Idle Friday

-If you lose the next match, we'll be tied.
-Ok, ok. But I won't. You are way too bad to catch up.
-Nah nah nah. That's what you think. Choose the team you want, it will make no difference.
Fridays by a place we don't own, yet we act as if. I reckon it is at times a bit embarrassing. However, the moment I set myself into the game, I stop minding the crowd, the clerks and the guards' frowns upon us. I comment, push, shout, suffer, celebrate and get angry during every match. It matters not how many Fridays I find nothing else better to do, and how much friends, family, acquaintances and strangers say I outta buy a console, and how productive I could be if I was elsewhere - hardly is there something else which cheers me up as this.
-Pony dares go foward, faces opposition, so passes back to Ludueña. He doesn't have enough control of the ball, has difficulty passing it back to Ruiz, so the team in blue regains control of the ball. Maxi tries to filter the ball to Chaco, but Santos recovers the ball.
Supposedly, I got better things to do. My mum never stops thinking about the time I purposely, although she doesn't know it is all on purpose, waste in front of these familiar objects and people, and in front those eyes full of strangeness that pass by without my noticing of how they look but how they look at me. I care not though. The moment is my ally. The utter excitement is the means and the goal. My raised voice tumbles wildly, so my day seems complete, my existence lighter, my levity softer, my immediate future brighter, and my idiocy just an awkward dream. I own myself at such moment inasmuch as the images whizzing to the beat of my heart are real, while what's not is a mere illusion. How can I tell if the world is there when this overwhelming scent of a feeling is all I sense?
-You should've been there! You know, there's no one like me there. He was far from getting me. You mightn't understand the anger at the game, the joy of winning and the frustration of losing, no matter how many words I use, cause you weren't there. It was… it was simply beautiful.
She believes I exaggerate, everyone thinks that I exaggerate. A perhaps I grant them. Yet, in an empty life on a rotten planet, this may get through for the window of my sight reaches not anything beyond those four edges which limit my imagination.

Rant

Don't you think, don't you think that I am completely over it. Do hope this is my last and only rant. Don't you know I can tell there is something you ain't saying? The images speak louder that anything else you may decide to show me. I see not your hand, I do see your smile, I can smell the essence you leave behind when you would not tell. It is not like I'd love to take your place, is it? But, why in heavens is it that you got another go before I do? I dug and buried, I heard thorough, I unhung stars, I fought memory, I dared for both. Fuck it! It indeed is always 'I, I, I.' I deserve it I reckon. You ought to reckon. Be mine not, yet reckon. Sweet tunes make it easier. These venting words make it easier. I am still walking far and away and wouldn't turn 'round since I want to not become a pile of salt.
You shivered me not. It is just that I am envious of that I saw, only if what I saw is what I think I saw on a sunny day at home.

God don't exist

The bleu skies & the polluted creek, Drāno, sleeping pills, the misery of an old man in a pornography theatre, schizophrenia & the sound of it, 11 hurt people, catharsis, the unbearability of modern art, the endless formula of a polymer, nobody is irrelevant, tears, the Creator of the Universe, no one else possesses the free will you've been given, machines, a fictional dog which cannot wag its tail, a real dog which cannot wag its tail, deus ex machina, my eyes are a pair of leaks, fairy land & a blue scarf in the breeze, and so on.
I've defected: I am an unwavering band of light.

-to KV

Texas

Sun at its most & the smell of it all green, actual green, grass while you lay yourself onto scowls & shrugs & coarse language, necessary & unnecessary, & around twenty clouds to the front & around fifteen to the right & none to the left & men of orange & of blue & my brother & an oblivion about how life is & how it actually is & how it seems to be & nothing but the self & the physique & the strength of a mind that is strong & the one that appears to be but is not & the one that is definitely not but sums up some strength from the depths of pride & turns tough & the sentiment of I sit atop the world for the field I run upon senses the caress of my feet, sweaty & all, going toward the glory I wouldn't otherwise reach.
Sun at its most & the smell of it all green, actual green, grass while you lie down thinking of nothing but glory.

