The realisation that there is another week to wait before awaiting you by the platform fills me with dread.
I always manage to survive, but I must say I know not how.
To that, I must add all the other things that count.
Saturday, 31 May 2014
SHE
Nearing the end of my little wits, how to tell Her that she is She? How to...
I abase myself as I can, only to be able to say: "I'm there, count with me. For a coffee now. For a coffee in fifty years time, with or without other coffees in between."
I fear for her as I don't for myself. Love, lunacy, or plain "out to lunch"?
Partly, my reasons are selfish, I have the need to assuage those fears. But that is only a part...
The trap was very real, it seems she's still in it. Enough said.
I never offered to replace one cage for another. I saw myself as a stepping-stone.
I hope she understood that.
My dreams, for myself. For this blog almost nobody comes to see. A secret in plain sight.
The others, I could not care less.
I abase myself as I can, only to be able to say: "I'm there, count with me. For a coffee now. For a coffee in fifty years time, with or without other coffees in between."
I fear for her as I don't for myself. Love, lunacy, or plain "out to lunch"?
Partly, my reasons are selfish, I have the need to assuage those fears. But that is only a part...
The trap was very real, it seems she's still in it. Enough said.
I never offered to replace one cage for another. I saw myself as a stepping-stone.
I hope she understood that.
My dreams, for myself. For this blog almost nobody comes to see. A secret in plain sight.
The others, I could not care less.
Musth.
It's testosterone. Our curse and saving grace, what makes an elephant in musth charge blindly, or cause a lion to die defending his pride from... marauders.
Just another senseless note in a long series of them.
I'm not back in the game yet, I'm simply following impulses. It's been too long to think and behave like a reasonable person, and I paid the price.
I did not shave.
Just another senseless note in a long series of them.
I'm not back in the game yet, I'm simply following impulses. It's been too long to think and behave like a reasonable person, and I paid the price.
I did not shave.
Post-secretion.
Out of my system. Nothing like a good dump. You never were an idiot, and always had plenty of style. Just calling it as I see it.
I'm not exactly Mr. Nice Guy. I just try to be Mr. Nice Enough.
So much vitriol had to go someplace. Doubting that anything comes back, but hoping for a good laugh. I'm not averse at laughing at myself.
Of course, on my way to that platform, for another sterile wait.
Always hoping for the best and ready for the worst.
I'm not exactly Mr. Nice Guy. I just try to be Mr. Nice Enough.
So much vitriol had to go someplace. Doubting that anything comes back, but hoping for a good laugh. I'm not averse at laughing at myself.
Of course, on my way to that platform, for another sterile wait.
Always hoping for the best and ready for the worst.
Just that.
Why so angry, you'd wonder. There's an easy answer.
Giving opinions is easy, since oxygen is for free. I guess it helps to be able to confide in someone.
But when the chips are down, does anyone offer? Some do.
Most, all they have is a pseudo-witty quip.
The last crisis was for those whose mummy and daddy could bail out. You and I did not have that option, and had to leave.
And now, I see shit posted on how "depression's for the rich". You were right, peeps back there spend their lives looking at their own bellybuttons...
While they do stretching exercises to try a self-blowjob.
Giving opinions is easy, since oxygen is for free. I guess it helps to be able to confide in someone.
But when the chips are down, does anyone offer? Some do.
Most, all they have is a pseudo-witty quip.
The last crisis was for those whose mummy and daddy could bail out. You and I did not have that option, and had to leave.
And now, I see shit posted on how "depression's for the rich". You were right, peeps back there spend their lives looking at their own bellybuttons...
While they do stretching exercises to try a self-blowjob.
Whipping curs.
Another virtual piece of paper to toss into my wastebasket. Getting ready for an appointment with an empty platform. (Maybe not? I doubt it, but we're both alive, it is physically possible though extremely unlikely ).
Who knows whether I'll get amusing messages like last week, to pass the time of day...
I regret to see how dogs chose your doorstep to crap. Nothing to do with me. Dogs like those I have trimmed into shape already, they don't usually come back.
What hurts is to see how little that perception changes where I go. Male, a certain age, single, ergo... I live in the land of the non sequitur. Surely this paragraph will also be misconstrued.
One thing is to see barbs I can take, and another one is to expect me to take indiscriminate crap from anyone.
Just a moment. While I shave, I've got a few choir boys to attend to.
After all, it promises to be another boring wait...
Who knows whether I'll get amusing messages like last week, to pass the time of day...
I regret to see how dogs chose your doorstep to crap. Nothing to do with me. Dogs like those I have trimmed into shape already, they don't usually come back.
