I see you in toasts.

Illusion of series, or a pattern which can be established? Yet another inconclusive post.

Nevertheless, that's why I carry on, day and nightj

Inconclusive.

I left the safe certainty of blind faith over 25 years ago. Some queations without a ready answer are (of course) more pressing than others.

One of my questions has little evidence. On the one hand, a blue heart icon and an attempted apology when there was no need for one.

On the other hand, the continued wall of silence, interrupted by uncertain mixed inklings of what might well be mere coincidence.

A believer would have drawn conclusions. As a skeptic, I reamain to see evidence. Clear hard evidence.

Meanwhile, I seek something that would take me out of the realm of  "inconclusive(.

Inedit lullaby.

Lost boy
sings a lullaby to the empty room.
He asks for no quarter,
as he knows he won't get it.

The lullaby gets sung,
the room's not exactly empty,
the boy has people with him,
including
the boy he once was.

Jackass

A fool, always.
"What's the most stupid thing you did for love?", asked a facebook window once.
I didn't know what to reply, there's a lot to choose from...

Always

Option 1 was always more than I had a right to hope for...

Yet, I never stopped.

How could I? You're the air I breathe, the warm water caressing my skin, the hugging duvet in my sleep, the sun in my eyes, the whisper in my ears, the name on my lips...

Uncertain inklings

Reading tea leaves
from five different cups,
all's as clear
as a scape
seen through a pea-souper.

I bleed on the screen,
seek answers
only a pair of lips
can provide.

The rest,
inklings
with uncertain provenance.

I listen.
I wait.
I am.

Sick?

Leaping at a word
that may seem yours
(yes, yours)
call me a drooling lab dog,
if it please you,
and be you right.

Surprised?
Multidimensional
in prospects,
expectations
and alternate realities
when there be just the one.

My thought in its tiny might,
seeking to bend spoons,
unable (or is it unwilling?)
to turn a corner.

Sickly,
my interest you'd call.
Sickly I might be,
if I was to call you
(yes, you)
the most wonderful disease
I ever contracted.

It's my disease,
not yours,
(of you indeed)
though one
I'd hope be infectious.

Hope's for free, after all.

Squaring the circle.

There are times
in which my fretboard
interferes with my ears.

Last night,
on YouTube,
an enlightening blues commentary:
"Will you stop analysing
and just listen to the fucking music?"

The gap.

Bitter the irony,
that my transgressions
against you
be not the ones in my mind.

Bigger?
Smaller?
Or simply other?

That's not for me to tell,
only your lips (yes, yours)
can answer.

... and vice versa...

Open ends, the only door I ever closed.

Once upon a boy,
many and many a,
once upon a broken heart,
back when the dinosaurs
roamed the earth
and luscious locks
dangled from my head.

Once upon a girl,
waking up in indecision,
unwittingly cleft the boy.

Once upon a lie,
seeking distance to heal,
he cut in turn,
hurt both.

Once upon a woman,
torn betwixt two men.
Pick one, miss the other.
No matter which.

A gulf of 20-odd years,
she called,
he ran.

Once upon six hours in the future,
did I open a door to a friend,
for I shall not leave
unanswered questions
behind me,
if it be in my hand.

Simple, again.

I always thought possibility 1 to be extremely improbable. You said "impossible".

I never saw a practical difference between the two. Because there isn't.

Your posture (such as verbally expressed) was (is) always respected. Only that would make the difference.

Surely that's not a cause for you to fear, is it?

Convincing?
Conquering?
Cheap tricks, we both know better.

I, at least, do.
And I'm sure you do, too.

I'm not gonna try and convince you. Simple, you don't convince anyone.

Either someone agrees
or not.

Beautifully simple, yet not.

All you need,
a working tag.
You,
me,
words.
Just that.

Do you think you're protecting me?
Do you think you're
protecting yourself?
Not from me,
that's certain.

There's no need to consider crocodiles in my neighbourhood.
Maybe in a billabong,
but not here.

Claw and fang.

Never in life a predator:
though my eye might glisten;
though my tread is heavy,
and airy at once;
though I hunger so fundamentally;
though my posture seems like a coiled tiger's;
though...

No. Not here.
Maybe a coffee would help.

Writing my next word on the title.

We both know
(and rejected)
option 3.

Did I not peer deep enough
to know a thing or two?

"How many roads must a man walk down..."
...before he can see the bloody way?

Concepts...

Are you the B who can love
only for what she gets?

Is that what "venusian" means?
How?
I still have difficulty accepting such thing,
yet I should,
by now.

Did you make that cliché
to try and fit,
or just tired of hurting?

I have to make a new religion,
but I'm in faith with you.
Yes.
You.

Got my jivin' shoes when i oughta sleep.

Mind over matter,

wills and ways,

or wills to "no way".

Hollywood, I read.

Hell, now I'm fucked,

I'm part Bollywood

and part Spaghetti Western...

Yep

Self-collaborative,
and tripping over my feet.

Focused on boy's war stories,
on strife, ruin and defeat,
seeking epic patina
for disarray.

Throbbing circumvolutions,
feeling as daft
as a two-bob watch.

No, not really....

Lost in the intricacies
of keeping it simple.

What is, simply is,
simple as I might seem,
I'm as simple as I'd ever be.

First Book of Unicorn: Hoofesis. Chapter 3.

Reconstruction and the advent of humankind.

1 So sombre and downcast were the gatherings of the gods that they tended to repair to the banks of the Styx, so the havoc wreaked by their match might not seem as dire in their endeavours to restore the Earth.
2 Jehovah had given up making plonk and Thor had ceased to offer up his goats for the feast.
3 In the midst of one of these gatherings appeared Maturin again, and all eyed him with suspicion.
4 "Be not so, brethren of mine", said he, "for your act may yet be counted among the greatest in the raising of new grass."
5 "Look ye upon the face of the earth and see. The ash and blood hath made the soil rich to bear green blade. 'Tis the way, surely, to continue our stewardship."
6 And their hearts gladdened ever as they thought upon the death of the beast and plant alike.
7 And a terrible lust for death awoke in the hearts of the gods, unmindful of the Unicorn's One Command.
8 As if preordained, the first woman and man walked out of a forest as the gods lost themselves in reveries o mayhem and slaughter.

Battle, poetry and blood.

9 The following night, they repaired back to Valhalla, now become a hall of warriors of sword and might.
10 Each would playfully attempt to defeat the other, to hack and maim the other, according to their skills and station.
11 It so happened that Jehovah divided into four, one of them, a winged one.
12 In the course of battle, Panchanana also divided into five, as to best him, and the others, for they were of proud and lordly bearing, and of hand ungentle.
13 Each battle being over, they would repair to the feast, to sing of their prowess in songs of resonating thunder.
14 And the mortal men upon the green earth heard their echoes and wrote books of lore, books of war, of wanton destruction and domination over friend and foe alike.
15 And they became as slaves unto the books, and their growth was forever stunted. Mother would kill child, and man would kill anyone.


http://snipinglemur.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/first-book-of-unicorn-hoofesis-chapter-3.html?m=1

First Book of Unicorn: Hoofesis. Chapter 2.