The muse is dead.

Acknowledgement

Ale
I. Peña
Jose Antonio
Juanqui
Julio Cesar
Karina
Henry
Reuben
Yatza

Duke Ellington
Colin, Jonny, Ed, Phil & Thom
Miles Davis & Charlie Mingus & Charlie Parker
Dave Lombardo
Paul & John & George
Edith Piaf
Judith Marie
Del Naja & Daddy G
Claude Debussy, Sergei Rachmaninoff, Piotr Tchaikoffski, Dmitri Shostakovich, Giacomo Puccini

Joyce
Eliot
Borges, Cortázar, Bolaño, Adams, Perec, Faulkner, Blake, Carroll, Dahl & Whitman
Bertrand Russell, Arthur Schopenhauer & Ludwig Josef Johann Wittgenstein

Anderson & Jonze

C
Juanita
Jean O'Dea
P
Pablo Kim Jun Hi
Pao
Rocío

Dead people don't walk

The silent mouths that speak louder than a shout

September 4th

The infinite love & wisdom of those who listen

And the joy around

Disappointment

Noun [C,U] A feeling which arises at the brickwall you have run into. The wall itself ain't a problem. It is just that you wonder when you took a wrong turn. There might not be sadness per se, perhaps only bewilderment.

Bicentennial

Noun [C] A two times whore.

Centennial

Noun [C] The whore you are granted at the lack of identity, the lust for meaning, or simply because you are wanted to look elsewhere.

Indeed

I am the black swan

& the wind keeps whistling...

& there ain't much I can do but wait & wait, as if there were hope.
& I dare use 'as if' for I could never be sure.
Who wants to, right?!
I don't...
I can stay still...
Keep sipping on coffee while the notes swarm...
& I do wait for those 3 damn words to appear in a red-sky afternoon.

The wind by the chair

The grass will keep swinging whether you remain or go...

While the notes make a hole in the sour image which now occupy my mind & eyes, while the breeze makes the day a bit better, while the old man next to me hums & smiles at his loved one, I sip a bit of coffee. I am no bitter man, I do not condemn existence: it is just that the blueness of this sky makes it unbearable for me to think when in heavens it will be my chance to leave the sea of uncertainty that surrounds me.
It all seems better than before. The sun seems shinier, my taste has gone in new directions, people almost always greet me with a smile (as if I had never done wrong to them or they hadn't seen me in a while) Yet, I cannot let go of those thoughts of hefty sorrow. There ain't to say or do. Perhaps just sitting & wait.

3

While the cracks [all them cracks] meet each other, while so much of that happens, a child plays catch with the spite he found under his bed one autumn morning...

des i dera tum

Cloudy day on sight, hurry, hurry! The thirst won't go fast, the walk seems long. A night that could catch you sitting at the pier while those dreams drift away with the waves. Blame no one, you dropped them at the sight of the sun.
The ocean won't bathe your feet. No...
Oh, Carmen! The thoughts of you walking by the men who desire you have driven my nerves as high as the white birds which look for a warm winter home. That voice that lullabied so many evenings appears as narrator in the images that accompany my sleep. Oh, Carmen... My padded room means nothing, it's no match for your arms.
A house on a hill, the ivy swinging, as the tyre from the tree and my heart from the sky. The smell of the seas swarm the living room and the bedrooms until you come out of the kitchen with a pie for two. I smile over and over till the earthquake of reality tears it all apart.
I have buried it, and I dare not use its name for the plain utterance of that word provokes the tears rolling down my face. I faced not the casket, I kissed not its face anymore, I just saw the grass dancing a two-step in my mind. So, there is now only a dirt road, for I pretend there is not a cobbled path surrounded by flower beds to my right. I sink.
I dreamt of you. You were nobody.
I swear I couldn't have seen him... I swear, I swear... When the wheels are in motion there is not much a tiny spectre like I can do, is there? I know my attempt to comfort you is vague, futile and somewhat empty, yet there ain't nothing else I can say. I only wished to go foward, to the path I believe I have chosen, to the smile I have promised my kind.
You dead! I ain't in no comfort til the wave take me far, to you.
So, you are in France. One a many night she made oaths about you. She said she wouldn't leave, she swore she could stand it all, she said she would love me...
I cannot stop the voices that tell me to pick up the phone and ring him. "The wolf`s on the loose," the newspaper read, and as soon as I could I ran to the door to see if it had spent the night by it. No voiceprints in the air or bites on the walls. Thus I am holding onto this damned telephone hoping for a call. I do not know why I bother...
I wish for two steps. To run behind dr3ams, to try to catch my non-born grandchild, to escape from my chair. I survive by the cracks, tempered and flooded. The trips come to me in the shape of winged horses. I ask for just two steps.
My desiderata