What hurts is to see how little that perception changes where I go. Male, a certain age, single, ergo... I live in the land of the non sequitur. Surely this paragraph will also be misconstrued.
One thing is to see barbs I can take, and another one is to expect me to take indiscriminate crap from anyone.
Just a moment. While I shave, I've got a few choir boys to attend to.
After all, it promises to be another boring wait...
Peculiar.
I could be called fussy, exacting or plain finicky.
Maybe.
The thing is, the heart (I know, the pump and all that) knows what it wants...
I do, too.
I know what (or much rather, who) I want. And what I don't.
Maybe.
The thing is, the heart (I know, the pump and all that) knows what it wants...
I do, too.
I know what (or much rather, who) I want. And what I don't.
Marauding
I decided to make use of the abundant human waste laying about to let off a little steam. And why the hell not? If I feel like it, I'll post in French from the Indian Ocean, or in British Sign Language...
If the French get upset at it, I'll just throw a little fruit outta my window. Revenge, or poetic justice?
All I have to say is that nothing, nothing is aimed at that person special to me.
If the French get upset at it, I'll just throw a little fruit outta my window. Revenge, or poetic justice?
All I have to say is that nothing, nothing is aimed at that person special to me.
Still here.
I suspected. The trap you were trying to escape. I can guess a hell of a lot more. Hell would be the word for it. A gilded cage for a bird born free.
I don't regret knowing because of what I feel, but because of the sadness I see in you.
I feel what I feel because... no.
I won't add to your pain. I'm fine, or close to it. I am still fighting on, tooth and claw.
I wished I could have one of those flashes that made you laugh, and bring some fresh air to the cell.
Give me time, and I'll manage that. There's plenty on your screen anyway.
Yes, I'm stupid. We concur.
How bitter not to be there... or you to be here. I'll still be waiting, of course. Saturdays, 7-9. Ask B., she can confirm.
99% of friends who want to help you want to shag you.
99% of those won't tell you until you're in a corner. Are they friends?
Another one for the Guinness's Book of Laughing Stocks, perhaps?
Another exception to the rule, and still counting...
I'm just sick of being an exception. There isn't anything exceptional about that.
And don't be surprised about the occasional appearance of my name on the screen (unless you tire). It's the only way I can say "I'm here for you", when words do not suffice.
It is now that the next +1 I will do makes any sense.
Call me when you want (or feel up to it), or are able at all...
I don't regret knowing because of what I feel, but because of the sadness I see in you.
I feel what I feel because... no.
I won't add to your pain. I'm fine, or close to it. I am still fighting on, tooth and claw.
I wished I could have one of those flashes that made you laugh, and bring some fresh air to the cell.
Give me time, and I'll manage that. There's plenty on your screen anyway.
Yes, I'm stupid. We concur.
How bitter not to be there... or you to be here. I'll still be waiting, of course. Saturdays, 7-9. Ask B., she can confirm.
99% of friends who want to help you want to shag you.
99% of those won't tell you until you're in a corner. Are they friends?
Another one for the Guinness's Book of Laughing Stocks, perhaps?
Another exception to the rule, and still counting...
I'm just sick of being an exception. There isn't anything exceptional about that.
And don't be surprised about the occasional appearance of my name on the screen (unless you tire). It's the only way I can say "I'm here for you", when words do not suffice.
It is now that the next +1 I will do makes any sense.
Call me when you want (or feel up to it), or are able at all...
En si b menor.
I miss myself.
Nobody can bring that one back, of course. Not even me.
He used to make me laugh when everyone around did not, tell me funny stories, select new books (and read them to me).
He used to play the guitar until my fingers were cut by the strings, and then play some more... screaming, too.
He used to do so many things, not so long ago. Repairing instruments, tinkering with wood, metal, circuits...
He run to you as soon as he caught a glimpse.
I don't blame him.
Or you.
It is what it is. He'll get tired of being laughed at, and will find his way home.
Eventually.
Nobody can bring that one back, of course. Not even me.
He used to make me laugh when everyone around did not, tell me funny stories, select new books (and read them to me).
He used to play the guitar until my fingers were cut by the strings, and then play some more... screaming, too.
He used to do so many things, not so long ago. Repairing instruments, tinkering with wood, metal, circuits...
He run to you as soon as he caught a glimpse.
I don't blame him.
Or you.
It is what it is. He'll get tired of being laughed at, and will find his way home.
Eventually.
Friday, 30 May 2014
What...
It's not literature, though there are letters involved.
It's not a letter, for there is no mailing address.
It's not a public address, I keep as away from the limelight as I can.
Well, I know what it is not. That's a beginning.
It's not a letter, for there is no mailing address.
