lit or sinister danse macabre: my flight over the clouds, essence of grey and the black, enemies of the Sun: you.
In case of...
You, archeress throwing sweetly these arrows...with your eyes covered by spectrums?
[did you know that an artist is blind to the world?]
because nobody sees what he sees: for example this lady all radiance in the skies, ruler of all the men's destinies.
She wants me mocking and violent, careless and impetuous; because she's a woman, and she only loves the warrior, the poet and the fucker...and that leaf in the wind called Sun.
...And I'll scream in a mysterious way, like an animal around you; cold, vulnerable, warm; and gonna mince myself in holographic essence, woman!
I.
yes, the most bad of the men:
loser/winner/criminal
disgusting/sinner/animal
So here, for you, I settle this my Hell at your feet...and laugh at him?
For you, I rip my entrails off, and offer them to you, to play with them among your polished nails.
Psst: if you were the goddess Astaroth incarnata, I should satiate my ardour in you, before being devoured.
But I, naked of fanfare, just I: I am a corner chastised by broken winds without you, just another leaf in the wind, like the Sun: you.
My overmodulation, my metamorphosis in knife tip.
And this flight over these clouds that could turn into lit or sinister danse macabre: my flight over the clouds, essence of grey and the black, enemies of the Sun: you.
In case of...
You, archeress throwing sweetly these arrows...with your eyes covered by spectrums?
[did you know that an artist is blind to the world?]
because nobody sees what he sees: for example this lady all radiance in the skies, ruler of all the men's destinies.
She wants me mocking and violent, careless and impetuous; because she's a woman, and she only loves the warrior, the poet and the fucker...and that leaf in the wind called Sun.
...And I'll scream in a mysterious way, like an animal around you; cold, vulnerable, warm; and gonna mince myself in holographic essence, woman!
I.
yes, the most bad of the men:
loser/winner/criminal
disgusting/sinner/animal
So here, for you, I settle this my Hell at your feet...and laugh at him?
For you, I rip my entrails off, and offer them to you, to play with them among your polished nails.
Psst: if you were the goddess Astaroth incarnata, I should satiate my ardour in you, before being devoured.
But I, naked of fanfare, just I: I am a corner chastised by broken winds without you, just another leaf in the wind, like the Sun: you.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
more Big Bear
snow patches on hillside...
palm springs: 95º dry
big bear: 36º snow on ground
this is what I call "retreat"
Monday, May 17, 2010
Cedar Lake Camp Retreat, Big Bear CA
Rock Momument
atop hill by the lake
walking in my silent meditation
I came upon this monument
I call "Rockhead"
... dense subject ...
(click photos: cedar lake retreat)
Sunday, May 16, 2010
upright sperm whale
Yes, an upright Sperm Whale
it strikes me that the scars and other markings resemble tattoos; like "badges" of honor
Saturday, May 15, 2010
The effigy and the sphinx
Really! I'm not mad, the ones who know me know it; I don't even abuse of psychotropics or dangerous substances, like the LSD or the laudanum, mother and father of so many quiet storms.
My case is just a "variation of the logical perspicacy", or what -for some authorities- was called "lucid dreams with objective appreciation of the taxative reality by specifically multi-dimensional access".
Our mind can not, I mean, should not be limited to the simple state of vigil; nothing is really coincidence, but many times do happen strange concatenations of chances that appear like fortuitous in front of our eyes; most of the times, though, these unexpected facts lie already -like subliminal and previous material- inside our minds.
The structure of our mind owns this information, filed like non-classified sequences: maybe these unconscious subjects are related to that sort of blurred sensations and thoughts that many times keep us uneasily thoughtful, without finding the real source of our preoccupation, to rationalize it...but such data lie there, in our mind, latent, evanescent and extraneous; but absolutely powerful and, for sure: real.
Our perception is gyved to a little measurement of possiblities, we are manacled to our scarce mental development, while the most of our psychic potential remains inactive. But the potencies of our mind are incalculable.
These essential notions are manifested many times in the universe of the dreams, ad related to every datum filed into our mental "archives".
Futurition, strange coincidences that -actually- are unconsciously provoked, sensations and fears strongly rooted inside us since the obscure origin of ourselves as beings...