inspire

It is the soul in tiny bits what I might try to summon.

There is me, there is my skin, there is the arms that hug a few only, there is the eyes on the sky.

It is the soul in tiny bits that which I might try to summon once in a while at the hearing of trumpets. I fear the existence of nothing underneath says the tune I linger upon. Yet I dare once and again. The epic is a mirage I dream upon, within and over. I exercise the nerves and the fingers till a cascade falls upright, bathing the skyes, soothing my eyes [No one, no one] It might be I who anybody else tries to summon. The moment is mine. Thoughts about to collapse. I steal my own tricks. I imagine.

Π

I try...O do I try...Without dexterous enough hands, branding the flag of faith or trust or hope or whatsoever you might want to call it, finding oneself wanting; the weight I have laid upon these two trembling yet strong legs matters not, for the emotions possessed obliviate the dark clouds to come. 'I am able to infuse life,' me says, 'I swear I am able...'

9

I dig deeper and deeper, always obtaining the same old result: there ain't nothing underneath...I crave and long, wish and hope for a bunch of sour grapes, yet...I go 'round the Moon, pockets of liquid bliss, the prints of my forefathers, the ages preceding me, the sound in Cheshire, a poisoned hat, the forest, a pot full of certainty, a fire... As a Behemot has sung: "breaking all the nails and the fingers from my hands." Light seems far, and the air in my lungs has started to dry while my organs collapse. However, my heart lies intact. So is the aim to embrace the piece of heaven my blindness has been promised.
Creatio ex nihilo?

º

The pollen
A grain of sand
My planet
The voice of a child
This patience
A loose feather
God's particle
Your hope
Your impatience
A word
Gratitude
The nightmares of nothing
Believing
These words
The taste of a flower
Rain in the summer
Your touch
The vastness of the heart
A tiny speck in the dark
The miniscule life
How great is the mind

III

Believe I barely know anything, nothing. The infinite pages, the depth of all paintings, notes in, notes out, the pain in the horizon and the one covering one's feet. There won't be time, I mightn't choose anything, nothing. Though...It is alright. For the sun ain't mine and the ground feels warm and I'm not that blind and there's lots of leaves and a sea where to dwell, one can lie back and enjoy the breeze. There is enough salt water in my hands so far.


I have come to find out there ain't sufficient where-to-store-the-words-the-words.

s

The winds,
The locusts,
A stain in the lungs,
The dark in the well,
A memory of them,
The loss of thought,
The insipid Sunday,
A name for the monster,
The doubt at the gates,
A storm on the holiday,
The ill skin,
The need,
A fall off the bridge,
The flash of a death,
A doubt at the gates,
The topsy-turvy,
The nausea,
A treason,
The inconsolable human,
A spin onto nowhere,
The grabbing,
The holding,
A thorny hand,
The run,
A footprint on the soul,
The blindfold,
The absent voice,
A demon,
The sun,
A lonely walk on the path chosen, but still afraid to face.

#

Ignition.
I have come to disdain,
and to blindfold,
no matter what.