It's not a public address, I keep as away from the limelight as I can.
Well, I know what it is not. That's a beginning.
Aunque suba el Pan...
I can't say I fear for me. I, who once joked about Superman, recognised myself as Peter Pan in his island.
Wendy left for London, left no forwarding address of a window I can enter.
And so, I only can wait, holding my island still in the raging seas.
Tomorrow, 7-9 pm. Or any other Saturday. Just any.
Wendy left for London, left no forwarding address of a window I can enter.
And so, I only can wait, holding my island still in the raging seas.
Tomorrow, 7-9 pm. Or any other Saturday. Just any.
Neighbours.
The dark side of the moon is where I live, there's no shortage of craters to call home. The roads are non-existent and the postcode is unknown.
A fly on the wall, I see the parents with children, the children with parents, the lovers in the throes of their consuming passion, and I celebrate them all.
I choose to be happy for the ones who are and the hell with it all.
And, meanwhile, I read my favourite cello player, the best of them all...
In our twin and separate craters, I watch the sadness bloom in equal wonder, awe and admiration. But there's no rose without thorns. I'd pay the price with blood, gladly.
Always.
A fly on the wall, I see the parents with children, the children with parents, the lovers in the throes of their consuming passion, and I celebrate them all.
I choose to be happy for the ones who are and the hell with it all.
And, meanwhile, I read my favourite cello player, the best of them all...
In our twin and separate craters, I watch the sadness bloom in equal wonder, awe and admiration. But there's no rose without thorns. I'd pay the price with blood, gladly.
Always.
Rough edges.
And that's the difference, I can't write for shit.
SK writes about monsters, I live with them, and they planned my life for me.
Wells wrote about being invisible and travelling to the future, of being the one-eyed man seen (yes, a pun) as a dangerous lunatic.
Kafka wrote bizarre scenarios that I was allocated.
Hank sought surcease in being a pig, that's how he'd write and I won't. I shan't be that and blame it on anyone else.
Edgar was just Edgar, but "nemo me impune laccesit" is not my cup of tea.
JRR showed me roads to everywhere as a strategy to survive.
Barker has the animal passion and the magic of laughing children.
Holland, Schama, Kee and Horne put meat on the dry bones of history.
Bécquer showed me how to feel proud of my weakness.
Clarín, that the hurts of my country did not change that much, and that a life does get spent loving at a distance.
Of Mario, I learned strategy and tactics. With as much result as for him. My spring also has a broken corner.
SK writes about monsters, I live with them, and they planned my life for me.
Wells wrote about being invisible and travelling to the future, of being the one-eyed man seen (yes, a pun) as a dangerous lunatic.
Kafka wrote bizarre scenarios that I was allocated.
Hank sought surcease in being a pig, that's how he'd write and I won't. I shan't be that and blame it on anyone else.
Edgar was just Edgar, but "nemo me impune laccesit" is not my cup of tea.
JRR showed me roads to everywhere as a strategy to survive.
Barker has the animal passion and the magic of laughing children.
Holland, Schama, Kee and Horne put meat on the dry bones of history.
Bécquer showed me how to feel proud of my weakness.
Clarín, that the hurts of my country did not change that much, and that a life does get spent loving at a distance.
Of Mario, I learned strategy and tactics. With as much result as for him. My spring also has a broken corner.
.-.-.
Free at last, if there is such a thing. Free to be an utter idiot, to myself.
Free to dream, whether it bothers anyone or not, to feel perplexed, free from the urge to enter an sterile exchange of insults or a bragging contest.
Free to worry about friends. That's my downfall.
Free to leave shit smears on the screen, not worth reading by anyone of note.
Free to dream, whether it bothers anyone or not, to feel perplexed, free from the urge to enter an sterile exchange of insults or a bragging contest.
Free to worry about friends. That's my downfall.
Free to leave shit smears on the screen, not worth reading by anyone of note.
Y-M
The jasmine on a stone wall in a country track on Sierra Morena.
The orange blossom coating the ground, protecting our nostrils from the horse dung left by the landlord.
Scent of your hair in me, makes me smile and weep.
So near and yet so far.
The orange blossom coating the ground, protecting our nostrils from the horse dung left by the landlord.
Scent of your hair in me, makes me smile and weep.
So near and yet so far.
Friday.
In this diary for the insane, another sad entry. One metaphor about disentery and another about poultry say a lot. A lot.
And, I wonder, what is it one did, or others say one did?
The ones who know me, know me.
I know what I did not do. I do not send nasty stuff, though I did get plenty. That much I know. I know that, instead of going here and there, I do stay here (mostly).
It does not have to make sense to anyone but one.
