I care not for the future



Drums of war.
Then, the drums of war. Everything is coming on you, on the rest, whether it has been forseen or no one has stopped to think about it. What's blood now but the commonest of the liquids, laid to waste & taken for granted as part of the landscape, the view? What's a life but a tonic, whose effect fades unexpectedly, a tonic which is consumed by the imperviously strong as a formula for eternity, and by the uncontrollably lost as the gates of salvation, both wishing it to fade out since what lies ahead (what actually does not, does never, ain't at all) shines harder?
So go grab a gun & shoot & fight for the false well-being & the status quo that those who are deemed as your fathers brought wrapped in a tiny box of gold. So then slash all flesh in the search for forgiveness & a ticket to grace & the infinite love & drink & food & smiles of one who has supposedly made you.
Pests osmosed into, thus unto each soul on the planet, tore greens & bleus & reds & tunes & motion & ignition & that which cannot be counted as matter.
Oh the Earth trembles.
And I am by the grass, sipping & inhaling, with eyes on the skye. I've hidden horrours in my pockets & sores behind my ears, while keeping nightmares handy. You should know why...
There are dreams of contradiction and ones to contradict.
O so trapped, overwhelmed, disregarded, welcomed, sunk, flown, flowing, dreamt, nightmared, day-slept, numb, so numb, speechless, smiling, attacked, unharmed, torn, born, free...
And I am by the grass, holding onto somebodies, hand in hand with her, hope in mind.


Desde algùn lugar de la ciudad hace un año:
"Compras, despilfarro, corredera...Gente, niños lloriqueando, adultos enfadados...Tráfico, claxonazos, calles vomitantes de tanto tránsito...Pavos de pocos kilos a muchos pesos, comida preparada por los cielos, una en verdad buena cena por los suelos...Tacones, corbatas, ropa nueva...Mensajes imposibles de mandar, llamadas que no llegan, felicitaciones muertas...Lágrimas, abrazos falsos, desencantos...Tiendas vacías, tiendas llenas, hartas tiendas...Romeros, bacalao, ensaladas...Vino, sidra, algo de tequila...Robo a mano armada, robo a casa-habitación, robo de automóvil...Juguetes, dulces, ponche...Borrachos impertinentes, borrachos enojados, borrachos meados...Dormir acompañado, dormir en cama ajena, dormir en una silla o en el suelo mismo...Aquellos a quien amas, aquellos a quien no, aquellos que te valen madre...Aquellos quienes no te entienden, aquellos que apuntan con el dedo cada vez que pueden, aquellos que te ignoran...Uvas perdidas, cenas resueltas, cenas inversas...Demencia senil, palabras chuecas, películas sin terminar...Regalos dados antes de tiempo, regalos pensados, regalos amados...Regalos a tiempo, regalos previos, regalos y al fin regalos...Árboles, adornos verdes, musgo y muérdago...Cierto es, el 24 ha llegado. No se ustedes, pero a mí hasta lo amargo se hace peculiarmente divertido."

Chale...Nada ha cambiado...Podría decir lo que me ocurrió a mi fue algo mejor.


la mer

"The Sea looks for itself and finds itself and shouts and flees."

In a Summer afternoon I spread into the horizon, able to caress the shores where people gather to sip on dreams of infinity. Breath infused waves with the beat of my heart, going to and fro in an eternal dance with the attentive Moon. Fish, monsters, reefs, whales and every single particle swarmed with life lay dormant in the wait of the explosion of percussion and brass. With the wind as accomplice I used each of the clouds as bows to play on strings of blue skies what a Frenchman composed to serve as a companion for the sound of the ocean. On the 23rd day of the infinite month I shrouded my world with the joy of a sea that as vast as it is could fit in my soul. There was nothing to fear inasmuch as time lost itself in the eyes that reflect the shine of the stars. There was nothing to doubt because of the might which drifted madness and sanity into a crack in the floor of the sea until each note had faded. For twenty-three minutes those three sketches brought into existence by a virtuoso man drove me abstracted and lonely, omnipresent and embraced, complete and asunder. For those twenty-three minutes I could finally sense I am green and humid.

Animé et tumultueux...
A paroxysm of water...

'An empty seat to the left and one to the right regarding wherever she might have wished to have sat...'

to the other J

O the essence I wrote about some time ago...

The talks about the thing which matters not and matters most have been told to crash down. The shouts of rebuke cause of this or that have been said to be nawt but two mouths just babbling, yet entertaining they wore. The silence in notes and the one for themselves will turn actually silent. The voice of whatsoeveriwontjudgeyou shakes itself of pride and turns and goes

Ired me,
Heard me,
Wore me,
Huggled me,
Thrusted me,
Affectiont me.

You'll be there I reckon,
ĕ ͦͥͣ֒Ῐ◙²


Now my mind must go on holiday, torn from its hook.
I see the smoke from a revolver, will I get hit? I hardly care.
When I'm bombed, I stretch like bubblegum, and look too long straight at the morning sun.
Love there are flowers along the avenue, all things perfectly in place.
Because you're fire...
There is the door which I have just gone through, and the holiday in the form of a road which lies ahead. There is the beginning of the day and the incessant beauty, which paves the way for my eyes of haughty. There is the no longer needed caution that could have been sewn and harvested when the succinct fear of what exists around took shape into a pair of hands. There is the sulphur from above and the grins in the dark, both whispering enticements, both awaiting blind horses.
I stretch till the night stops being an obstacle, and stretch through the day while I step on each to cobble, so each one remembers my name just in case a bomb splits my mind and my body into a shower of atoms.
There is the door that I have just left and the long road ahead that follows the skies regardless of the weather. There is a fire afar, illuminating the sunset whilst the sun and the stars fight each other off to be able to hang on to the path I have chosen to follow.


I seen the demons, but they didn't make a sound. They tried to reach me, but I lay upon the ground. I seen the people, but they didn't make a sound. They tried to reach me, but I gave the runaround. I reached for feelings, but they didn't make a sound. They tried to reach me, but I lay upon the ground.
Daydream, I fell asleep beneath the flowers.
On a patch of wet grass I lie to observe the shapes that wind and perspective form up to attempt to mesmerise those who rest and dare look upwards. A cop-out to anything and everything, the whole set that surrounds me releases its lure and breaks me down into sleep. It is me who is real, so I dream of the rest to have overwhelming control of where is up and where is down. I can notice a river of dank waters drifting sounds of distress and laments of gone zest. I can tell a black figure rowing to and fro in a boat carrying folk which appear blue and blurry. In spite of the peculiar landscape, I alleviate myself and take a deep breath. No demons, no people, no feelings, just ease.

from a great height

The fall of rain on an autumn face, evicting, depicting the shapes of people looking for a warm, dry place to have some coffee and a chat or two. The street is paved with water, like a river to an ocean full of tempestuous freedom, which gives birth to the sun every morning or so. It's not one who's moving, but the Earth spinning round, bringing sheep-like revolts in the form of clouds to bring down rain drops on the face of a man who still looks at the stars.



The mind [bundle of thoughts] you have tried to contact is (dis)sorrily enough out of reach [O the heart bespeaks without regard] Orbiting Earth with eyes wide open is a peculiar, mesmerising experience, thus the upsetting tone which attempts to tell you this all comprehension deal is pointless. It is superbviously evident that you make no sense of this message ['nless you happen to be a whale or a similar being] So...Please do not go any further into these scraps, for you foolossaddeningloriouslyingly await for a heaven which is not yours...