And now I wonder

Grass.
Fields of endless grass.
A whisper.
A sigh.
A couple of them, actually...

Memories of the present crashing into those ones of the past.

[Cascade of notes]

The sun uphigh,
on blue canvas,
making dancing partners for the lonely,
making a grinning spectator of those thoughts of her,
while the moon slumbers,
while the walk keeps going,
the sun on sight,
scratching the green grass.

Sitting down while cigaretting,
while Elioting,
while dreaming,
while dreaming,
no wondering,
just shutting them eyes,
and,

Yet I stare blankly ahead, but no for the reasons which cracked the skyes...

Dare embrace!

Grass.
Fields of endless grass.
A smile.
A thought of the sip of the sour, so inconstant and scalding, and unexpected and booming.

One flies asunder.

While chanting for and about the only one who will understand the song.

Fireworks
and stars...

I am so glad I met you

'Cause you know I'd walk
A thousand miles
If I could
Just see you
Tonight

-A Thousand Miles

Si la música simplemente se desvaneciera...

...la realidad podría morder muchos de los resquicios donde se puede pasar un momento de soledad.

P

Lead singer Thom Yorke said, " Street Spirit is our purest song, but I didn't write it. It wrote itself. We were just its messengers; its biological catalysts. Its core is a complete mystery to me, and, you know, I wouldn't ever try to write something that hopeless. All of our saddest songs have somewhere in them at least a glimmer of resolve. Street Spirit has no resolve. It is the dark tunnel without the light at the end. It represents all tragic emotion that is so hurtful that the sound of that melody is its only definition. We all have a way of dealing with that song. It's called detachment. Especially me; I detach my emotional radar from that song, or I couldn't play it. I'd crack. I'd break down on stage. That's why its lyrics are just a bunch of mini-stories or visual images as opposed to a cohesive explanation of its meaning. I used images set to the music that I thought would convey the emotional entirety of the lyric and music working together. That's what's meant by 'all these things you'll one day swallow whole'. I meant the emotional entirety, because I didn't have it in me to articulate the emotion. I'd crack...
Our fans are braver than I to let that song penetrate them, or maybe they don't realise what they're listening to. They don't realise that Street Spirit is about staring the fucking devil right in the eyes, and knowing, no matter what the hell you do, he'll get the last laugh. And it's real, and true. The devil really will get the last laugh in all cases without exception, and if I let myself think about that too long, I'd crack.
I can't believe we have fans that can deal emotionally with that song. That's why I'm convinced that they don't know what it's about. It's why we play it towards the end of our sets. It drains me, and it shakes me, and hurts like hell every time I play it, looking out at thousands of people cheering and smiling, oblivious to the tragedy of its meaning, like when you're going to have your dog put down and it's wagging its tail on the way there. That's what they all look like, and it breaks my heart. I wish that song hadn't picked us as its catalysts, and so I don't claim it. It asks too much. I didn't write that song."

Horrour

Noun [C,U] A misspelling changes it not...Sulphur mocking dawn, burning corneas, exhaling maniacal freedom, crying for help in laughter, whilst all deemed impossible parades by the windows...A dark den where the only thing to haunt could be yourself...Those three words you could only wish you had not heard...A sip of Schadenfreude...The voice of the person next to you calmly turning into a fountain of blood and thunder...A smiling vertigo staring at you without contempt, singing your name...Seizures of sounds without arrangement, of words stricken with blunt ideas of longings of liberty and poetry about the epics of one's common life, of tunes without notes and notes without tunes, of placid thoughts of paranoia...A red, intolerant eye watching your sleep...False salt from false tears...Deafness or blindness?...

A glide

So...
An interstellar glide. I got my trip companion: a whale. By the Butterfly Nebula and all the stars I've seen in dreams. By a cloud in the shape of the head of a horse and a planet that might have given birth to me. By the skin on her back and the stars in her eyes. A curved Universe to travel with her. The uncertain space and the inflexible time. As fast as bright light in search of a sea by a field of red and purple tulips.
So...