Seldom I remember my dreams, but when I do, they are usually long situations (escaping from the "different" perception that we have about the time in our dreams, this probably related, somehow, to the REM, and with the privative nature of the dreams' logic, and its diffuse limits about time an even space. This logic includes a depth and a flexibility that seems illogical to our mind when we are awake; but it's absolutely normal and logical for its own terms, nature and circumstance).
One of the most mysterious characteristics of our dreams is the impossiblity to react: to react freely, even logically as we do during our hours of vigil, being awake. In our dreams, the situations just run (sometimes, even, without a logical chronological order), they run hauling us, taking us with its "flow": like in a strange, pre-arranged situation, we are just witness of ourselves, impotent witness (in our dreams the "free will" is neutralized, and I think this is at least matter of profuse discussion yet).
...Sometimes we don't appear in the scene, but we're always near, there...and the weirdest situations don't surprise us...
__________________________________
II: Syllabus/a descent into a reverie
...I know I was walking into an obscure place that seemed to be a cavern, the illumination -indistinct and vague- threw fantastic shadows all along the walls and the ceiling, rugose and relucent as the irregular ground.
During a moment I thought I saw pieces of onyx encrusted into the texture...the redness of the light and its mysterious source kept me pensative during a good while, beholding my own shadow against the walls, trembling diffusely...
The place was such an ample sepulchre, the smell of humidity and the contrast of the dimness with the brilliant corners of the place, gave that chamber a duskily nervous atmosphere. Huge drops of limpid water draining from some gaps in the walls and ceiling made me figure something that made my heartbeats go slightly faster...the idea of being into a subterranean cave, which was under water, under a river, or lake...or the ocean..? (If the place was many kilometers under the ocean the water would lose its salt, running by its meandering subterranean courses)...this sudden idea kept me paralyzed for long minutes, maybe one hour, or more; my mind was visited by strange thinkings...
Suddenly the capricious shape of some mushrooms was revealed by certain source of light that seemed being changing furtively, on particular spots of the walls and ceiling, like pappy colonies of green, murky carpets. I started feeling myself ill, and the nausea, and the vomit!
I fell on my knees on the humid ground.
While I was in that position with my mind in blank, I could feel something walking on my thigh's skin (I was absolutely naked, and the place was strangely warm)...it was a spider, her body was like a black-huge grape, and her paws were thin, long and hairy, moving with nervous spasms...I saw during one second her shadow reflected on my leg. With a mechanical slap I made her fly away, listening the dry ricochet of her body hitting on a wall: automatically I did stand up with repugnance...now the cavern was cold and I felt an intense chill descending all along my spine; the silence there was profound, but not absolute...
Decided to get out of that place I started walking again into those semi-shades, my bare feet trampling the -now- almost frozen ground, soft but uneven; walking on unknown things with prudent repugnance: I walked for...hours? Days? Minutes?
At every new step that sad place seemed to be larger, longer, invariable...it could be interminable that labyrinth?
The cavern had corners, tortuous, every sinuous angle of that frouzy homestall excited more and more my extravagant speculations about a condition and nature that, in that moment, I deemed unfathomable.
A deep sadness invaded me. Did invade my spirit into that cavern...
...While into obscure lucubrations I was sunk, I started listening a murmur; like the sond of the waters of a cascade; or at least that was what I thought.
My superstitious and mutable spirit was invaded by 1.000 presages...while the sound; that sound...became more intense, closer, closer!
The place started geting more brilliant and warm, lit by a growing blue light now; a blue radiance as I never had seen before, and as I won't see anymore.
Instinctively I stopped walking: I closed my eyes...
__________________________________
III: In the profound of a dawn
...When the glitter became unbearable, I decided to open my eyes; in a second which was like a century (or maybe was actually a century), suddenly I did it, furtive, slowly: what I saw appearing in front my eyes congealed my blood in a jerk of umbrageous horror: a scream escaped from my throat...
...Surrounded by a foggy luminousness, two ultramundane, blue, septangular creatures; two azured, uncreated spectres were standing there, looking at me with their pink eyes: an effigy and a sphinx of imposing contexture, both looked like cast in blue stone; floating both in the air...
They came closer to me, though in spite of my immense panic I could not run...I didn't want perhaps...then I realized about an incredible fact, beholding minutely the effigy: the face of my sweet Madam C.......?