I've jumped into the river...

& saw nothing. This means my mind was busy drowning itself in out-of-control thoughts which derive from & turn into what went on the week before the one in which I have begun to rewrite in this blog of ours [BS the TS] I need not my eyes to see in water [Echo shall we use Hunny Bunny?] I have not jumped to behold. Just to stop stuttering so I could sting by staring & she starts stinging back. I am bodily clumsy. However, the sea is so vast a clumsy whale ought to survive. Innards on fire, you understand.
Ps.1 There's a pwd sprout in my heart as well.
Ps.2 There river is not a river but the sea.
Ps.3 I love the essence in my bed.



Bamboo canoe into the sacred mud. He came from the south, where Zend is pure and leprosy is not. He crawled, dizzy and soaked in blood, to the circle, once fire now ashes, devoured by blaze, profaned by jungle.
Men honour such god no more.
The man slept on and on where he had to. Strange woodsmen had spied upon his resting covered in leaves.

Dreamt of dreaming. Imposing such dream as a man. The project ate his soul. Wished nothing but sleep.
Chaos everywhere at first. Till the amphitheatre rose. Anatomy lessons begetting anxiety, magic teaching looking for intelligence. Only one could be redeemed to participate in the Universe.

Unable to expect from passivity. Obliterated all but individual. So alike his creator. Marvelled by his pupil progression. Nonetheless, catastrophe arose.
Emerged from dream that had been not. Clear insomnia had disheartened him. Tears full of angst because of non-useful visions. Realised how tiresome incoherent-matter modelling can be.

Purified himself. A beating heart was dreamt for a whole fortnight. Little by little, hair, organs and bones were envisioned but, as in gnostic cosmogonies, Adam couldn't wake.
About to shatter his work, devoted himself to that horse, tiger and tempest being who would awaken the son, then send him down the river and be glorified by a voice.

The dreamt awoke.

For two years enlightened about infinity and flame.
Dreadful déjà vu's.
Set the son was now. Beuseded to what shall become. Already handy to departure. The dreamer inflicted oblivion, so child could think of himself as man.

Victory and peace blurred by tedium. Before the rock image daydreamt of his unreal offspring worshiping by the circular ruins.
Pale the Universe and sound.
The absent kid fed on such perception.
Never ending ecstasy.

Told about a man in a northern temple who could tread upon fire.
Fire knew the son was a phantom.
Became tormented. Imagined the humiliation of knowing you are nothing but the projection of a human dream. Feared the simulacrum could be discovered. Various signs stopped his thought.
Cloud as lift as bird.
Sky as pink as leopard flesh.
Smoke rusting all night.
Beast panicking and fleeing.

What had been was once more.
Fire sanctuary destroyed by fire. Desired water but realised the blaze was to crown oldness. Concentric flames. Walked through the shreds. Caressed. Heatless. Finally resolved about it. Relief. Terror. Humiliation.
A simple daydream.



Deity going like lost shit I just found rawness so damn fond of asymmetry wielding harsh causes bearing quirky acts and consequences .
Schizoid feeling like a homeless hanging around the dwelling I did not choose to linger about holes within grey matter that dies and dries itself.
Sceptical abiding so strained suggest I be in rabidity quite swallowed by departure undergoing racking she avoids any try or hue and cry.
It is her relinquishment vexes vexatious vexations.
Envy the unlimited verve.
Hate the heretic jargon.
Feed on devil squares.


Amphetamines on cascade keep me from falling down the well. The bunny rabbit calls me home, but the space where my bed's been laid, where I occasionally rest, has got a greater voice. I own no potion to enlarge doors or country houses, nor to make them small. I just possess a straight sense of reality, with upright perceptions and a clear difference between good and evil. I take walks to mitigate the need to flee the fields and everything and everyone in them. Fields of redemption and boredom, of numbness and simple grins, of familiarity and idealisation. Truly, fields of gold.

minus blindfold

the hiatus
in all extent and shape

which makes me disobey

Indulging, indulging
In the ego that drives,
Reducing, reducing
The self to arrogance,
prowess never felt so cosy.

Whining, whining
About bonds which make you human,
Lying, lying
To the self who vanishes,
Prowess never so witty.

Ravaging, ravaging
Ignorance and wisdom,
Devoting, devoting
Oneself to false beliefs,
Prowess obscuring common sense.

Analysing, analysing
With an absent mind,
Over praising, over praising
Without any recess,
Prowess at bare hand.

Sodomising, sodomising
Soul, self, death & desire,
Sodomising, sodomising
How one sees one,
Prowess never got so much consciousness.

I idolise myself.

The mask ain't who he ain't,
But the five-hundred-year repression heir,
He ain't the saviour,
But who was to show their discomfort and rage,
It ain't about Cuauhtémoc or Quetzalcoatl,
But 'bout how we've forgotten their children and them.

Images and voices to discredit,
God, poverty and pain,
Citizens spoon-fed nothing but unreality,
And the need of owning and greed,
While the phoney rule,
And who we are decays.

The toxic metropolis remains great and reining,
Seeing itself as the Universe,
All brother and sister blinded by a seven-head dragon,
Who murders, rapes, gags and disobeys,
Anarchy and rebellion are on sale now,
To keep snake or eagle at sleep.

No system able to resolve,
Chaos and blood brought by the system,
We outta wash off, oblige, sacrifice,
Neutralise, overcome, demesmerise,
The mask ain't who we ain't,
But the chosen to awake.

And liberty.

I have myself renascent,
Flowing ditties everywhere,
Dreams upon this life.

I am not state-of-the-art,
Common ain't a blessing,
Speech which tries to outstand.

Circles into spheres,
Hypocritically innocuous.

Oaths, and thoughts, and theorems,
Poison for the mind as well,
Taken to despise.

Fallacies obliterated,
'Bout to get to a kind of peace,
Caught not in my eye.

I dwell upon prolixities,
Embracing simplicity,
Reveries of zilch.

Circles into spheres.

A pipe embraces nothing,
Non-existing nothingness,
Sight's subjective,
Mind might as well,
Therefore, I be sightless,
Hence, I be dead,
Anopsia's too etch,
Existence has ebbed,
Euphemisms of god,
Freely sway and be outburst,
A lord as a thesis,
Ditto each gap,
Behold of abstractions,
Begotten by all.

The pipe cloyed with nothing,
Palpable non-existence,
Thoughts are ethereal,
Ergo, I be unreal,
Dreamt environment,
Diversions are real,
God and I wander,
In our unproven essence,
Drunk ship of void,
Unemancipated by reason,
How real reality is,
If none might truly be.

Existence shrouding non-existence with a cold membrane.


Life is about odd & glorious moments.


Wots ә parsec?

...Hence the need to now look up again...

Birds gravitate first and foremost without bearing the wind.
They just go

The inflammation of the sun in approximately 50,000,000,000 years of men is not written
Ergo, why should not I feel fear?!

Weer ә werld on әuә oun

There ain't the need I tells ya me thinks to go tremblingly scrape or scrap the skies in the need of whom to be warm & warmed.

Silly me...
Silly her...
Silly everywhere,

je suis meshuggener
(Vas te faire futre)
Elle est son...Elle est lumière...



Thus the land we built shall burn until unexisting, forthcoming repent swarms my lips...