Of Maturin and the advent of Evil.

1 And thus, as disposed by the Almighty Unicorn (hallowed be His Unspoken Name), the grass grew lush and green, generation of beast followed generation of beast and all were content, the gods in the sky, and all living things upon earth, under water, or floating on the heavens.
2 All but Maturin, the turtle. He had been granted special favour from The Sacred Unicorn (blessed be the track of His hooves), and was free to roam through all the minor gods' territories.
3 He had a problem with the grass, for it was a cause of unbearable testicular itch and tickles. In the silence of his heart, he began to curse the greenness of the Earth.
4 It was so, that he attended the nightly meeting at Valhalla, whereupon Odin and his brethren feasted.
5 Upon arriving, he descried the usual gathering, besides the old party tricks. Jehovah was (yet again) turning water into wine.
6 There were the usual cries of derision: "When wilt thou learn to do that for beer?" Thor used to yell, whist calling for yet another one.
7 Approaching the table, the guiling Maturin said: "Surely you would have gotten tired of this boring old game by now. I have one better."
8 "Pray tell", said the gathering in unison, for we grow weary of our idleness.
9 "We could play football with this meteor", said Maturin innocently.
10 Forth they went, the vast echoes of the gods' glee resonating in the vastness of the space between planets.
11 Hermes, with his proverbial speed, carried out a fastbreak, passing the meteor to Panchanana, who (by virtue of his five heads) scored a tremendous goal, smashing the meteor into Earth.
12 A ball of flames and giant waves upon the face of the sea cut a great swathe of destruction far and wide.
13. By the time the dust settled, a great portion of the majestic beasts which dwelt upon the greenness were now so much cooked meat amid the wasteland resulting.
14 All the gods turned to Maturin in anger, holding him to blame for the devastation and in fear of being found derelict in their stewardship.
15 "Look not at me as a culprit", said Maturin in his reasonable voice.
16 "For it was all of you who, using your own free will, engaged in the match."
17 "Furthermore, should you have placed Durga Ma as a goalie, surely she would had saved that goal shot with her ten arms."
18 That said, Maturin returned to roam the Earth, now grass-free.

http://snipinglemur.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/first-book-of-unicorn-hoofesis-chapter-2.html?m=1

First Book of Unicorn: Hoofesis. Chapter 1.

1 In the beginning, there was the Unicorn, only the Unicorn, nothing but the Unicorn, Almighty in power and wisdom.
2 Out of the Void, which was full of nothing, His thought brought matter and movement forth.
3 He set the stars, like salt spilled on a table, the planets, the comets, and all other bodies.
4 At that point, for no reason other than His Almighty whim, he focused His æternal, boundless attention on a tiny speck, called the Earth.
5 At  His will, He separated the land and the oceans, the mountain and the depths, and from the tip of His nasal horn, all manner of creatures burst forth.
6 Soon, the earth was crawling whith creatures big and small, wise and not so, hairy and bold.
7 Lo and behold! The Mighty Unicorn, He Who Shall Not Be Named was weary on the extreme upon his exertions in this minuscule pale blue dot.
8 And, in a momentous push, he produced those who were to tend this small speck in space on his behalf.
9 Out of his bowels came Jehovah,  who went on to be a writer of fiction, and Allah, burden upon generations of women, and blue-necked Shiva (with his brothers), creatures of storm, thunder, land, sea and many others.
10 And upon them, he commanded: "My planet I leave you to butler in my place, for I must rest.
11 "I grant you free choice in the ordering of your provinces, but be it known that my wrath shalt fall upon he who disobeys my command and stains the clean grass with the blood of my creatures, for I am rather fond of clean grass.
12 "And that, in the Day of Days, an account shalt be written by my Anointed Prophet, whom thou shalt know for the rings on his tail, he who is named Lemur.
13 And, without further ado, he galloped away to his stable to rest for eons, for the exertions of a few hours of labour had wearied His power to the point of non-existence.
14 And an age of the Earth did pass.

Compliments.

I do not waste a second in idle flattery (also termed "giving the flannel"), a compliment where it's not warranted only perpetuates mediocrity, a thing that I hate in me, let alone others.

I do not waste a chance to give a compliment when I think one is due. There's just too few opportunities in such a short time we have on this earth...

And to hell with going along to get along...

Skeptic.

It does hurt to see someone like so. It does hurt to be the someone like so.

I never saw myself with a right to ask. And I don't.

Curse my skepticism one and a million times, I don't want to believe, but to know.

Even if the knowledge lacerates my skin, tears my eyes, crumble my bones, and rips my brain from my skull.

I feel knowing is the only way out.

That is all.

Epiphany

I have just been imbued with the revelation from the mighty Unicorn (He Who shall not be named), and chosen a Prophet to translate and propagate His Righteous Word, which flows through my sinews.

Thusly I embark in the adventure of service to the latest scream in deities, the ultimate godhead.

Signed: The Prophet (formerly known as...)

My Immortal.

Still lingering, or malingering, it all depends on the point of view, but I can only see mine, as evidence of yours is not forthcoming.

And yet...

No, I will not entertain the insanity that shadows speak to me, I'm not that far gone, and I never was.

Howling at a moon I can't see from my cage, my lament is not something attractive.

Yet, it is what it is, a consequence.

And I find (somehow) the gumption to resume, as if (to all practical effects) nothing happened.

In fact, nothing is what happened. A great nothingness, filling me with emptiness, a vacuum with entity. And, as we know, vacuum has a draw.

I lie. Vacuum would be to leave you behind, something I despair of trying anymore, it's a moot point in logic to negate your presence in me.

My eyes did open, my mouth utters my native tongue again. You infected me with the debate bug (another lie, it was dormant).

As if I did not have a reason to strive, to conquer myself already, you (yes, you) gave me ten more.

It's the most beautiful present anyone can receive. And I love you the more for it. For as long as one of my cells is capable to carry out a mythosis, you'll be present in what I'd call my soul (for want of a better name).

My opinions stretch to myself, of course. It would be impolite to stretch any further.

My opinions about you, for when you ask for them (if ever).

All I will say is that I see no reason for you to apologize. I never did.

Good news.

I just escribes some wonderful news.

(LEAVE THOSE KIDS ALONE!).

Yes, "Another Brick in the Wall" is D minor. I was right.

And "Walking by myself" is E major. I should know, I sing it all the time. (But I do Johnny Winter's).

Such an ALMOST perfect moment.

Edge of reason.

In the calm waters of the ocean of my logic,
you are the rock of my insanity,
against which my waves lap,
ineffectively.

Calm.

Dead quiet,
what does it all mean?
Is it the prelude to the storm,
or the prelude to some more quiet?

Only one way:
Shower.
Shave.
Leave for rendezvous in one hour.
Wait.

Technical details.

I hate the feeling of hope that gets crushed at every turn.

I hate the fact that I cannot quite let go of it, no matter how many jokes, gigs or (the occasional) beer I use to drown it, and evict you from me.