Am I crazier than a shithouse rat, or braver than the Lord Satan on a Saturday night? I think it's somewhere in the middle of that.
I'll stand, and wait.
And remain myself. You do know.
And, I wonder, what is it one did, or others say one did?
The ones who know me, know me.
I know what I did not do. I do not send nasty stuff, though I did get plenty. That much I know. I know that, instead of going here and there, I do stay here (mostly).
It does not have to make sense to anyone but one.
Am I crazier than a shithouse rat, or braver than the Lord Satan on a Saturday night? I think it's somewhere in the middle of that.
I'll stand, and wait.
And remain myself. You do know.
Check-in.
Busy day as usual. It's one of those times when I get told at work: "do you mind staying till 21:00?"
A rethorical question, of course. I'll stay till 9.
It's tomorrow that I wait for you without expecting. Every Saturday.
Or will it be another week of wait? Only one way to find out.
It's called: "finding out".
I won't adscribe anything to you... yet.
Did you think I didn't take a good look at your demons? I'll take them on, with your smiles and good graces. In any which way.
Neither you nor I needed rescuing, ever. You'd know after a double-take. Maybe that's what you fear. To see me stand.
Meanwhile, the altar boys will be busy, polishing the chalices, awaiting for the priest's prick. They don't know they got too old and stringy for kiddies' games. It's not for me to teach anyone their table manners.
I've got work to do. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
A rethorical question, of course. I'll stay till 9.
It's tomorrow that I wait for you without expecting. Every Saturday.
Or will it be another week of wait? Only one way to find out.
It's called: "finding out".
I won't adscribe anything to you... yet.
Did you think I didn't take a good look at your demons? I'll take them on, with your smiles and good graces. In any which way.
Neither you nor I needed rescuing, ever. You'd know after a double-take. Maybe that's what you fear. To see me stand.
Meanwhile, the altar boys will be busy, polishing the chalices, awaiting for the priest's prick. They don't know they got too old and stringy for kiddies' games. It's not for me to teach anyone their table manners.
I've got work to do. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
...
What does it all mean? Smokescreens to conceal, items on display that are a mirage, enmities of plastic, resentment and flavour-of-the-day hate.
In the end, how many gnats are needed to weaken a caribou? What's the price of tomatoes in Manila? Are there flowers in Mars?
Ironic that a man from Venus fell so hopelessly for a Martian, but I might have heard weirder.
But I expect peeps have an answer for everything. I don't.
In the end, how many gnats are needed to weaken a caribou? What's the price of tomatoes in Manila? Are there flowers in Mars?
Ironic that a man from Venus fell so hopelessly for a Martian, but I might have heard weirder.
But I expect peeps have an answer for everything. I don't.
-----------
Is it an act of love when a display of vitriol is so deep and well-aimed as to try to hit your core? I guess somebody very twisted might say that, but not me.
When I hate, I do with intensity. And I don't hate now. Then again, to learn the true meaning of hate...
I'll still be there, waiting. I'm a slave to my words. If there's a slap coming, I'll just take it.
Assuming the courage to turn up exists...
When I hate, I do with intensity. And I don't hate now. Then again, to learn the true meaning of hate...
I'll still be there, waiting. I'm a slave to my words. If there's a slap coming, I'll just take it.
Assuming the courage to turn up exists...
Personal Trends.
It's curious how much hate can be concentrated in a few lines. How much. Any example, anywhere online. I'm weary, very weary.
To be frank, I am tired.
Maybe the next one I meet will come with a greased-up chainsaw. With the luck I have, it seems likely.
At least it'd be quick.
To be frank, I am tired.
Maybe the next one I meet will come with a greased-up chainsaw. With the luck I have, it seems likely.
At least it'd be quick.
Thursday, 29 May 2014
1
Inaugurating that all-too-read category of reality-reports in my blog...
I went to the loo (called "toilet" outside Old Blighty), and I struggled to deliver something that did not sit well with me. I was the only one sitting whilst it stood proudly to attention at the bottom of the pan, awaiting my orders to block the sewage pipe.
The first step in my campaign for world domination had been accomplished. Onto bigger things.
I went to the loo (called "toilet" outside Old Blighty), and I struggled to deliver something that did not sit well with me. I was the only one sitting whilst it stood proudly to attention at the bottom of the pan, awaiting my orders to block the sewage pipe.
The first step in my campaign for world domination had been accomplished. Onto bigger things.
Roads to everywhere, as in JRR...
I'll take my worn boots out for the day. The nails in their soles insist on pricking me, leaving a jagged wound as a memento of every step I take...