I ghostly recall the flames which consumed me at the stake a long time ago. I ghastly dream of my heresy at the dawn of my new found life. There's nothing like the swelling of my lungs at the invasion of too much smoke. I dreadfully cover the skies attempting to avenge my name. I look for her without hesitation. There is nothing to fear & nothing to doubt. The clouds can't stop me since my lard is gone. I have spotted someone. I start descending in circles. Could it be her? Could it be me? There's no grass on the ground - it don't matter. I wake up. I am still burning at the stake...

(there in lies the title)

I can say
I have run a land
which cannot be mine
I take their names
to rip them apart.

I can shout
I won't grab a gun
to incite revolution
my eyes pop outwards
or my ears shrink.

I can sing
I could still keep some hope
& walk in the sun
life goes around
& the land becomes ours.

-Permanent Daylight

The easiest way to sell your soul is to carry on believing that you don't exist. It must be hard with your head on backwards.

Or so I read on a wall that morning

"La lengua es el instrumento que habilita al sujeto,..."
La lengua va más allá de un simple sistema de sonidos, palabras y oraciones que debe seguir ciertas reglas y patrones (sistema que no necesariamente destila simpleza). Es la herramienta con la cual podemos volcar nuestros pensamientos, por más efímeros o supérfluos que éstos sean, en el mundo exterior. Es harto difícil pensar en una creación humana tan vastamente imposible que pudiera suplir a la lengua que nos corresponde dado el lugar en el que hemos crecido. Me atrevo a pensar que sólo la música está a la par (aunque el limitado número de notas la coloca en un estrato no superior o inferior, sino simplemente distinto). Las lineas que últimamente han cruzado mis ojos (dígase Shakespeare, Quevedo, Woolf, o incluso Thom Yorke) me han llevado a pensar que cada una de las emociones que conducen mi corazón y mi mente pueden ser llevadas al exterior en una forma completa. Ésto último no quiere decir que los gestos, miradas, sonrisas y llanto sean incapaces de expresar lo que me inunda, sino el hecho de querer ser un poco mejor comprendido conlleva a la articulación, sea en forma oral o escrita, de oraciones que muevan o en algún caso, conmuevan a nuestro oyente. El 'cuais' está en obtener las palabras apropiadas. Obviamente, la belleza puede ser expresada mediante imágenes expuestas en la pintura, la escultura y el cine. Sin embargo, la contundencia de las palabras las convierte en el refugio preciso donde uno puede soñar en el universo.


Over a flower bridge

Over a flower bridge
I wonder where you hide yourself
if you have just grown wings
before your chest becomes a tide.

Cold rain plus flooding hysteria
dried tongues plus hypnopaedia
longings of past & nurofen
muffled war cries & dank space.

Over a coloured river
Wei & Mang tear themselves
feast on rice wine by the fire
which obscured the silvered kids.

Carved coffins & cruel tinder
blindfolded men plus ghost horses
scarred harmony plus staccato rhythms
terraced fields & blown curses.

Paroxysms of water
over a flower bridge.



In an afternoon I contemplate the sun ahead whilst lighting up a cigarette. The pier before me seems infinite into the horizon that could point to the currents to follow. As inept as this prose might be, I am able to sink in relief, for these words are my own and in them I unabashedly indulge. I hold a world in my hands. My defective mind could be one as well despite this darkness which surrounds. I begin to walk to the waters...
And I can now acknowledge, in theatrical disregard, holding hands with fear, I am alive after all this time.



So each one said to the other, "I could have never noticed how much a horrid being you can become..."


To go till the stars afar,
On wings of blue ever shine,
Bereft the poison longlast,
Believing a world of sparks,
Three rows of pines on each side.


Betwixt a bolt and a thunder,
So yonder thought never this wonder,
Utmost by the chance of prayer,
Praying to oneself as defender,
A million of orchids laugh at.

Denial at times...

Faith liquid anointed at least,
The dirt road has spoken at last,
Infusion of red-mint aloof,
Proof rundowns these cracks,
Unlimited suns by the I.




Trekking across the sand sea till there is a factotum that those who lie buried cannot reach to feed in an afternoon of blood and thunder.
Pray yourself to go unnoticed in the sun of the spring, lonely and sober.



A thousand paths,
ubiquitous & poignant,
late to counteract
what the nerve system has bred
at the dawn of cognizance.

The self-vindication in the dune
reviles triumphantly an awaiting man
before the eyes of someone,
the sand bathes him
& clothes his halo.

The lonely man attempts to promenade,
but his journey is causeless
for he has ground his name to death
so he could carry what he only needed,
a book & self-pity.

Destiny sleeps quiet tonight,
whereas causality has been abducted,
thus the solitude & hatred,
thus the will to perceive
through pragmatic anopsia.

Niescence & arrogance in the shape of wells,
clotting remembrances & unheard of meanders,
the aimless sojourn,
a Slough of Despond,
such path he wanders.


A very much dead dream has got you tumbled in the corner of a room, covering your ears, mouth and eyes with the six hands you wish you had so you could shoo away the fly of faith in anything you cannot notice in spite of being before your eyes. Words hover in the air, awaiting sunk in awe since there is nothing that by far resembles what those who sit by you call hope. Tunes in the distance send emissaries to drive you away so you could perceive the grass by the sea, the sea by the stars, and the stars by your eyes. A thought on the wall that you have chosen to ignore sings in your sleep about the hundred comets which travel above. They might wish to stop to rest, crashing into the ground, dozing up what is around. Sunrises and sunsets could go a long way before a good one goes shine by your door. As grim as you may want to look out, as shimmering as you could dance on the shore, as abated as old smiles in an abattoir, there is a river of wind inside you which I could never deny.



J. Antonio A.
Neto M.
Karina & Juanqui
Ale & Ttt
Piña & Daf

Colin, Jonny, Ed, Phil & Thom
Vedder & Co.
Flavio & Vincentico & the like
Bostich & Fussible
Debussy & Rachmaninoff

Russell & Melville & Whitman & Borges & Eliot & Joyce & Cortazar & Rulfo &  Hawthorne & Adams & Crystal & Basquiat & Miró & Siqueiros & Galan & del Toro & Aronofsky & Fincher & Adams & Kieslowsky & Ritchie & Nolan & Linklater

31 Minutos

The thoughts of the ones who have gone

And a certain Purple Whale...


Silence. Not sordid at all. Just peaceful. There are stars everywhere, no walls or ceilings, no doors or buildings, just a wider-than-anything endless path. And lots of stars…I am there without anyone around, with a cigarette in one hand and a song in the other. She is there without anybody around, with cigarette in one hand and a poem in the other. The cigarettes are gone, then we hold hands and part.



Noun [U] Hope is such a human emotion. It is sitting in a place listening to music, waiting for the storm to go. It has to do with periodically looking out the window without feeling driven by the fright of lightning bolt. It means one can take a walk after the rain to smell the wet soil.
Hope is walking in the sun with no sense of which place to go, and without fear of not running into an appropriate bench where to rest and await for the drizzle. It means you can improvise a seat with whichever is at hand just in case.
Hope deals in the absence of self-scaremongering, which unavoidably arises at the presence of a given open door. You might think there could be a cliff in spite of being able to see a cobbled road onto a field of grass. As unnatural as it may seem, there is nothing to doubt [though there might be something to fear] hence the one choice to make is to go through such door before it is slammed on one's face. Hope is an engine to run throughout the time you are given.