You, or the persistence of you. It makes no difference, because I saw you as you.

The rest are the details I'd gladly use my life to learn.

Comet

In my orbit, describing my pursuits, killing time; letting time kill me.

Awaiting, expectant, hellbent on that moment of potential confluence.

Only a few hours from now, in my train station, 7-8:30.

Keeping it simple.

Lucky,
that coincidence in time and space.

Plucky,
defying what has to be.

Play it, Sam.

I do feel sorry for the guy who plays the same song for two women, just a personal quirk.

But, then again, there's those who are one-liners, and there's the rest of us.

Today.

I know it's today that I meet your train, entering my town's station.

I know it's today that passengers who look like you are liable to trigger a cardiac event.

I know it's today that I might say "happy birthday", only three days late.

I know it's today that you might tell me anything. I'll be glad to listen, even if what I hear makes me sad. Being sad but certain would be an improvement.

I know I'll carry that book ("Alí en el país de las maravillas"), in the hopes that you''ll tell me to keep it, and that you'll borrow another one from me.

Note: please do keep the Spufford. I'm inside those  pages, a lot more than you might guess.

Star-nosed mole, blind as a bat.

I'll keep searching, no doubt. What do you do when there is an all-important question, and the answers mock the fingertips that attempt to grasp them?

Years, decades (if I'm that lucky). If not, my words will search for you from this and other places.

I hope they find you well, my love.

Persistences.

I tried to wring you out of my heart like water from a jay cloth.

It turns out it's like the sentence "Dubito, cogito, ergo sum." The mere act of negating affirms you more and more strongly within me.

You (yes, you) insist on persisting without pretending, or even trying.

And I, with every line (should you read this) make a reencounter more unlikely.

It's simple. You'd fear hurting me by giving me any new memories of any sort.

That is, if I do exist at all, of course. Let's leave that for another day.

Feather writing on the sky.

Red kite,
perched high,
surfing thermals,
free.

It's not hard to guess who is brought to mind.
Not looking a year older than on Tuesday,
not knowing so many things,
diligently exploring,
that much i know of You
(yes, you).

As if I didn't...

have enough reasons

to ache for your presence,

every bonded copy,

or PDF

of a written work,

evoke you.

No longer to mourn

the passing of the Bard

or of our paisan Miguel,

every book on my shelf

(even the driest ones)

shed a tear for not saying

"Happy Birthday".

Happy.

I am happy,
I know love
as I never knew existed.

Call me corny,
or a sentimental fool,
it doesn't make it any less true.

I am happy
as I see music
you'd have given me,
(yes, you)
a debate
we would have,
a book I'd have been gifted
on my birthday.

I'm happy,
so why do tears roll down my cheeks?

I write music
that does not reach you,
a billion words
you won't read,
books I'd gift you
on a Tuesday, or a Wednesday,
or for your birthday,
just now gone.

male

There are moments in which I curse my cromosome Y. I curse the fact that being born with the potential for more physical strength and having appendages make me a potential threat in your eyes.

Don't take it wrong, I do not hate my physical being. I nurture it as best I can, because it is what I have. It is what I am.

I only hurt that a friendship is seen as impossible, because others with similar characteristics have caused (and cause) so much harm.

I hurt that I am seen as a potential rapist, a maniac. If not by you, certainly it's part of the stigma I have to prove wrong everyday, by being me.

I wish sometimes that you'd see past that, and into me. Who knows, maybe you do...

Meanwhile, my father's bald patch glistens on the scant times the sun bothers to come out, my father's jawline needs shaving (or become furry), my father's sex lives in me, my father's eyes look at me in the mirror, and tell me:

"Are you a man as what you think a man should be?"

The answer is a rotund "yes", but it doesn't change anything.Racial profiling is viewed as racism...

What about gender profiling?

Mulling.

Twelve hours in a location, undisclosed due to legislation in force. Twelve hours of analyzing biomechanical and psychomotor patterns, of being a gentle hand on a shoulder, the sharp command that prevents an injury; the negotiator, technician, pupil, teacher, confident and (why the hell not?) friend. As jobs go, I like it just fine.

Mulling concepts over (always) on forgiveness, comradeship, conquests, trust, and persecution.

And my colleague Madcreeping got another ban. He'll "get by with a little help from [his] friends"... They're not going to shut him up if I've got something to say about it.

The problem with the concepts in my head: they usually appear in the wrong logical order. The consequence tends to feature before the cause. Hey, I'm only an ape! The prosimian avatar is just a smokescreen.

Persecution is the "argumentum ad nominem" taken to the extreme. A person hounded for who that person is. My friend Madcreeping does not have difficulty fitting the bill. Oppositor in Colombia (strike one), artist (strike two), blaspheme atheist, acerbic in his publications as he alone can be (strike three, 30 day ban).

Trust is (for me) the reasonable certainty based on facts and sound logical argumentation. This includes my trust in people. Personal ideas in a personal blog, of course.

Comradeship is what springs from sharing common standpoints and goals, A comrade is not necessarily a friend, though it can easily be.

Conquest. It is an act of force or deception. He (or she) who seeks to conquer, does so at a cost to other. It is in order to obtain by pressure or guile from other. It has no place between friends (true ones).

Forgiveness. The indult by which an offense is no longer taken into account, and no further redress is sought by the injured party. Then again, can there be such a thing as "intentional harm" between true friends? I think not.

What if the allegedly injured party sees no intentional harm? It would easily be considered Pecata Minuta. As long as two friends can be frank, forgiveness does not even enter the process, but empathy "I can understand why you felt you had to this, don't worry."

I'm not special and yet I am. Just as you are.

I will (shall) not debase myself with cheap tricks. I only havea finite life to live, and I intend to do it as myself. Nobody can do that but me. As the adagio goes:

"I AM WHO I AM"
(Fictional character, slightly less famous than The Beatles)

Convincing

You can't convince anyone,
saying "I convinced you"
is the most prepotent statement possible.

To say "you convinced me"
is to abdicate at the helm of your decisions.

All one can do
is to put forth
a solid argument,
an honest one.

And to hope the counterpart will listen within the same level.

Unknown.

I don't know how you see me.
I don't know what I'd see,
should you decide
to chance that coffee.

My only insistence
is to wait,
to be there.

Out of kindness,
at least turn up and tell me to fuck off
or whatever.

Voices not in my head.

Another interview,
another voice,
another consciousness to touch
in this knight's errand to alter reality.

Reality is obdurate,
so am I.

It's my most endearing quality.
My best and my worst.

Totems.

Any metaphor

reduces You.

Any metonimia

diminishes,

and distorts.

That in mind,

I'd ask You to reconsider your totem.

The goat was always apt,

didn't you think of a falcon?

Just saying...

Because I also see that in you.

Am I trying to convince you?

Colonize you?

If I knew it, I'd have said.

If I was,

I'm my own best argument

and my worst one.

I'd still remain

a snow leopard,

till you assign me one.

I await seated,

of course.

Self-sharpener.

