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.