Noun [C] An alternative to reality.


Noun [U] Moment at which, in spite of the difficulty arising from the crossroads before one's eyes, god or whomever is in charge "up there" happens to abandon the sentient being who needs nothing but the kind of comfort one who lacks control requires. The individual either excuses the divine by saying, "There is a plan for us all" or some other mind-rinsing phrase, or at some point abandons faith in the bottom of a metal bucket which could soon fill up with other sorts of waste.

A'as men'

I was meant for this pandemonium. There ain't no overcoming fright or fight that flashes before my eyes to cause sturdy flesh or liquid soul to dry till wind carries away the sand one could become. There are visions of fire and notions of denial that ornament the streets into a parade of dank laughter, yet pleasure overstretches across the mind which works as an unabashed cocoon, and prevents oneself from the oblique light which gleams without any regard.
I am meant for this mess since I tread in reverse, looking backwards to wave at the notes I have found and turned into a burst of flames and cello sounds. Going onwards to leave cause there ain't reason to stay for the memoirs within are enough proof to believe that the shore is going to show where acknowledgement's born, thus any hope could be real as long as one is aware that this dream is indeed where I am meant to come.
I am meant to reject the truth others embrace cause I know I can fly to look back on the stars which have shone by my side.


Thunder wonders of a heart yonder,
On a moon traversing each breath,
To the oceans running in mornings,
After tones of fiction when you dreamt,
Collocate one onto another,
Emulate the path of humpback whales.

Torrid visions of a past asunder,
Into paroxysms of grey,
Yet believing has not departed,
A horizon may not rust to hell,
Uneven days which feel like no other,
A sting to nerve cells drives sense away.

Found unexpected a heart redder,
Which equally ran into himself,
Thousands of words pop out from his hands,
Immersed in joy for blue seas within,
He thinks of one onto another,
To go till reality fades in.



There is a red tone of feathers in this words. I dare go to bed picturing myself as poet. I embrace this fear which uprises from that passion that hardly could anyone uptake since dark is the moment at which those who ignore the beat of their heart follow conventions of sugar or salt. Red is now the horizon and dark the stubbornness shouting there is no thing to do but settling down on this world of grey stone. "Defy no one and ignore that thing so called soul!" Laughter in the skyes, salt water bathing my hands. I go onto drowning myself in images, notes, propositions and matter. Never mind the awkward song and the screams from the shore. It is I, only I...


There is no need for confirmation or re-affirmation. I and only I do know that what is miserably called status quo. I haven't even got to open my eyes. I can feel how I slide into the tar. I hover and dream. It ain't like anything else. Oozy dark matter. Could I dare making up my own universe?


Home-made stars, blisters of plum essence, 28 times 28 packs of cigarettes, a checked cloth of white & red, 7 bottles of wine, sandwiches of one too many ingredients, eight hundred and sixty-eight shades of colour for the horizon, 11 songs from Radiohead, a pillow and a blanket for two, and a couple of sincere smiles.


Crack the skye,
Vanished birds,
Vanquished the sun,
Clouds into fireflyes,

A blaze of autumn.
Water to vapour,
Deserted horizon,
Moon laughing out loud,
Concealed in the soil,
Rust onto dryed trees,
Aloft sights of time and awe,
Wry jawbones swim far,
The utmost red flood,
A crack in the skye.



Tire the skye til collapse...
Seas will rise...
And fill everything up with water...
Drift ashore...
Drift nowhere...
Will not be swimming the skye of salt...
Yet can at least dream of it...


Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high there's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby.
Somewhere, over the rainbow, skies are blue and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.
Someday I'll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind me, where troubles melt like lemon drops, away above the chimney tops.
That's where you'll find me...
Somewhere, over the rainbow, bluebirds fly.
Birds fly over the rainbow,
Why then - oh, why can't I?
If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow,
Why, oh, why can't I?


There has not been enough of that glowy smell of her skin every given morning I wake up next to her.
Those seconds or minutes or perhaps hours I wait for her awaking thus sharing a smile are firmly rooted in how exceptional it is to be next during a night of sleep.


Scent kept in my nose, in my clothes & in hers, in the pillows & bed, in the thoughts & the strains.
The source will rearrange & come into my arms, so her sleep goes afar & loses itself, lit by the grinning moon my heart can turn into when she naps by my side.
Today's will not be a lonely night since she strolls in my heart, thus my waiting sits quietly.



"Save yourself,
Don't wait on me..."


And the good man said, "There is hardly anyone who knows you better than I do."


"The Sea looks for itself and finds itself and shouts and flees."

In a Summer afternoon I spread into the horizon, able to caress the shores where people gather to sip on dreams of infinity. Breath infused waves with the beat of my heart, going to and fro in an eternal dance with the attentive Moon. Fish, monsters, reefs, whales and every single particle swarmed with life lay dormant in the wait of the explosion of percussion and brass. With the wind as accomplice I used each of the clouds as bows to play on strings of blue skies what a Frenchman composed to serve as a companion for the sound of the ocean. On the 23rd day of the infinite month I shrouded my world with the joy of a sea that as vast as it is could fit in my soul. There was nothing to fear inasmuch as time lost itself in the eyes that reflect the shine of the stars. There was nothing to doubt because of the might which drifted madness and sanity into a crack in the floor of the sea until each note had faded. For twenty-three minutes those three sketches brought into existence by a virtuoso man drove me abstracted and lonely, omnipresent and embraced, complete and asunder. For those twenty-three minutes I could finally sense I am green and humid.

Animé et tumultueux...
A paroxysm of water...

'An empty seat to the left and one to the right regarding wherever she might have wished to have sat...'



A sun of a different taste has risen...



The vermilion rise of words on this hot day leads me to believe in the non-stop creation one pursuing a literative objective indulges in. What is it but the world and its beauty, horrour, pleasure, vicissitudes, minutiae and blockades what one attempts to portrait in that which sometimes pops up as faulty, indefinite, precise or concise images? Whether it will be as utterances, lines, notes, paintings, photographs or propositions, the tick which encourages one to act lies deep in the person who has chosen to listen...


...couple of misregarded organs which do usually feed up this blog you have tried to reach are already in a somewhat malfunction...Hence the unappearance of words.


' '

Tongues of mute spitting, lighting up euripidean one-eyed pictures on the wall...
Headaching the table with her very hands...
Whereupon rain I cry, pry, my...
Gunja of eternal gratitude...
Blue squares...
Bleu squares...
Squaring bluexity...
About nothing I am. Salt-cellaring thy notes of rye.


Beam as boredom when there ain't light, but within oneself.
The night is silent.
You look at the vague perception of time which a tricky apparatus displays.
You can scarcely see your inactive hands.
The night is silent.


There is no thought I cannot arise...