It occurs to me, at times,
that,
sculpting with words,
one hits a nodule

CRAP!
That went right into my eye.

The sheer rage
(yeah, why not?)
is me, too.

It comes, usually
in sound,
seldom
written,
mute.

Ineffectual,
primary
and gratuitous,
it's not a friend, or a welcome companion.

The price to pay,
melancholy,
which I gladly pay,
that's the animal I am.

Now what?

Circling one another,
like two goldfish
in the central circus ring.

Not afraid am I,
and, why,
pray tell?

My ugly face,
as is,
without subterfuge,
or artifice.

Not implying
that you have, though,
one has to mind
how to freaking write
these days.

Hispalis: no return, bullet points.

The petty-mindedness
of the dwellers
of the world's belly-button
(or was it belly-bottom?).

The final estrangement
on my own ancestral DNA,
and good fucking riddance.

The parrots that colonised
the palm trees,
just another freak-out
in a city of them.

The druggie,
pushing his gear
and peddling Jesus
at once.

Your neighbourhood,
in which I never held your hand.

Your school,
from which I never picked you up

The medieval town,
in which I never stole a kiss from you.

Common friends,
who will see me
as the mutant freak I am.

Balls of Ketama,
offering cheap oblivion
and heightened memories
and dreams,
all of them false.
There had to be a plus-side,
though not a good one.

Hindsight.

I found myself recreating the initial steps of a journey that commenced over 25 years ago. A fucking quarter of a century ago.

Microwaves just got invented.
And PCs were a 128kb.
A guitar was as is (thank Les Paul for that), and a pedal was the same.
And you (even then) and I used the same bus stops, number 70. I took it where you left it. And viceversa.

Where did it all go?

Screw this.

Stating the obvious.

I'm in bad shape,
no need to be a genius,
it's as plain
as I feel,
as I am.

Not because it's anyone's fault,
not because it be mine
(don't we just love to play
the "catch me-fuck me"
blame game...)
No.

Not because anything's missing,
or there's extra,
though there's something there.
No.

Just in bad shape,
just a lycanthrope.

Simple protocol.

Frustrating,
unnerving,
unsettling.

Wishing to be able to feel anger,
to move on
but I can't.
You deprived me
of that de rigueur,
customary
"fuck off",
which is part of protocol,
simple good manners.

Instead,...
Who in blue fuck knows?

Thor on a Monday.

Deep pain subsided to the ever-present ache, I hit the streets in my streamlined form.

Ever a changeling, briefly soothed by thunder, and the combined smell of wet loam and roses, longing for the jasmine.

I write my operating manual as I go along, creating new switches where the old ones are broken or ineffective.

Always, the wolf on the trail, though a kind one.

Overcast.

The clouds rain.
So do I.

A mantle of grey
spanning my horizon,
no end in sight
or beyond.

Back to square one.

Sometimes, I can't but wonder (I stand corrected, I wonder full-time and overtime, too).

Some of my wonderings might (hell, ain't no "might" about it) be fuelled by a gargantuan ego, attempting to comprehend why did things happen so, when I deserve much better.

Some, realising how little I really am, no matter how hard I strive, or how many different editions of this old and dusty book are self-published when I open my eyes.

Some, on why (yes, why) should I reach for the stars, on seeing them from the sewers (that's not mine, but it's apt).

In the end, there's just the pit (or the cell) and me within.

Only.

Just five inches

and five light-years

from my fingertips.

I see you,

and I can't.

Another story for someone's amusement.

Ions in brine.

No end in sight,
not even with the end of sight.
The brine in me,
threatening to drown,
swimming in the 66%
that makes up my body.

Damn the chemical bonding of my molecules!
Damn the incessant, mindless travelling of Na+ along my axons!
Damn the Ca+ liberated into my myocardium,
preceding another tick of the clock!
Damn my basal ganglia, and the whole bloody thing!

From pillar to post, back to square one.

I swap nylon strings
for steel,
from classic to dreadnought,
from one language to the next,
from a picture to the other,
from a topic to another.

I exercise my scalpel
on a million inane phallacies.

Even G major
sounds mournful
and only you
(yes, you)
know why.

Perplexity.

Ran,
afraid?
Couldn't deal with it.
With what?

Another question to ponder.
A grand total,
on which I lost count.

Splashing ineffectively.

The boy,
swallowed by the quickmud
embracing his thighs,
caressing his torso,
welcoming him
to its cold kiss
as a long-lost lover returned.

Crusoe.

I won't go back.
I know.
I burnt all the ships
that escaped my hand.

What I have,
is what I am,
that's precious little,
quite unprecious,
quite little,
that should suffice
for another breath.

Ebb.

No solace in my strings,
in study,
in the combat of ideas,
in the beauty outside my window,
in my own, within.

Whales can forget to breathe,
but I'm just born unable.

Trying to see with clouded eyes.

If my tears hurt you,
it's not violence on my part,
it's empathy on yours.
Things are simpler
than we make them.

Spring came to my window.

The sun shines forth,
the trilling birds garland
the blossoming trees
in the refulgent context
of a green
that fires in the retinas.
And I just can't give a fuck.

Argumentum ad nominem.

My arguments,
defined as "violence",
my very act of drawing breath,
an offense
(at microscopic level, of course)

Living
on the margin of evidence,
a bug to be isolated,
quarantined.

The very essence
of "ad nominem."

Serendipity, sinchronicity.

Rationalize,
about why it was good,
I listen,
I learn

And about why on earth
to turn your back,
telling yourself not to go back.

I'm sure you might find something,
if not, you know where to find me,
and that coffee,
all you need is a
"hello, how you''ve been?"

Fool.

I bought that particular ticket,
it's been a long time
since I keep my eyes open,
even if the driving hail cuts my corneas,
which would be welcome,
by the way.

I am a fool,
just not so big a one
so as to deny it.

Orders from above.

It's not becoming
to be so downcast,
I know.

I expect the readiness
to joke
is to be cherished;
to be amusing,
entertaining
has to be my goal,
such seems the expectation.

Just like the ladies from ago
had to squeeze into a corset,
or deform their feet to be attractive,
now it's my turn.

Be a man,
let the ground quake under your feet,
let elephants flee
in fear of their lives
before your testicular fortitude.

Be a man, hide yourself.

Gender stereotypes?
Where?
Toe the line, boy...
or be reviled.

Gathering.

Cause, consequence, simple correlation "cum hoc ergo propter hoc?

No answer.

Ockham's switchblade? No answer.

Chaos? No answer, but therein seems to be the most likely scenario. The lack of answers being an answer in and of itself.

Patience? That'll have to do for now.

Patience.

My own nonsense.

Yes, I cannot
but agree with you
(yes, you).

It's nonsensical
that I have just cried myself hoarse
like I did last August,
and September,
and October...

That it must be pathological,
just as it once was
the illogical compulsion
of slaves
to run away from their thraldom.

That there must be something wrong with me
for loving without reserve
in a world so full of hatred and contempt.

It just has to be nonsense.

Live on.

I'll live
weaving tears into laughter,
sculpting sorrows
with a titanium chisel
carving glee.