Time to fly to faraway places and leave you all behind, but I'm afraid that all too often art (or what passes for it) copies life, or was it the other way around?
If I hear the word "blame" being bandied about once more, I'll loose the little stash of sanity I preciously keep for my everyday. I'll take the whole fiction of blame, and choke it down my throat if it please the one I really care about.
The only reality I can abide is a call that won't (or can't) come.
Time to fly to faraway places and leave you all behind, but I'm afraid that all too often art (or what passes for it) copies life, or was it the other way around?
If I hear the word "blame" being bandied about once more, I'll loose the little stash of sanity I preciously keep for my everyday. I'll take the whole fiction of blame, and choke it down my throat if it please the one I really care about.
The only reality I can abide is a call that won't (or can't) come.
Flight.
The head turns to this, that and the other, attempting to reach the speed of blight. Striving to overtake the blues.
Animal I am, at times. Carnivore tearing and rending whilst being bitten and clawed in return in a mortal combat of our inner beasts. In the end, just the vegetarian snow leopard, awaiting in his crag for the return of a long-lost friend.
And, beneath the calm exterior, the calm cannibal who found solace in a death angel like Clarice Starling. And she in him.
But that is just an all-too-common story of cannibal love.
Animal I am, at times. Carnivore tearing and rending whilst being bitten and clawed in return in a mortal combat of our inner beasts. In the end, just the vegetarian snow leopard, awaiting in his crag for the return of a long-lost friend.
And, beneath the calm exterior, the calm cannibal who found solace in a death angel like Clarice Starling. And she in him.
But that is just an all-too-common story of cannibal love.
Windows onto the street.
This is just a diary of absences. Cruel ones. It's an open window into an arid landscape, a window which is not advertised, but can only be found if you seek me.
A dry and dusty room where old photographs sit on the mantel to be revered, where a man lets his ghosts prowl.
It is an open window. One through which you may enter. Or leave. I leave that to your judgement, my dearest reader.
A dry and dusty room where old photographs sit on the mantel to be revered, where a man lets his ghosts prowl.
It is an open window. One through which you may enter. Or leave. I leave that to your judgement, my dearest reader.
Gadgets.
All quite easy, since the invention of DM. Techonology as a means of empowerment. On the virtual space, the heavyweight is you. Nobody owes anyone anything, sure.
But it takes guts to come out as yourself, proposing. Shooting others down is a different thing, not without appeal when upset.
A voice signature, is all.
The nastiness won't be mine. I'll be sad, but clear in my mind.
But it takes guts to come out as yourself, proposing. Shooting others down is a different thing, not without appeal when upset.
A voice signature, is all.
The nastiness won't be mine. I'll be sad, but clear in my mind.
Disenteric amoeba?
How you love to cut, then I hear sadness at the resulting loss, which turns in a reinvention...
Which turns into more cuts.
You might fear reincarnation. I only fear a lifetime of finding the same person's profile.
Who knows, I might manage to tear you out of me, someday...
Someday.
Meanwhile, enjoy the slashing.
Which turns into more cuts.
You might fear reincarnation. I only fear a lifetime of finding the same person's profile.
Who knows, I might manage to tear you out of me, someday...
Someday.
Meanwhile, enjoy the slashing.
Keeps popping up.
I read about forgiveness again this morning. It seems a recurrent theme.
I'm nobody to grant it, I might have touched upon that many a time. All the same, when someone I know asks for it, I listen, because it does seem important at the time and (in most of what I've seen) guilt imagined is much worse by far that that which is real harm done.
Guilt, as measured by the outcome. Is there any other? Maybe The guilt of thinking we caused a situation, of which we are the sufferers? Girls who blame the flak they catch on the length of their skirts (or their fit) come to mind.
On the other hand, I'm sick of hearing: "god (or karma) will punish him for his sins". Even worse: "god (or myself) has forgiven me. Really?
I try to make amends over what I do, or think I did. I (more important) try to live in a way that will minimise the need for that. Each to his or her own. So far, I can not think of anyone with that type of debt towards me. It's not sarcasm.
It wasn't so long ago I was able to articulate, but my concentration is deserting me of late. Soon I'd forget Spanish again. I would if I could, but things are not as simple.
I get lost upon such a broad issue, my head has been spinning for some time. Anyone stumbling upon this piece of crap will tell you right away.
To make things worse, cutbacks in the Cameron government means I'm only entitled to a couple of cops and a doc. That's what I call a downgrade.
Well, I just got to keep smiling. That much I can do.
I'm nobody to grant it, I might have touched upon that many a time. All the same, when someone I know asks for it, I listen, because it does seem important at the time and (in most of what I've seen) guilt imagined is much worse by far that that which is real harm done.