Such a rare experience. All the elements captured by my vision blur into a mass of edgeless colours fusing with each other. The voices which surround me appear as distant echoes of ideas I might have never grasped since I cannot hear them. Time is neither absolute nor relative, so is space. I can only tell at that very precise moment how the Universe bends. I bend as well, you understand... There is no thought of no one or nothing. If I wished so, I could reach out and grab any star I wanted, for all matter condenses in one infinite speck, awaiting for the precise line of notes which arises a big bang. The tune explodes. So do I. One can become a countless amount of quarks, gluons and neutrinoes travelling through time and space without any possible obstacle. Atoms on the run. There is no place in the Cosmos one cannot arrive at. Swirling around in beams of light fast, bouncing commanded by the tempo of a song. Then the gradual vanishing of the piece...A journey that may only last five minutes and 9 seconds, yet there ain't nothing like it.
It is quite hard to catch one's breath once more. The sense of touch could remain numb for the rest of the day. You cannot clearly comprehend what is going on around, and very few voices can cross the membrane which shrouds this mind which will not ever be the same.
I walk on a familiar street [Familiar I dare say since ocurrance does not repeat itself due to the distorted perception the astral trip has left] I ain't lost, but I ain't there either. Keep walking till one gets to where one ought to be.

"I'll eat the Universe.
It won't remain miniscule in me.
It shall unfold, expand.
It will rip me from the inside, it will reach its vastety.
But then, I'll be one with it.
I'll be the Universe."



Cracks in the pavement
And lightning bolt in the sky,
Hence the skies might as well
Seem cracked on this night
Of walks in the rain
Looking down on my feet
Which try to avoid such cracks.


o °

Yet to, yet to, yet to
Go to the Moon I could dare,
I ain't my 2nd chance blown,
Overglide dry seas I might.
Shoes filthy of dusty smiles,
Dream up, dream up all night,
Without oxygen to the Moon sail,
Just the sound of 12 chants about whales.
There's no need to come back...



I am too cynical or ironic not to survive...



Fog in thE past and mist in thE futurE. Such is thE path to bE acknowlEdgEd if onE is to succEEd. Running is not prEcisEly moving, whilE standing still ain't a sound option to avoid any sort of dangEr. Gliding...It is such gErund what I havE EmbracEd and what spoonfEEds my hopEs and fEar. Among trEEs of liquid lEavEs or flippEr in flippEr with a purplE whalE, in thin air or a dEEp bluE sEa, fusing with brEEze or a warm currEnt, gliding could fEEl as night and day. MEmoriEs in a picnic baskEt nExt to sandwichEs and a handful of coffEE, prEsEnt to bE improvisEd at thE thought of such momEnt, and EvEnts to comE awaitEd with nothing but thinking of happinEss, awkwardnEss, compatibility, silly idEas, honEsty galorE and plain trusting. I carry smilEs in my EyEs, hEr kiss EvErywhErE and my hEart in thE pockEt. I am hErE for thE taking...YEt it is only shE who can rEach and hold mE.

It is in hEr sEa whErE I havE takEn a divE, thEn EncountErEd the warmEst watEr.



Glasses once more...The autumn on my face...Rain on the floor...Coffee to go...Movies on the run...An uncertainty on asleep or awake...No music at all...The pics being soon on the wall...Her scent in the quilt...The smile on my face...The calls that won't come...The hugs that I got...Her kiss on the lift...My friend with long hair...My friend from the lair...The soothing silence...The chat in the cab...The walk in the cold...My place in the universe...The first kiss this morning...The pink panther show...Tulips in my heart...
You see, I planned on writing something sour...
I couldn't though...
You know what I mean.


Sorry for the inconveniences the 'omission' of this entry might have caused to any of you whether 'ghost' or 'material' readers. The happening of an awaited event made not possible for a pile of piled-up letters in the shape of words thus sentences thus propositions to appear in this thought-dyslexic blog. Yet repentance is not since the smile on my face due to the puerrrcance & mostly the huachimingance of the day embraces the absence of these lines of mine & makes me think of an existence not as unfitting as I sometimes believe it to be.



Nowhere means, "a destiny, destination, place or location which is unspecific due to the unpredictable causality which deviates the course of any given path since there is no thing specifically written regarding the mercurially uncertain future [no matter how hard some knuckleheads insist that all possible future is already carved in stone, thus cannot be changed]"
So then, nowhere does not mean 'without somewhere' but 'with an improbable amount of somewheres without knowing which is the one to go.'
I can comfortably say,
"I am going nowhere."



And I cannot stop wondering if there are more than two people who read this blog...


So Earth seems like a blur...Today, and not just today, I have had the sensation of being in a dream. Not only talking about the very moment at which I happen to have such sensation [moment that is going and coming every single second of a day] but also referring to the awkwardly fresh sensation of having been living in a dream my whole life. I wish not to begin talking about the paradox, pipe dream or whatsoever-you-may-want-to-call-it regarding whether it is I who dreams of myself or I am a fragment of somebody else's perturbed mind, for I could really write about it at length and there might not be enough coherence around to make sense of it. However, such point forces me to acknowledge that, possibly, none of those occurrences I hold dear could have a palpable counterpart in reality.
I know there are one too many essays, novels, tales, songs, movies and metaphysical propositions about such matter, and that my text above may be terribly obvious enough, yet there is barely something else now that occupies my mind...Except music, which is the one thing I reckon escapes any twisted perception and is firmly established in my reality.


Marvin's lullaby

Now the world has gone to bed
Darkness won't engulf my head
I can see by infra-red
How I hate the night

Now I lay me down to sleep
Try to count electric sheep
Sweet dream wishes you can keep
How I hate the night

(from 'Life, the Universe and Everything'
Douglas Adams, 1982)


Alfredo ii

To the land of planes on a bus full of people with ruptured hopes and a wish to depart to forget the long-lasting horrour. I saved a piece of dream so there is a tad of pep to feed on when I set myself up. I shat in my past and perspective was never to be the same. You see, the chosen one is who captures love and leaves none to whom came to a broken home. Son chosen by the impervious afinity of being thought as the last child to be conceived and the colour of his skin. Hence the unawareness of the search for a future mother drapped in white...So, my home was broken, my wish to stay as well. The illicit brother acting as a peevish response my father gave to himself at the news of my mother's pregnancy says it all: I was not meant to come into this world. Unwanted and never seriously taken, with an awful pet name and the lack of respect which arose in my family, I faced the desert in spite of the grey perspective. I have survived the sand, yet you should not dare say I have succeeded. There are planes crossing the skies and I hope I could understand how they do not crash into the stars. I do not believe you understand how much I cannot understand about the universe. The unnatural tremble in my voices reflects it so, don't you see? Anger about the time I have spent lying on the ground looking for answers I will not understand. I wish I could burn them to the ground. My memories not my parents, though once I was taped saying that. I cannot remember it. The eyes of the adults were never the ones from the past. So I thought of overreactions. So I thought of prejudice. So I thought of leaving...My peers threw rubbish at me. Rubbish I found at times funny, I have got to admit. Yet I could hardly fit in the chats and I did suffer. Twenty and something of years in front of a screen seeking the door into the tunnel. I was given a room in a house which my rival, my brother bought thinking of the future. A future without me. However, he gave me home and work. He showed me around and I could finally run into love. Years then, years now, facing a wall and waiting for a change. Then Raúl sent word of his fate. I offered myself to go after him. I did despite all the tears. I laughed at the sight of them, thus departed. And I have survived the desert.



I dreamt of a stroll on the sun.
I was nothing but smoke
moved by the solar winds
to and fro,
above and below.
Earth seemed like a blur,
distant and torn.
On a shore of sulphur,
I took corporeal form,
lit up a cigarette
and smiled at your song.

'bout to...