My tactic
is to be myself,
whom you met
and yet other,
larger, faster,
sleek as the leopard
I fancy myself.

My strategy,
to exist.
Sooner or later,
you might need your friend.
We all need one.
At least one,
at some point.

My target.
If you come to my deathbed,
fifty years from now,
to say "hello",
it'd be a victory.
A pyrrhic one, alas.

Storni

Adressed as the gift
from a gentle soul
(for want of a better word).

Meant as a warm monsoon rain,
cut the skin as sleet,
as they are words of scorn.

No victims for me,
no statues I seek,
or honours.

Victim of pareidolia,
in the river of faces,
no more than 2m,
your face.

Next, I'll see you on a toast.

Clown.

A bit late in the day for verse. Victim of mirages of all sorts, I turn an inward smile at myself. What's left to do but laugh, and  (it being self-directed), I ought to have plenty of material for a world-class act.

Laugh, clown, laugh!

If it burns your insides
that your eyes won't be met,
that you throw bottle after bottle,
fight battle after battle
to no avail.

Step on the rake
and hit your face
with the handle.
You make the world
a better place
by bringing hilarity.

Dance, clown, dance!

Attempting a bit of logic.

Natural curiosity would demand to be satisfied, either in the form of a nagging question, or demanding a more empiric approach to go and find out

That is a rational reason within my irrationality.

If I thought I could stop your worry by forever holding my peace, why would you be reading (if, indeed, you —yes, you- do).

Well, serendipity has its ways. I am content to wait, if not happy.

Serenely I wait, and scythe my way as well as I can.

Leopold.

Call me a predator,
albeit of a different sort.

Alas, here is the snow leopard,
turned vegan,
after meeting the Tahr.

Warmed by the westering sun
at rendezvous point.

The hillside seems to speak to him,
of her coming,
almost palpable.
Almost.

Only a little bit more...

Blasphemy would be not to love you (yes, you).

Accept only spoken wordsp
from my lips,
do not sink in the quicksand,
my dearest love,
the one and all.

Meet, tell me.
Only from your lips
I'll accept evidence.

If that's contrary to my dreams
and visions,
so be it, my goddess.

THY WILL BE DONE.

Readying myself.

How I love to swap verse,
to speak without the immediacy
of the utilitarian prose.

I go to meet you,
your train is on its way,
are you in it?

Will it be another fruitless attempt
in a long line of many?
Empirical, as always.

Only one way to really know,
my dear love.

At 7:00.

Swam against the tide, minirenga.

Attempting to swim,
diving under the floorboards,
gasping and grasping.

By absence bereft;
each minute, a sheer torture.
I just never left.

A word came to the unwary.

Serendipity
is not oxygen,
or water
or food
or shelter.

It's not sex
(though it might be there)
or empathy
or friendship
or common interests.

I cannot define it,
it came to my lips
talking with a mate.
And the word conjured
your picture
yet again.

Serendipity is a curse,
and (maybe) the solution.

Restless

Torn between the actuality of your absence (yes, yours), the infinitesimal likelihood of your arrival to rendezvous, and the potential outcomes.

So much hinging on such little  things.

When a "hello" is the most magnificent triumph, all else pales into insignificance.

Pride.

What, exactly, is pride? I will not bother with a dictionary, or references of any sort, so catch me on logical and argumental phallacies as I go along.

Pride as a pretence, as a façade in front of others to show how strong we are? That would be the pride of the caribou prancing in front of the wolves. He's starved, frozen half to death, looking death in the face and spitting in its ugly face. That's my idea of pride.

What happens when we see wolves everywhere? Are we so sure of "homo homini lupus est?"? I beg to disagree.

Even those I have called enemies have been able to sit down and have a coffee with me.

Even those online who had the means (their pages, with thousands of followers), the motive (a strong dislike for me) and the opportunity (well, not an opportunity given by a serious mistake on my part) have not gone onto the attack.

Why? I expect they have other fish to fry, and so have I. There goes an example of tacit armistice. That person bared his fangs, and found out I'm not exactly toothless. Then, each to his own.

Wolves, caribou, pride, fangs, I digress.

Pride, for me, is the ability to look in the mirror. What others think must come second to that.

Then there's begging, and all these quotes... written by... whom again? Experts?

I'll subject myself to solid evidence. Ockham's blade can only cut so deep and I have it very present that the absence of evidence is not evidence of the absence (was that not the point in discussing the affirmation of the consequence?)

Meanwhile, I keep waiting for the things (or people) I feel is worth the wait. Like you (yes, you) for example.

And if others think it robs me of my dignity, what do I care? My father's eyes on the mirror say otherwise.

My father's eyes, through which I see.

Terraces.

Recently I read the story of a beautiful woman sitting at the terrace,  awaiting for a visit that never arrived. Receiving texts.

Call me skeptical, but there is no substitute for the human voice. A text can be sent by anyone, by mistake or malice, by a colleague feeling a bit naughty... Anyone.

My heart goes to the lady on the terrace (maybe because I, too, await?)

I'll keep waiting. To the lady on the cafe, I wish her the best. If she had a glimpse of where to go and find out, maybe she would, and just do that.

I wished I knew any cafes to go to, and find out. I'll stick with waiting at my local railway station, no matter what.

Saturdays, from 19:00 to 20:30.

If you cannot come this week, come next.
Or the next.
Or the next.

And so on.

Pings.

I recently came across an old friend of mine, whom I won't name, of course. We bumped into one another in town, after some time.

As we were sipping our coffee, I could not help notice the visible change in his demeanour. Previously as cool as a cucumber, he did seem very distracted, checking his mobile phone every now and then.

-"What's calling you from there? She must be quite something to have you texting all the time."

-"It's not exactly that, I write for a few places, and I don't like to leave things behind. I'm one of those who talk with the readers."

-"Well, join the club, dude. I'm also there, but I still have vertical people to talk to

-"Sorry, you're right. I was phubbing you again, wasn't I?"

-"Don't worry."


In that moment, a loud ping came from hos phone. Whatsapp...

-"Go on, fess up. Nobody but the hopeful leap for Whatsapp. What gives?"

-"You were right, after all. There is a woman in my life."

-"Well, I'll be butched! Do I know her?"

-"I doubt it, she's from my old neighbourhood. We met for a while, but it's been a while since I don't hear of her. It doesn't make any sense."

-"You gotta move on, you know. You cannot go on like this."

-"I'll be fine. As to how I go on, I'll just go on with the flow and how I feel. I cannot help thinking that, just as she disappeared from the scene, without rhyme or reason, she might come back."

This time, the loud ping came from my mobile. In the 0.2" I took to check my Whatsapp, my heart carried out a triple sommersault.

My friend was not so misled, after all.

Railroad blues.

Just when I thought
I finally found you,
silence.

The confusion
of calling to apologize
and receiving an apology.

And then...
Until now?

The immensely stupid palm tree
near your window,
Satie in your notes,
and Borges in your quotes,
should name you
(yes, you).