Did that effigy have her face?
Trying to suffocate my incommesurable horror I stayed quiet, with a rare calm, at the same time, the sphinx, opening her lips, started talking to me.
When her powerful and metallic voice started sounding, I fell down on my knees with my palms on the ground. All of her words, imperative and enigmatic, were pronounced in an unknown tongue that I understood perfectly, though.
The sphinx was the source of the effigy, and the effigy was the essence and origin of the sphinx: they were two, and one.
And they shared their wings and their wheels, and their arms. Arms like the beryl they had, and thighs like bluesteel; and double sex; and breast of woman they had. Breast distilling yellow milk; and the effigy was beautiful, and the sphinx was horrible.
And their hair was horrent, long and blue, their hair was pure haze, and light. And vipers of the water...vipers was their hair, vipers of the waters.
...Scared to death I was, scared but not confused I was.
And the effigy started speaking.
Her voice was like a melody of love, sweet and sincere.
She taught me things, with her amorous voïce she did it.
Because her voice was like an ozone's lute hanging from the skies.
And I cried, I cried much; as I never had cried before.
Because her voïce was like a lute played by cherubs with opium's wings.
And an ardent love, a warm desire was aroused in my chest because of the effigy, like unbearable flame.
And I cried, and laughed in euphoria; and my body burned in ardour because of the effigy, and I loved her.
And the effigy caressed my head while I sucked and licked her sex, in a transcendental union; with a feverish robustness I took her to a climax of joy and fullness...
And in an orgasm of light, more blinding than the lightning of the skies in the summer nights of the German jungles; in a multiangular, complex, multiform, diverse flash of delight, both entities, the cavern an my dream disappeared; unveiling the delicate thread of the awakening.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
preparing for take-off
As a Humpback Whale prepares for take-off,
another pod-mate circles overhead ...
The hypnotic Web
.
cyber-narcotized
I see myself falling into the web like an animal
pseudo...mental escape; neuro-drug:
inter-dementia.L
The grand-new power will be the hypnotic web
she'll take you to surf
into the storm of the world's pain.
I spent half terrestrial life buried into
this pavilion
with fugitive shades
and clouds of concrete in the sky
HELL.
[So, where's the love in this highway of lights..?]
to live is not only to exist.
Maybe I don't need to join
to grow, myself
Or maybe I don't need more places
to visit
Slave to the power that...gives/the hypnotic web
joined but in solitude...
I live with what you give me
The new plan will be, the hypnotic web; which will take you to surf on the pain of the world of to-day...
PAIN.
And so the Moon will get tenebricose as the Hell in its mornings
and the stars will fall as the memories
[from better times] fall
in the evenings of May.
And so the Moon will get tenebricose
when the Sun stop shining under
the hypnotic web.
.
Internetized
cyber-narcotized
I see myself falling into the web like an animal
pseudo...mental escape; neuro-drug:
inter-dementia.L
The grand-new power will be the hypnotic web
she'll take you to surf
into the storm of the world's pain.
I spent half terrestrial life buried into
this pavilion
with fugitive shades
and clouds of concrete in the sky
HELL.
[So, where's the love in this highway of lights..?]
to live is not only to exist.
Maybe I don't need to join
to grow, myself
Or maybe I don't need more places
to visit
Slave to the power that...gives/the hypnotic web
joined but in solitude...
I live with what you give me
The new plan will be, the hypnotic web; which will take you to surf on the pain of the world of to-day...
PAIN.
And so the Moon will get tenebricose as the Hell in its mornings
and the stars will fall as the memories
[from better times] fall
in the evenings of May.
And so the Moon will get tenebricose
when the Sun stop shining under
the hypnotic web.
.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Thor and the witches
.
The silver hammer shines in the stormy night of the north; it's atrocious how the wikings walk by the icy strait: under their feet, all the öcean starts getting frozen like ass of fish.
They summon ancient spirits that dwell in the thunder, now: is the moment to fight the ghastly tribe of Hürrak...the macabre spades shine under the sky; spades of the race of the north men; is atrocious how the wikings walk by the icy cliff.
The overpopulated hamlet where they live is full of witches, there is not a birth control and this is a reason why the men have to abandon Thrakk: some go toward Northumberland, sail, sail away in before, in before the pact is sealed and done...the satanic pact of the witches of Thrakk?