So...There is a tad to say about the kind of subject matter which swells my brain at this precise & full of no ones moment. Fear is not what comes around since there is nothing to feel afraid of cause this readiness to live means no fear to depart. Obviously enough, yet there are songs to be sung, a woman to love, people to hold, places to go, letters to pop, orgasms to come, speech to be told, smiles to behold & bridges to burn.
Angst is not what I think of right now for the peace which shoes my feet take me on a glide into memories of what came & what shall come.
Stillness cannot be what's taken hold cause I can surely see my eyes rolling over these words.
It is so peculiar, I acknowledge, how unaware I can be of an object onto which my mind has focused. It ain't P or a song, faulty words or a story, thoughts of blue or this summer, a pure trip or red tulips. I can say I got within a tiny pebble which could in time be just a delusion or a mental occurrence, which could drive me somewhere or simply arise an odd story.
Yet I trust that as usual the thing will show up at the most unpredictable moment, which certainly is nothing else but the appropriate.




Once upon a time in 2006

The events about to be portraited here are entirely fictional. Therefore, they should be considered real.

I do not attempt to make you believe what I am about to tell you. Either way, you ought to avoid thinking of what you regard as impossible. There are things our parents, institutions & our Lord have pointed out as wicked thus forgettable thus unfeasible. Hence, I ask you to unlearn or at least cease the thoughts of what you have been taught, for they will become a greater impediment. I do not mean to act as a threat to the piece of truth carefully laid before your eyes. I just intend to get your understanding of my occurrence. There is only one reason as to why I do not dare to face you as I say what I cowardly write, you understand. Such reason is nothing but plain fear, fear of being tagged as mental. Pills or electroshock therapy could not undo that I went through. The pain of loss would go on after padded cells & tranquilizers. When I mention 'tagged as mental' I refer to 'considered mentally or inadequately ill by you." So then, I have got nothing else to say except what I must say: I sold my soul to the devil so I could see you once more.


My insides have happened to have been burning all morning long. And it ain't nothing about passion, you understand.
But, I will be alright...
The prospective sharing of time will infuse with a different kind of blaze.



Take a sunny day to hold hands with who has redefined a great deal of occurrences on this path I might not dare call life anymore since the definitions of reality &/or home are long gone due to the sinuosity of being. Take a starry night to take into your arms who is the sun, moon & stars. Take any given time to let go of the failures which have beset you before & sing a tune she enjoys to smile at the thought of her.


From: J. Rojas
To: Y. Gómez
7:00:46 PM 06/11/2009


Ps. You know, it feels so wonderful to be in love...



Crckd hrt..........


So there is not much to write but that I am tongue-tied. Why?
Is it the pre b-day down?
Is it that of not overcoming what I said I would?
Is it that of noticing what is & what is not?
Is it the precise discernment?
Is it the inaccurate one?
Is it the lack of knowledge?
Is it the excess of hope?
Is it tongue-tiedness itself?
Is it plain fear?
Is it a burst of reality?
Is it the end of the beginning of the end?
Is it the beginning of the end of the beginning?
Is it plain fear?
Is it the fear of flying?
Is it a smack in the face?
Is it trust?
Is it mistrust?
Is it ssenilenol?
Is it bad chemicals?
Is it the weather?
Is it?
Is it a bunch of misunderstood autumns?
Is it a misunderstanding?
Is it a bad dream?
Is it the rabbit in my headlights?
Is it the expansive unexpected bullets?
Is it the expected ones?
Is it that notes taste better?
Is it I?
Is it me?


Keep some.
Waste the rest.
Share none.
Please trust.
There is hope.
What about patience...
Perhaps unliked, you know?

In time...

"Things eventually fall by themselves. There has been lots of said things. I cannot believe all them no more. I got to get some proof. There could not be any. There is not will. I was promised different weather, sweet behaviour, peace of mind & what has not gone on. Now I find one asking, 'Is anything real?'
Does this matter?
Eleven times two & then..."



And there is what one would dare call fortunate accidents, which drag who would under different circumstances never run into the other to open themselves in an unfathomable manner despite the intrincacies of time & the labyrinthic ways of real trust, which might in time prove itself right by means of how awkward life can be.



A Salamander.

Reckon fire
to the point of oblivion,
before there is flying,
before past is shook,
grasping the moon &
holding it firm,
til excuses & demons
dance & lose themselves
far into the horizon,
thus paths come near,
then walking blindly,
hand in hand & nothing else,
unfolding beauty,
to drop off scalds
of sulphur & salt.
Ignite fire,
waving farewells to heaven,
after regaining colour,
after there are chants from the sea,
nostalgic at the sprouts
of wisdom & dives,
so dreams retaliate
& tear the unforgiveness
from false reality,
which often went broken
from need to believe
in angels of grey,
of anger & pray,
observing the proud,
the lost & the banal.

The salamander.

Fire...Fire coming from the remnants of an act which arises fire itself. Combustion makes what seemed not as such turn into fuel. There is madness at each fire. There is need to deny the causality of life & beget facts that would not usually appear sound. Misunderstanding & mistaking might be king & queen. Thus fire itself is a joker. One may hardly believe how fast reality can burn when the irrefutable slide into scene. Flames of fragmentation provoke a certain impossibility to run from a present rooted into a pair of eyes that cannot close themselves. There is salt in the tears, & sulphur on the ground they cannot put out. Then, the salamander. Of living in flames or putting out fires one has heard. Yet surviving hell is what I believe. A skin of scars that might not show the intensity of phenomena since the eye is faulty & perceives incompletely what should be factually obvious. The loss of limbs is deemed as non-sense when the beating heart is slashed, cracked or fully broken. Such organ acknowledges fire, attempts repelling the infuriating somewhat omnipotence of the advancing burning, & sometimes succumbs. Whether hope remains or not depends on who has endured the occurrence & I shall not dare speak of so. Fire can devastate the largest fields of knowledge or the mightiest pillars of joy, it can turn the skies into molten lead & awake the fraudulence in the desperate belief in 'destiny.' The vision of Earth goes into one of an igniting comet. Nonetheless, the salamander prevails. Either singed or scorched, scalded or burnt, such being can step out the wreckage & re-initiate its path. Not without a difference in motion, direction or even luck, you understand. Melancholy infuses unprompted tones into that about to come. Immortality matters not despite its being within reach. Life itself comes now irregularly vast though at first it could be hard to realise. There is then something singular in the eyes of the salamander. It might be the reflection of the flames, the pride from survival, the fact of being alive or just a starry night. Either way, wisdom awakes & upholds. One can only but wonder if oneself could bear such a blaze, if one could last after it.

Hardly anyone can be a salamander...



The autumn as rust on the metallic surface on a given piece of tin could tell how pale life can appear when oxide comes into action.
The autumn over a red blood sky could tell how close the end of the status-quo is since anger chooses such colour to manifest itself due to angry causality [I do not believe in destiny]
The autumn in the trees marks a gradual kind of change.
Yet, the autumn in my head infers none of those shades for it has life itself.
Just look at how it springs around my face if you do not believe.



I just found out, I know by now, I could simply swear this ain't no lie, that I won't............................