Tomorrow,
at my station
7-8:30
(like ALL Saturdays),
I'll have five more written pieces.
Will they be happy ones?

Busy hands.

The boy never stopped playing
with his toolbox.
Chiselling the air,
hammering dogmas
(when he can)
sanding his rough corners,
transponding angles
to see through your eyes.

Assembling bubbles
into a palace of cards
that never got delivered.

Each minute of a blank night,
a quarried block
for the Roman bridge
I never stop building.

If only I knew
it was leading to the bank
I actually aim for...

Only a way to find out.
Doing.

Identity.

Don't you think I know
you for my same flesh and bone?
A "me" which is not me.

Tears
are the only real equality
afforded us,
is fact.

My hand keeps reaching out,
and only finds the mist,
the suspended moisture
of a billion combined sufferers
of terminal melancholy.

Aching, burning
to find
the glorious concretion
of your hand (yes, yours).

Unforgiven.

To give in to despair,
and to fall silent...

The very sadness,
born where you (yes, you) know,
attempts to rob me of my voice,
gives my strings
the sweetest harmonies,
and mutes them.

It seeks to dub me
"Unforgiven".

And the little prince grew a beard.

Suspended in nothingness,
compass of no avail in spatial wasteland.

Seeking a visa to your planet.

The little republican prince
metamorphs.

He longs to be:

River in your deserts
and witness of your growth,
meandering on that bed,
sinking into your depths,
and be a source of life.

Cottage in your forest,
where you can repair
as the weather turns ungentle.

Rain in march,
Shade in august,
and a fire in your winter.

A pilgrim in your vast spaces,
a hermit worshipping
at all your altars,
my goddess;
the child who seeks your hand
to hold mine,
and the man to hold yours
when you need one.

To be your cello,
and sing the melodies you bring,
to be the hand wielding the bow,
and pluck the symphonies of your sighs,

And more...

Concerto, all movements.

Brain in the spin cycle,
seeking the spell
to counteract centrifugal forces.

Here's a little something. Minutes 7 and 12 replay Sarandon and Nicholson's musical romance in Eastwick.

To convert a B minor blues in a concerto for guitar and cello,
who said I'm not ambitious?

To teach you an inversion of tryad,
and learn from you all it can be...

My home is you.

Utter terror at being at a dialogue with the mirage again, of reading between the lines, and there not being you (yes, you).

Persistent as the rain on the rock, delicate, foolhardy and resilient as an edelwaiss, my love.

I'll be at the station, awaiting you, or writing mire railraload blues in B minor.

Missed dates.

A cataclism in and of itself. The sweet anticipation of the potential meeting is almost sufficient to dispel all the clouds. Almost, you are still to arrive.

One cannot but feel and worry, to the point of feeling sick. How to look among seven million vertical people? How, among countless fake profiles on Facebook, Twitter and G+?

Not a demand, or imposition, but out of concern. A concern deeper than the Marianas unfit for words on this blog.

A short tale.

Once upon a time, a boy met a girl. Some would call it random, others, a matter of time.

She had left the bus near his home hundreds of times, unsuspecting.

He had walked past her school, unaware that his muse was inside that bad copy of an arbeitslager...

They even shared friends, and many other things. Many. And then, some more...

For unknown reasons, a curtain came from nowhere.

His slow descent into a combination of madness and sanity spiraled.

One innocent poem became material for a few books, and continues to flow for the foreseeable future.

Determined to grow a voice, to be a scythe on the silence, to reach, he challenged his profile. He still does, day by day.

Every Saturday, that boy still awaits, in his local railway station, from 7:00 to 8:30.

The boy grew a beard, with some salt and pepper in it. He might even look venerable to the reject teens he comes across, a relic.

So be it. The boy knows to wait. And hope against all hope.

Thea and Earth collided, what were the odds?

By accident, reading.

About misencounters,

spatio-temporal crossings

that change everything.

Everything.

Meanwhile, I'll be at my railway station, come Saturday.

And the next.

And the next.

Just one more.

I'll be an idiot,
reviled,
with words in my mouth
that I never uttered,
or would.

With reasons adscribed
that never were mine.

The reader would make of this
what they like,
and why the hell not?

Would it be the first time a book,
or any written piece
is judged
by the name on its spine?

300 seconds.

"Æternal, a life in five minutes..."

A fag (a British one, thank you very much) and a sip of coffee.

Not much.

And the elusive thrush (of the winged variety, oh so thank you very much) that comes to join in my solitude, rooting oblivious, like the rest of the world.

And your eyes piercing me...

It just happens...

I ought to stop thinking of you in public.

A mischievous grin dawns on my face, and I have the fear of becoming visible to the public.

You'd be embarrased (or proud) of your prowess in my mind.

Nothing dirty, of course, all takes place in the shower...

...or a restaurant table, those places are usually very clean.

Certainties.

There are few in life.

One of mine, the live string and drum, and the dossier to come if it's a new band.

Which is why I wait by the train station in High Wycombe every Saturday, from 19:00 to 20:00.

I could use a pair of sharp ears to help.

All you gotta do is to turn up. No questions asked.

That last one is a certainty.

Guilt.

It's a complex thing, who's to say what actions or omissions make us feel it?

I would, but not here.

I did listened to some of yours before (remember?). Many of them were unfounded.

You took someone else's and adopted it for your very own. Again, not here...

And I wouldn't let you have any of that to carry into that meeting you had in late July...

But it is spring again.

Sometimes the things we regret the most aren't what we should. Sometimes they are, but not often.

There's reason behind any and all behaviours. Nothing that a coffee with a true friend cannot sort out. Nothing.

Amicus verus est rara avis in terra.

Hurdles.

Different languages demand slightly different mindsets, similes and offer different challenges. You're no stranger to that.

C'est que j'ai besoin d'écrire en Français?

And yet, it's the same blues, the conjuration in the dark, the light in the shadows and viceversa.

Machine gunning.

Anyone (as though I gave a rat's red arse about any Tom, Dick and Harry's opinion): "what's with the rabid blogging?"

A form of comm might grow stale, but new alphabets are discovered daily by he (or she) with the drive, with the quest and the imagination.

The kid's just getting warmed up, I'm not even revving up. (Typical male brag).

Just forgot to say...

Behind my closed eyelids,
the verse I cannot squeeze
into words,
and you're in them all.

Altar.

Chamaleonic, malleable and firm. A rose of titanium unaware of her thorns and sharp petals.

Stronger than you think and weaker than you'd like, primal and sophisticated.

You.

A paradox I'd very much love to escrutinize.

Fact.

"Words, is all he has to give, where are his actions to back it up? He might talk the talk, does he walk the walk?"

Again, simpleton assessment at work. Need I remind you that "assessment" might be related to "ass"?

Months, years, and I will be here.

That is a fact. Hard fact.

Thrall.

You gave me back one of the greatest gifts: my language, my mother's tongue (risqué oedipal joke, in bad taste).

Up to the point in which I reinvented myself, yet once more. My atoms might have changed. My core (another word for "soul"?) not so much... at least, I didn't think so.