Guilt, as measured by the outcome. Is there any other? Maybe The guilt of thinking we caused a situation, of which we are the sufferers? Girls who blame the flak they catch on the length of their skirts (or their fit) come to mind.
On the other hand, I'm sick of hearing: "god (or karma) will punish him for his sins". Even worse: "god (or myself) has forgiven me. Really?
I try to make amends over what I do, or think I did. I (more important) try to live in a way that will minimise the need for that. Each to his or her own. So far, I can not think of anyone with that type of debt towards me. It's not sarcasm.
It wasn't so long ago I was able to articulate, but my concentration is deserting me of late. Soon I'd forget Spanish again. I would if I could, but things are not as simple.
I get lost upon such a broad issue, my head has been spinning for some time. Anyone stumbling upon this piece of crap will tell you right away.
To make things worse, cutbacks in the Cameron government means I'm only entitled to a couple of cops and a doc. That's what I call a downgrade.
Well, I just got to keep smiling. That much I can do.
As I said...
The only forgiveness I'm inclined to discuss is the one I ask from you.
Would you forgive me enough to tell me what I did wrong?
Life has the bad habit of ignoring my inclinations.
I don't see anything on your side, and it's all, ALL forgiven. It was already, long ago.
I'll listen, not because I ask you. I'll listen to what you feel you need to say.
Would you forgive me enough to tell me what I did wrong?
Life has the bad habit of ignoring my inclinations.
I don't see anything on your side, and it's all, ALL forgiven. It was already, long ago.
I'll listen, not because I ask you. I'll listen to what you feel you need to say.
Rise and shine, sunshine.
Waking up so oblique,
tangled in my obtuse angles,
but acute when I have to be.
tangled in my obtuse angles,
but acute when I have to be.
Good night.
I must sleep, my love, wherever you be. Have your own dreams and know that they make someone happy (not that you need that).
For the first time (I think), I said harsh words I won't be the one to erase them. Let them stay. As a reminder to myself, for shame.
Every day I learn a new meaning to the words "I love you".
Yes.
You.
For the first time (I think), I said harsh words I won't be the one to erase them. Let them stay. As a reminder to myself, for shame.
Every day I learn a new meaning to the words "I love you".
Yes.
You.
Phoenix.
Sometimes I hate who I became, what the broken bricks of my ruins, reformed, may turn out to be.
New sharp corners, but also a renewed zest for life (yes, even at my lowest). That comes at a price sometimes. Remember my saying on the practical compromise?
My strengths are my weaknesses, in moderation.
I am my very best and worst argument when pleading my case.
I (like anyone) hate to be called a liar. As always: "Evidence, please?"
I hate so many things this days. And you know my own meaning of the word.
I'm Jack's daily rebirth.
New sharp corners, but also a renewed zest for life (yes, even at my lowest). That comes at a price sometimes. Remember my saying on the practical compromise?
My strengths are my weaknesses, in moderation.
I am my very best and worst argument when pleading my case.
I (like anyone) hate to be called a liar. As always: "Evidence, please?"
I hate so many things this days. And you know my own meaning of the word.
I'm Jack's daily rebirth.
Will never go.
Not messing,
the automated inbox
of that unknown email
is the stuff of dreams
and nightmares.
Don't let go,
hold me,
let me hold you.
the automated inbox
of that unknown email
is the stuff of dreams
and nightmares.
Don't let go,
hold me,
let me hold you.
In itself.
The sound of a chord kissing the cortex does not need to be justified,
or explained.
Why do we need so many reasons?
"Why not?" You'd say?
or explained.
Why do we need so many reasons?
"Why not?" You'd say?
Rompiendo rupturas.
Uno a uno,
mis botones caen,
en homenaje,
la línea se desdibuja,
abrazada en espirales.
mis botones caen,
en homenaje,
la línea se desdibuja,
abrazada en espirales.
¿Borrón, plz?
Borrar la lágrima
y su calcáreo resto
en una lluvia de versos
de ala ancha,
de golondrinas en tu sexo
que vuelen con la sugestión.
y su calcáreo resto
en una lluvia de versos
de ala ancha,
de golondrinas en tu sexo
que vuelen con la sugestión.
Self-fulfillled vs. make your own story.
Tell yourself
often enough:
"Three years"
And you'll make it happen.
Not a promise, a fact,
solid,
hard
fact,
right here.
often enough:
"Three years"
And you'll make it happen.
Not a promise, a fact,
solid,
hard
fact,
right here.
Who said that?
Who said a house
gutted by fire,
flood,
earthquake
and thieves,
rebuilt,
cannot be lived in?
gutted by fire,
flood,
earthquake
and thieves,
rebuilt,
cannot be lived in?