Because the whole comarque is cursed and put to perish, everything is congealed, every body is leaving.
The Aces, like Thor or Tyr, or Oden, they watch the human theatre from the Bifrost, drinking warm hidromel and devouring the flesh of the north men who hesitated in the battle field.
They are worse than Satan, Satan gonna fight against Thor and Oden in the Ragñarökr, because so is written, the ice of Greenland will rise like a huge foot, the Bifrost will be populated by wolves and the deäth, and Satan gonna reign over all those comarques, and the tripod-kingdom of Swedia-Icelandia-Anglia, after dethrone Knut: all the Aces are going will gonna be put going to perish.
And so is going to happen the Heavens' dethronement with big hecatomb; damned, damned breed of the Aces, they eat hidromel and drink ambrosia, while we have penalties and overpopulated hamlets full of Nordic witches and dung?
Is alarming how the wikings walk by the fjörd, over frozen prairies, to fight the tribe called the peoples of Hürrak, and then they are gonna sail away toward Soho, or Whitechapel perhaps, toward the Thames estuary and the Romanised zones full of ports and commerce, and hidromel, and meat.
The Aces, like Löke, or Oden, or Tyr or Thor, they watch the hüman theatre sitting down at the Bifrost, laughing and devouring ambrosia and Greek wino, and London gin, perhaps.
In the last day of the RragñärokrИ, Satan and Thor are going to fight in singular battle; and Lucifer, and The Beast, and the ice gonna reign supreme on those comarques; for good; until the second God, the one without name rise, from the aquose heights of His skyey cosmic mirror.
The silver hammer shines in the stormy night of the north; it's atrocious how the wikings walk by the icy strait: under their feet, all the öcean starts getting frozen like ass of fish.
They summon ancient spirits that dwell in the thunder, now: is the moment to fight the ghastly tribe of Hürrak...the macabre spades shine under the sky; spades of the race of the north men; is atrocious how the wikings walk by the icy cliff.
The overpopulated hamlet where they live is full of witches, there is not a birth control and this is a reason why the men have to abandon Thrakk: some go toward Northumberland, sail, sail away in before, in before the pact is sealed and done...the satanic pact of the witches of Thrakk?
Because the whole comarque is cursed and put to perish, everything is congealed, every body is leaving.
The Aces, like Thor or Tyr, or Oden, they watch the human theatre from the Bifrost, drinking warm hidromel and devouring the flesh of the north men who hesitated in the battle field.
They are worse than Satan, Satan gonna fight against Thor and Oden in the Ragñarökr, because so is written, the ice of Greenland will rise like a huge foot, the Bifrost will be populated by wolves and the deäth, and Satan gonna reign over all those comarques, and the tripod-kingdom of Swedia-Icelandia-Anglia, after dethrone Knut: all the Aces are going will gonna be put going to perish.
And so is going to happen the Heavens' dethronement with big hecatomb; damned, damned breed of the Aces, they eat hidromel and drink ambrosia, while we have penalties and overpopulated hamlets full of Nordic witches and dung?
Is alarming how the wikings walk by the fjörd, over frozen prairies, to fight the tribe called the peoples of Hürrak, and then they are gonna sail away toward Soho, or Whitechapel perhaps, toward the Thames estuary and the Romanised zones full of ports and commerce, and hidromel, and meat.
The Aces, like Löke, or Oden, or Tyr or Thor, they watch the hüman theatre sitting down at the Bifrost, laughing and devouring ambrosia and Greek wino, and London gin, perhaps.
In the last day of the RragñärokrИ, Satan and Thor are going to fight in singular battle; and Lucifer, and The Beast, and the ice gonna reign supreme on those comarques; for good; until the second God, the one without name rise, from the aquose heights of His skyey cosmic mirror.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
the Orchid Tree
When you feel uninspired,
you recognize that you need to make
a vibrational adjustment
that puts your thoughts and behaviors
back in alignment with the
desire to be inspired
Wayne Dyer
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
it's all energy...
energy
all things reduced to the simplest term
matter is energy
thoughts are energy
thoughts create matter
that is what we call
THE CREATIVE
Sunday, May 2, 2010
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