A demon of black slammed the door & sat by the window. There was no need to lock the door, but it acknowledges cowardice. Memories of running up the stairs & pulling up the bedsheets are shown to just get its point across. Cracking & ghost laughters. There was never any daring looking under the bed. A demon of black still pays visits just to viciously grin. It sits by the window & at times looks at the moon as if it tried to make its gloam musky.
A demon of red disguised itself as love for life. The lights in the sky, both moon & stars, were acridly ignored for the love-infused made minutiae as tiny as the rest. One thought of oneself & none else. The walks presented themselves as gifts of god. Beliefs of acquiescence of oneself & redemption blurred what is & what might be. A demon of red disguised as passion. But it finally ended up in lust, & not indeed for life.
A demon of bleu which took the seas away. Ten years were said to have to pass by before the sand could be sensed by the skin. Whales never were. Let alone any thought of weird fishes. Yet monsters commanded the currents & hid the sun. A demon of bleu fused water with malaise.
A demon of white who blinded me day & night...



The mælstrøm drawn in her hair by the vicissitudes from a brush & the form of her head is able to catch the utmost sighs of every single whale singing while going home.



I have cracked...But I'll be alright...



The notes by my back arise suspicion. The voice by my back turns the place into a conundrum of what I can at times distinguish since I try to converse. Words of nervousness for I ignore-how-to-go. The notes by my back recall how weird fishes have been sung to me. The voice by my back changes not the P-voice is as warm as a technicolour sea. The notes & voice by my back are gone. It don't matter since the one which matters is deep in my head.



On a street not as busy as it should usually be, I dreamt of the sea.
The invisible arrow pointed at where I might have to leave.
The whisper of the water sprouting before me sang about boats full of lambs.
Rivers of pavement made up a maze to resolve, so I get home safe.
My room is still disguised as a sea.
Pages & pages talking of glory in a time when honour did matter & mind.
Waves of smoke from my mouth.
Gallons of past by my feet.
On a day of solitude, I dreamt of the sea.


"I'll be stronger & a bit immortal to sail us farther than the stars."
-The Purple Whale


Tens of cloud lambs await. They are to sail the skies, resting anxiously by a heart-shaped boat, with an oar in the form of a cello in it.
Before departure, there is a swim across the Styx to be done. Patience shall prevail til going ashore. Futher strength & partial immortality could take place. Yet all wonder.

Tens of cloud lambs sat with me, listening to arias of love & deceit, of sorrow & fraternity. They kept themselves silent, with eyes closed to sense the notes & savour the smoke from our cigarettes better. They asked for the one who will command the boat. They would like to know how far they will be taken. They want to be told how far with them I will go.

Tens of cloud lambs will walk with me tomorrow morning. They are going to mention the discomfort from leaving the boat by itself. "What if she comes?" they will be asking. "She would never depart without her crew," I will answer.


There's one who just comes to lose oneself in thought, or to see the new day as a book that deploys itself at length.
Alicia Garcia



Come on...
I would like to say that I have precisely been driven crazy. Not by you though. I must admit I deem you foolish if you believe you can take us all, yet I would like to see you try since there is still hope [a fool's one perhaps...] You are not the empire that can make us go. There is no weapon or craft you possess which can hurt our ghost horses. We ride tonight, so just be ready...



...there they go swimming in a sea of red, blue & green defying gravity & being themselves...



A heart of technicolour by the sound of a voice full of consequences. The writing of this organ makes no sense perhaps [not that it needs one] yet we acknowledge. A plant by the window awaiting my arrival to tell me that she has just dreamt of you. There might not be red or purple tulips in her dreams, but she never doubts of the fair purity of the images. I do not doubt the one of mine. She will make a big fuss about when you are coming back to take the slightest peek at her. I will laugh inasmuch as I know how it feels. She will laugh to comfort me about my wishing to spend the night with you. She will stare at the moon while I upload some music for you. We will say, 'good night!' & wish each other dreams of you. I will go to bed carrying a smile.
I counted the tulips in my heart.There are more than the last time, each one of them being 'you.'

& the tin man said, "I don't wanna hear your voice..."


So...There I go again, naked & sunk in disexpectation, pronging disbelief & hanging myself to the fact of I-dunno-what, listening & bewondering, longing & proudly longing, going nowhere & everywhere, covering my eyes & never ignoring my ears, astounding myself & bemusing myself, holding the sun to shake up the ex-taste...There I go again in the arms of myself to run til my legs says we cannot hold in anymore...Here I am next to her, resting to...



"Indeed you do know me..."



So...I jumped into the river long ago...9 years of wait, you understand. Songs of going away in little row boats & hitting bottom then escaping & implements saving lives & consolation & looking devils in the eye & lines of remaing alive which do not exist & one the most perfect days I have ever seen. I think of existing in an 1 AR as silly as it sounds. I like to exaggerate, you understand.
And one who has come as luck has changed jumped with me. I ain't talking about diving in together since we were already there. It is the jumping from the thrill of being there ourselves as if we were by ourselves.
No longer the nose against the screen picturing and salivating as though it could happen one day.
Twitching & salivating because there was no scaremongering. I was & it was. T-1 & the anxiety preceding joy did nothing but shut me down before the waterfall. Lights went. Thus lights came. I believed & she did as well.
Them notes flooding the space [within/without] which will not stay the same. Them notes into her voice ripping me because of what they now mean ['We met...'] I knew the pain which would come. I was astonished at the one which I thought would not. Tear 1, tear 2, tear 3, tear 4...Dry moment, then again eventhough I can handle fear & doubt...Tear 28, tear 30, tear 7 times 7, tear 50 something, tear one hundred and eighty, tear 1978+1980, tear 955,368...
I am alive everything all the time, here I am allowed after all this time.
...& the jumping hurt, but won't tear me down...& the banging won't remain, but the smile will prevail...
Reckoner, I did feel your hand and you took me away.
I can for sure tell you achieved redemption.
Jigsaw falls into place. My luck has changed. I feel your ripples on a blank shore. This is really happening. There is nothing to fear & nothing to doubt. I feel as everything is in its right place.
One of the most perfect days I have ever seen.


15 Step
There, There
All I Need
Weird Fishes/Arpeggi
The Gloaming
The National Anthem
Faust Arp
No Surprises
Jigsaw Falling Into Place
Fake Plastic Trees
Paranoid Android
House of Cards
My Iron Lung
Street Spirit (Fade Out)
Pyramid Song
Everything In Its Right Place


Not an accident waiting to happen, or one happening at all...Just a happening going on...Til the rainbowed seas are dried...Then, nothing as something...Something again going on to fill up the void & be seas again.


What you have got to say matters most since you matter as one of them people who matter damn most...



Whimsical and dizzical and stupefact way of associating ideas...I recall I enjoy suferring...I sink in the arms of no one to acupuncture...senseless words...non-nonsense grains of brain cells...she coming...she'll come...I miss the some hours ago...around the what-seems-like-indifference-but-might-actually-be-fear-to-be-hurt-or-simply-playing-cool...HTAS...no way of telling...how come it can all be like that?...I am nobody but my own karma police...I'd run to her if I could...Love?...I dunno, but I have enoughly hit the streets...will she sleep in my arms...kinda...tasty petrol...I am into incinerating myself into the oblivion which comes from this at times something...love...Nah!...Love...not yet...LOVE!!!...exaggerate, you understand...I do wanna actually ask...once more...if I don't, I'll burn...if I do, I'll burn [out or down]...fear the good-bye after the notes of redemption...fit, fit, fit...erase the whine...ttt...not really...the other ttt...nonsense...where is the hunny bunny?...Love?!...please answer...y is enough...pity...I here, she ain't...ludic.



So...What looks like a heart by your locker door is my heart exploding for you.