Seconds this time?
To hear you screaming
the slow petit morte
sibilant through
your clamped teeth
on my rendered flesh.
the slow petit morte
sibilant through
your clamped teeth
on my rendered flesh.
Beginnings of tantric fusion?
A verse chases a painting, preceded by a song, preceded by a hip hop, preceded by a word from you, preceded by a an icon (small only in its looks).
Accomplice.
Of all,
you only know how
"The sniper" started.
Only you
know so much.
And yet you fear.
you only know how
"The sniper" started.
Only you
know so much.
And yet you fear.
Delicious secret.
In my vault, secreted away,
you're the smile I give
I give to trees
when I walk alone.
You're the words whispered
the twinkle in the eye.
you're the smile I give
I give to trees
when I walk alone.
You're the words whispered
the twinkle in the eye.
Cannibal communion.
Sick of sickness,
allow me to lick the salt of your tears,
to season your flesh,
feasting till the crow screams,
"NOMMORE"
allow me to lick the salt of your tears,
to season your flesh,
feasting till the crow screams,
"NOMMORE"
Preceding the pounce.
Just for your ears,
(ssssssslowly)
the roaring rumble rising
the slight growl
of the snow leopard.
(ssssssslowly)
the roaring rumble rising
the slight growl
of the snow leopard.
Sleep, sweet love.
Like any of those summers
whence I sang you a lullaby,
a million kisses.
You put them
where you would like,
and one for the tip of your nose.
whence I sang you a lullaby,
a million kisses.
You put them
where you would like,
and one for the tip of your nose.
Secret locks.
In the quiet noise of my mind,
the answer to a thousand secret questions.
Your key,
Mine.
My asking them
tells you my name.
the answer to a thousand secret questions.
Your key,
Mine.
My asking them
tells you my name.
Axe.
And, like the rare gem you are,
I cherish your facets,
though their angles cut
and your glare blind me.
I cherish your facets,
though their angles cut
and your glare blind me.
:-|
I have made jokes in a wake, and I'll do it again.
I've painted a face on a toast and walked over a dead sea, attempting to draw a smile on that loved face, which I thought sad in the distance.
Raising the dead without any respect for their mortal remains, an army of the undead marched at times. Only at times.
Some others, the gap that you leave inside my embrace is too large for anything to pass.
The absurd brevity of an æternal minute weighs on my limbs, as I attempt to swim towards you.
The current keeps pushing me away. The phone falls from my hand once more, but my body refuses to sleep without yours.
And another blank night approaches, that I'd use. And I can't.
I've painted a face on a toast and walked over a dead sea, attempting to draw a smile on that loved face, which I thought sad in the distance.
Raising the dead without any respect for their mortal remains, an army of the undead marched at times. Only at times.
Some others, the gap that you leave inside my embrace is too large for anything to pass.
The absurd brevity of an æternal minute weighs on my limbs, as I attempt to swim towards you.
The current keeps pushing me away. The phone falls from my hand once more, but my body refuses to sleep without yours.
And another blank night approaches, that I'd use. And I can't.
Wednesday, 28 May 2014
Managing.
You, as you are. No more and no less.
Managed feelings?
How?
I must be an ignorant,
I was always sure of that.
How does anyone manage what they feel and, at the same time, be an inconformist?
How does anyone manage not to feel rage in the face of oppression?
How does anyone manage not to feel forlorn?
How does one manage the feeling towards one's own children?
I learnt to paint a smile on my face before a dead man's laughter, and to swallow tears. You know who.
I learnt to paint that smile on for any child who looks up to me, even if I'm broken. They won't be a part of it. Again, you know who.
I learnt to paint that smile on for the dying, the wounded, the efficient and the heartless.
I learnt to say: "yes" and: "no", even if they ran deep against the grain of myself. With that same smile.
I won't fake that smile here.
I can't feel what I want myself to. I can't ignore what I feel.
I suspect that saying otherwise is an exercise in self-deception.
I manage my responses. I manage my words, my actions. My feelings, like my pulse or respiratory rate, are something that happens even when I'm asleep.
Here's an incongruence for you: I have the dreams to prove it.
It's not your problem, I know. Then again, I did not force you to read this. There's always a choice for you, even when I'm physically there.
Saturday, 7-9. If you can manage, will you show me how it's done?
I leave my last actions "on" on the other side. You decide what to do with those.
Managed feelings?
How?
I must be an ignorant,
I was always sure of that.
How does anyone manage what they feel and, at the same time, be an inconformist?
How does anyone manage not to feel rage in the face of oppression?