I'd say I became unleashed and chained at once, that I found my freedom, being in thraldom.

Well, no one is really free. Ain't certainly no free lunch for none. Though grammatically atrocious, it is factually impeccable.

Epiphany.

I still remember those last words preceding a blue heart icon, as well as the few others filtered afterwards.

Anyone would think: "this guy's desperate, mad at the prospect of being alone, clinging to the past."

Why wouldn't they think so? Simpletons abound in the low-brow humour commonplace sites in which I oftentimes indulge.

No.

This atheist did have an epiphany. A possible future of books, music, and a deep connection.

Not being very intellectual, I won't settle for an intellectual wasteland. I'll grow till I die, one way or the other.

I won't settle for any less, I'd rather be alone than giving up on a dream that is me.

Dreams come true? Only through blood, sweat, tears and a bit of random luck.

...

A week to your birthday, already.

An autumn and winter past, already.

Whatever happens, I'm ready.

Rendezvous.

Given that A+B=sit down for a coffee at a terrace, and that:

A= a cafe latte with an extra shot.

B= x (an expresso+ condensed milk, perhaps or maybe a decaff?).

* B1: "I rue the day I knew of your existence..." -» A leaves the table. No harm, no foul, just another scar in time.

* B2: "It's complicated, but be there for me..." -» A listens to as much (or as little) as B wants to state, with no interruptions. A stays.

B3: "Can we discuss this somewhere private?" -» A: "As private as you like."

B4= (B+C) -» Option B2 applies, A stays for B, on B's terms.

B5: "Where have you been?" -» A: "I never left".

Where is the rendezvous point?

That's the real question.

More questions.

Am I fixated? Well, that depends on how the question is approached.

Is it fixation to desire answers for questions without closure?

Is it fixation when sense does not make sense, and even chaos doesn't?

Is it fixation to worry about those you love, and to be able to wish them well?

Is it fixation to feel the absence with every fibre of your being?

Soul.

There is something. I am in as little a doubt as I am of the fact that we breathe, cogitate, sweat and love.

Is it the part of me that yearns? I yearn for a world where the weak is not trampled, where lovers are free to meet, where the concept of suffering is an academic concept in a history book, a legend which we could afford to believe in... or not.

Is it the part of me that seeks an answer to a new question as soon as I got one?

Is it the part of me which pines calls for my loved ones night and day (and in that order)?

Is it the part of me that seeks to leave my own tracks on this muddy road?

Meanwhile, my basal ganglia secretes hormones which act upon the sympathetic and parasympathetic. My chest at times feels like is going to explode, and there are eagles in my stomach, striving to be free and soar.

There is something. It's called "me".

And, for some reason unfathomable (or, at least deep enough so as to almost be), it caught a glimpse of that "you" (yes, you), and recognised itself.

I refused to use the term "soul" (save for Marvin Gaye and the likes), and there you have me talking about soulmates...

I cannot be the first human feeling this way, surely. For want of a better word, I'd call you that, near or far.

Near or far, you sit in this bus I'm in, by my side.

I have no way to objectively express it, but that doesn't make it any less real.

Should.

Unpleasant that it is, one does learn from the mirages.

Some things I write about in this blog. Many, I simply do not.

I should be writing on the eccentric contraction of dorsiflexors in the transition from heelstrike to foot-flat.

I should be reading more..

I should be using my headphone amps, and practising/rehearsing.

I should be asleep.

Since when do we do as we should?

The mind wanders ad libitum.

To-do list.

- To revamp that old Aria Pro II bass, restring it and shoot with it.
- To continue to learn double handed techniques... on my strings.
- To finish the novel.
- To rejoin uni,
- To remain myself. (That's an easy one).
- My daughters are to grow strong, to become dragons, rather than weakling princesses.
- To identify unfounded beliefs, obtain evidence and to find a way from there. There might be an uncomfortable (for me) coffee involved. So be it, with my eyes open.
- To love, against all odds and until my very last breath. The challenge would be not to do so, after my findings.
- To rattle cages and consciences, honing my pen to a keen edge.
- To smell the rain and shake the wind. To rend the earth and let my fire pour as freely as it will.
- To keep this list and to stick to it.

Amongst the bluebells.

The bluebells are back en masse, just as a reincarnation of your black tulip graces the green earth again.

With my nose still bleeding from my latest crash with the reality behind a mirage, my tide is on the rise again. It just has to.

I make myself fly by tugging on my own shoelaces, daring to dream, lest I wither, die and join the legion of zombies that thrive on copy/paste.

A billion words, each of them containing a billion of acts of active search for that coffee. For that decaff that gives palpitations...

...or just a "how do you do?" type of coffee.

I hear people say "I'd do anything for a coffee", but they don't know the true meaning of that statement.

Painful simplicity.

The virtue of silence is overrated, when our moment under the sun is just so brief. Just a fraction of a second, with the urgency of the one who knows (yes, knowing) that the next minute or fifty years will be haunted by those huge little moments we let slip between our fingers.

Because they're the sand in the hour glass.

Forging faeries.

I write and write, as though I could conjure you from amid the shadows, from afar. In a way,iI do it, but it's a rather flawed reflection, incomparable to the marvellous concretion of your actuality.

Just me, unleashed.

Sighing,
Sighting
Animality in motion.
Curled up,
Crouching,
Pouncing,
Pounding

Eternal Student

Pore by pore
to read you,
collating the intricacies,
unfolding your secrets
one by one.

To bathe in your wisdom,
acknowledging myself
an apprentice,
and learn you,
and know you,
and breathe you

Lunatic.

Watching a bone-white moon, just as elusive of the purported event as you seem to be of that coffee.

Just as elusive as I might seem at times, despite my best efforts.

I'm not much in the mood to make up jokes these days. As you know, I'm more of a stand-up guy.

One does need inspiration to become bodacious, after all.

But my inspiration seems to behave like the moon.

Just a story.

Once upon a time, this prosimian used to write elsewhere as well. Who knows, maybe you (yes, you) know some of them, and even write in the same old haunts. Content Creators move in small circles after all...

Having left (long story to have with coffee and some chuckles), someone came to demand to the owner of one of my pages that I got the sack, via the page inbox.

I tried to respond to the false accusations, but he had me blocked (for whatever reasons, nevermind). My responses simply did not get sent.

I resorted to asking friends in that page to copy my response and paste it on the inbox on my behalf.

I can only imagine the look of consternation in his face as he saw my responses (they were as sharp as you would expect, hehe).

Just a story that came to my mind, that's all.

Puchero, no celery, second helping

Courage,
desire,
tenacity,
unquenchable thirst,
unslakable appetite
for the fruit of thy brain,
to avenge your dart
with my very own.

Whither and why
doest thou hide?

Nothing more I wished
since that meal.
NO ONE, NOTHING
but you.
(yes, you).

Of curtains and one-way mirrors.

In spite of suspicions of you behind the curtain, I am not in a position to assert that.

I know (well, I think, which is almost the same) that I'd recognize you almost anywhere.