Fatal hilarity...


"My hands have never talked to me since I am not a madman, you see? However, they await to be quenched. The face paint has nothing to do with how I make decisions, yet it can have an obstreperous result. I see my knifes as redemption & a tool to spread smiles all over. Gravity & madness are just as alike as my nemesis & I. Purple suits me. I can tell this mirror is quite afraid of me. Time to go..."

"Oh, hee-hee, aha. Ha, ooh, hee, ha-ha, ha-ha."



Sail to the Moon.
Brush the Cobwebs out of the Sky.


How hard can demons be fought after having gotten first depressed at the age of 6?
Those long trips from gramma's house to where I lived drove me out of the commonest thoughts a child could have. I always feared dark areas - whether rooms or halls, streets or spaces under my bed. There was hardly a time when we left early for my parents dwelling, so the place where we took our public transport was rather gloomy. I closed my eyes to avoid the visions of unknown people passing by. However, darkness lay as well under my eyelids. Death, as uncertain as it has always seemed, was usually the first thing to pop. The religious version of it, which began being presented to me since I was real little, never made sense to me. I felt a deep void & found no explanation for what could happen to me after dying. I felt quite afraid. I tended to feel depressed after every single commute. Life appeared short in spite of being such a young kid.
The flow of alienation or angst never stopped going to & fro. People praised skills & grades at school. Someone dared saying I could be a genius & needed any sort of challenge to keep up to some expectations due to my 'intelligence.' I always asked myself if there was a bigger challenge than dealing with this unique mood of mine. One I know told me she embraced her being different. To me, it used to be such a burden that I once wished I were ordinary. Later on, I reached up for my singularity & stuck to it, but the drama which came from my ups & downs remained.
Years through secondary & high school & a first job passed by & I never stopped becoming depressed. Twice was I told to rely on tranquilizers & hardly did I take that seriously. Three years of constant burning did not tear my stubborn appeal for life. Somehow, various albums I ran into infused optimism & a hope for what I used to believe in could come back & set appropriately to never be removed again.
[Hey KidA...]
I stayed neither sunken nor afloat, just by the partially dark part of the 'sea.' The haunt of 'not-knowing-what' which accompanies the absence of light lost strength, yet it constantly called my name. One time, I gave myself to someone eventhough there was no forseeable fortunate consequence. I will not regret I did [priceless tiny moment which cannot be undone] New fears rose when I found my heart cracked [or scratched, or slashed...I just don't know] on a note left on my lower bunk bed.
How easily can demons be fought after having gotten first depressed at the age of 6?
Nowadays solitude drives my evenings every now & then, darkness smiles back at me while trying to mock the moon, types of notes flood my brain & paranoia+sarcasm ride me away.
Oh, yeah...I have given myself to someone else.
[Hey KiddA...I am so in love]

Demons of sand, but demons at the end.



'I am glued just in case I crack out'
Silly torment perhaps, but torment at the end. What was not won't ever be. Not anymore. Experience matches not. Hope that patience will.
Whiny little kid do not blow things up.
Time goes by holding hands with paranoia. Trust is the crop which should be kept growing. Trust thyself. You already trust in her. Love for temper. Love for one whose passion is as high as cirruses. Love for character.
If said by Julio. Invalid if, never-thought-of if. Knowing what is wanted tastes strong now.
Last time, giving yourself occurred even with no forseeable fortunate consequence. However, you did. Priceless tiny moment which cannot be undone. Dragged yourself. Whether there was a reason or not to such pain, the soul & belief remained. Dubiety is human. So is permanence. So is find.
Wondering now if it was an actual crack.
Or just a scratch.
Or most unlikely, a complete slash.
Finger in mouth, you looked around. Real hard, you understand. Silent at times. Swearing perhaps.
What would be the answer if I asked, 'do you believe this is your time'?
Fear is human.
So are you, child.
Blank screens mean nothing, give nothing.
Closed eyes. Constant singing.
It has never been easy to control these chemicals. Nevertheless, chance of so falls short for there is proof of feasibility. Not-previously-encountered phenomena can be taxing. So, without trying, leave things passed by.
Notes of enjoyment & beyond.
Way beyond, ain't it?
Glued just in case there is cracking out.


'I am fused just in case I blow out'
The thing is that, despite paranoia, uncertainty & unawareness, I believe myself capable of enduring some things which could devastate this re-encountered soul. Obviously enough, what I attempt making clear here might be full of bare predictions since there is no actual way I can precisely tell how I will react. Nevertheless, the recently acquired acknowledgement of how things can go on gives some clue.
My previous experience won't necessarily match what is about to come, but I could be smart enough to once more remain alive. Someone told me once I have already blown out twice. My unawareness leaves doubt although I trust such person.



I feel no more like an accident waiting to happen.
Eitherway, I sing there there.


"Immerse your soul in love"

Doubting of a soul. Hope of nots. No heaven. No fiery yet enjoyable hell. No sin to fear or avoid. No worries about paranormality under my bed. No fear of what might come.

Then just feeling like ash.

Chemicals bouncing at the notes. Secretions ruling anger. Atoms interconnecting atoms to fill voids. Molecules morphing feelings.

Paths to an indubitably cynic ego. Life sarcasm. Simply as 'larger than life.'

Insistent doubts. Passages which make one tremble, tunes which draw tears, images which swell the insides. Hopes of being wrong. Long queues of dreams.

Then love.

Ravaged shaky doubt.

Tulips & whales.


I immerse my soul in love...



I go through past texts about past events which memory stubbornly preserves despite the wisdom present carelessly gushes. Here & there, there & everywhere.
Apnea of anxiety. Anxiety of loneliness. Loneliness of words. Words of salt. Salt of tears. Tears of I-do-not-know-why.
I sail adrift without thinking of catastrophe. There is no destiny to catch or hate to abide. The sun & the moon dance on the surface of the sea at which I now drop some fears of old.
I bathe in the light of every constellation coming from her sight.


Tons of water shed colour into my room. I was deeply asleep when it all came to be. The windows first shattered then broke without a single sound. In spite of the huge amount of liquid, every object stayed in the random place I have given to it. Numb is the adjective which best describes my body after opening my eyes in the middle of the flooded room. From top to bottom, this place where I have re-encountered love swims in various shades of blue. Funnily enough, there is no water outside my room. The door is open so I can see the dry existence outside. I stood up and walked to the door to take my arm outside. I was able to sense the breeze coming from an open window contrasted by my waterless skin.
My room is an ocean. I have grown flippers and turned myself blue with hues of red. I await for the purple whale to share my occurrence with her.



Let there be known I am alive.


I reached my heart to feel its beat. The incessant booming took me by surprise because the afternoon of this day on which I type flew dearly calmed. The long walk I chose to go back home couldn't have been the reason to the upbeat. After lighting up a ciggy, I reached again: The constant blast was there. I just wonder if it has already turned so mad any other time before the current state of affairs. My hand [blessed hand that has attainably held hers for not enough hours] remained on the chest for the strength of this beat is simply mesmerising. I closed my eyes and slowed my pace. The music which pumped into my head from an amnesiac album drove me to everything and nothing. Every nerve began to shock mercilessly. Every pore expanded and contracted to the rhythm of my breath. I stopped walking. The beat kept going and, for a minute there, I felt the earth tremble to it.

I am home now [an hour and a half later by the way] The beat has not left.