The mental erections (I suppose you hate the term) do not (of course) constitute evidence. Personal perception —especially when there are emotive implications— cannot be relied upon with any measure of certainty. And yet...

And yet, this is not a science paper, or even a record of a study, or anything other than a personal entry on a personal blog. I'm not setting out to prove, disprove, or to make any point.

Am I crazy? It would be a fair question to ask, one that I enquire myself about oftentimes.

The answer (I guess) is: "probably yes, are we not all crazy to some degree or other? Who on earth is entirely sane and rational, just who?"

It is the ones that state their full-time rationality and objectivity that I fear the worst.

Why? Maybe on my next entry...

Cutting myself to ribbons.

A few hours of sleep, yet...

In "ad ignorantiam", I would reach for Ockham's blade. The very one that cut me to the quick. The very one that, given enough evidence, favours the explanation with less entities within.

The very one I wielded when I came to the conclusion that there's just no need to busy myself with deities, gnomes and unicorns.

The very one that insinuates itself in my processes. As in:

-"What's the need for this unnecessary whole (me) to be introduced in her reasoning?" Logically, none.

But, whoever said our feelings and actions are ruled by logic? We use logic to rationalize our decisions and validate them after the fact. We love to use the "post hoc, ergo propter hoc".

or,

-"With the little evidence available, how can I assert she didn't just turn tail and run for safety?"

"Safety from what?", is my immediate reply in that particular Carthesian dialogue. "Safety from me or, rather, what she sees in me. Maybe from herself" And who in sweaty hell does know? Not me.

This last one usually precludes the onset of a headache or a series of chicken scratchings on paper that I have come to call 'poems'.

The answer lies on the keen edge of Ockham's blade, retermed Hitchens's when it comes to disyuntives on deities.

But that would be an entirely different phallacy altogether: "argumentum ad verecundiam".

Beware how you approach that particular minefield. You,of course, know that.

I do know you probably have seen past that little obstacle in ways that I can't. That's one of the things I love you for, that impossibly cute brain of yours.

Beautiful as the Sphynx, and just as remote. Yet, "...flesh and blood by the telephone..."

Recap Time.

I guess I'll share some stuff, what are blogs for, right? Now it doesn't seem to matter.

I was raised a devout (aka fanatic) Seventh Day Adventist (an SDA, yo!) It was the whole nine yards ever since I remember: Saturday school, with a daily set of versicles to remember... And one to learn by rote every week.

Services on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. Sunday, sports with the gang, too.

A small incise here: my father was very unamused at the turn of events. He was atheist. He was spoken of in tones of reproof, because of this. Back on Tue thread...

Though I was in a state school, the teacher always made a point to mock me because I was an SDA, which pushed me deeper and deeper.

By age 14, I already had baptised (after two years of specially intensive bible classes with the pastor). I joined the choir as a bass.

Quite manly for such a small piece of snot, I gotta add.

By fifteen, I was a deacon (quite a precocious age, but they made an exception). I already had given two sermons by that age and I was firm in my resolve to study theology and ordain myself.

Then, life (which is what you'd call shit) happened. After six months, my father (the atheist, yes, there was just the one). died. I was 16.

The whole thing cane down like a house of cards. I was told (in no uncertain terms) that my father had committed the worst sin imaginable, rejecting the peadophile pigeon (aka the holy spirit). He was worse than Hitler just for that.

To say I was a bit lost would be the understatement of the century. I had spent years reading junk on creationism, I had to unlearn it all.

On my own, there was nobody to ask. That's what a sect does to your family environment. I was not allowed books in, on other than fiction and literature.

The hounding came next. It was 26 years ago that I burnt the copy of the bible I got for my baptism. It is two months since I declared my family dead. They simply are not capable of seeing me as a valid human being.

And that is all. For now.

On the trail.

And why would you
be the one to follow?

After all, all I am
is a wordslinger.
I have not but myself
to offer,
and that's not much.

Don't you think I know it?

I aim with my eye,
I shoot with my hand,
I kill with my heart.
I remember the face of my father.

Reason.

Bulwark for the steadfast
in the darkest millisecond.

A blade to cut others to size,
when you'd wish to disembowel.

The way to find a smile
when all plots
to make you
scream your lungs out
and quake the whole earth
with a roar of pain.

Switch.

The language of rage,
of tears unseen,
of the phallacy,
mendacity
and theft.

My mother tongue,
after I cast my mother out,
as unworthy.

+1

And the issue remains, no matter which blog, where I go, always that +1 on almost all of my posts (bar 5 or 6 out of over 1200). Who's there? Do you enjoy?

I hope so, at least one of us does.

Unable from within my invisible walls, is all I can do.

Fyre.

Jealousy, insinuates its ugly thoughts. Why not? What is jealousy but to wish a situation to happen to you?

I expect it might have been a reason to worry that I did not voice it. Hell, why should a reasonable person expect others to mould to his will? I still don't.

Yet, the ghost of might have been is starting to cloud over might be. It's just a few words. WORDS!

I'd tear asunder the skies

and cast down mountains,

I'd drink oceans,

spit them into clouds,

flood the earth,

unleash the coals

that were safely stoked within,

and trample down

those who sinned against me.

To be a dragon,

and beat the leather against

my flanks;

become a scaly terror,

against which

a myriad silver bullets

would be a summer breeze.

To wake up a man,

just that.

No more.

No less.

Prose.

I essay the verse, but it's too full of things I do not quite like. I will just roll with it and see what happens...

Meanwhile, I'm going schizo in other platforms. The muse might (for some unfathomed reason) choose to hide. So be it, I'm just going to keep awaiting.

Hidy!!

It feels exhilarating to find myself in the  other language. I have neglected it for too long when it was also an important part of who I am.

Also, the utilitarian approach that I perforce must adopt in my daily routines is not sufficient. My most impious self was alive thanks to that special someone. It's there, but it needs a rest o a reignite. A rest will have to do then.

A reignite just seems as likely as Jimmy Hoffa strolling into your local for a pint, and matched libation by libation by Malcolm X.

Back!

The Sniper Lemur is back. Alone in the foxhole, aimingfor his next inconsequential target, iit's all so inane at times...

If I wasn't so disgusted by the man Bukowski was, I'd be tempted to model myself after him, but I simply can't.

• As a drinker, I grew bored of the game almost twenty years ago. My doctor insists I should drink more, but I have been known to be a very contrary person.
• As a misoginistic pig, I just haven't got it in me. Its one thing to hate (yes, hate!) those who purposefully set put to rip me to shreds. It's a different proposition to hate them all, when there are those three special someones I admire and love unconditionally. Two of them are my daughters. The third is neither their mother, nor mine. That will suffice.
• As a misanthrope, I don't quite fit the bill, either, I find myself connecting with others as easy as anything. Up to the point in which I ended up making the acquaintance of undesirables when I should have been more guarded.

I just got in common with him the passion for music (he was always ranting about Mahler) and a total lack of self-pity when the moment comes to criticize one's own self.

I also have an ego the size of a three-storey block ("I'm a fucking genius, baby, but don't nobody know it but me").

This might turn interesting...