How does anyone manage not to feel forlorn?
How does one manage the feeling towards one's own children?
I learnt to paint a smile on my face before a dead man's laughter, and to swallow tears. You know who.
I learnt to paint that smile on for any child who looks up to me, even if I'm broken. They won't be a part of it. Again, you know who.
I learnt to paint that smile on for the dying, the wounded, the efficient and the heartless.
I learnt to say: "yes" and: "no", even if they ran deep against the grain of myself. With that same smile.
I won't fake that smile here.
I can't feel what I want myself to. I can't ignore what I feel.
I suspect that saying otherwise is an exercise in self-deception.
I manage my responses. I manage my words, my actions. My feelings, like my pulse or respiratory rate, are something that happens even when I'm asleep.
Here's an incongruence for you: I have the dreams to prove it.
It's not your problem, I know. Then again, I did not force you to read this. There's always a choice for you, even when I'm physically there.
Saturday, 7-9. If you can manage, will you show me how it's done?
I leave my last actions "on" on the other side. You decide what to do with those.
qwsaert
DM, o lo que sea. Ya dijiste que mi guasa es una guasa.
Imagino que es aburrido, pero qué se le va a hacer...
Imagino que es aburrido, pero qué se le va a hacer...
bemol.
New entry on this log of the idiotic, the irrational and other herbs. This might not make sense to anyone. It doesn't have to.
Three together that I knew already. Yes. Of course I did. Since 24h ago. Being all tender and heartless, you're the one messing with my head.
There are no B accounts on my side. None. I'm not in the "follow" game.
Reading is not adding characters. Enough.It'll break me, but it'll be worth the laughs...
Playing coy doesn't become you.
Three together that I knew already. Yes. Of course I did. Since 24h ago. Being all tender and heartless, you're the one messing with my head.
There are no B accounts on my side. None. I'm not in the "follow" game.
Reading is not adding characters. Enough.It'll break me, but it'll be worth the laughs...
Playing coy doesn't become you.
#
You'll be glad. You made your point. Loud, clear, etc.
You'll also mock this, of course. I'll be happy to oblige, if it brings one last smile to your lips.
I'm done. I'm not, but... well, that's what you'd advice a female friend. To accept only to be treated with respect.
Now, go preach about this, that and the other...
I said I would wait for that train. I'll do that, once. As I said, 7-9.
For me, not for you.
Because I know you won't come, but I won't be left with doubts on this.
By next week or next month at the latest, the joke will be about something else...
I sincerely hope you always have a reason to laugh. I am too tired for sarcasm.
You'll also mock this, of course. I'll be happy to oblige, if it brings one last smile to your lips.
I'm done. I'm not, but... well, that's what you'd advice a female friend. To accept only to be treated with respect.
Now, go preach about this, that and the other...
I said I would wait for that train. I'll do that, once. As I said, 7-9.
For me, not for you.
Because I know you won't come, but I won't be left with doubts on this.
By next week or next month at the latest, the joke will be about something else...
I sincerely hope you always have a reason to laugh. I am too tired for sarcasm.
Piqued curiosity.
Just a personal memo to myself. Being in love lasts three years, I read someplace. I find it difficult to believe assertions on neurology and love. Not so long ago, homosexuality was seen as a disorder. Even now, there are people who claim it can be "cured".
I'm not an authority, but I find it impossible to believe that:
a) Single-blind (not even double-blind) conditions can be met. The subjects know what is studied, as much as the researchers, since the only way to gauge the outcome is to ask a question: "are you still in love with...?"
b) The possibility of interference with the sample seems very real to me. Is a couple kissing in an artificial setup going to respond in the same way as they would, left to their own devices?
c) Are the samples taken representative by age bracket, prior experiences, social background/status, educational level, etc?
d) Is a three-year cut-off a result that can be duplicated?
e) I am not aware of these, because I did not look. However, what are the researchers' positions prior to the study, is there a prior bias?
f) Even accepting a three-year cut-off for being in love, as an average, that would be just an average. Maybe some subjects would stop being in love at six months, maybe some would last a lot longer.
g) The measurements of outcome is not objectively measurable. People can and do lie about being in love (or not being in love) on a daily basis, for reasons of their own.
Shit, I always end up with more questions than answers. Time to do some reading, and check the peer review.
And, maybe, get some answers. Meanwhile, it does look like another case of determinism.
I'm not an authority, but I find it impossible to believe that:
a) Single-blind (not even double-blind) conditions can be met. The subjects know what is studied, as much as the researchers, since the only way to gauge the outcome is to ask a question: "are you still in love with...?"
b) The possibility of interference with the sample seems very real to me. Is a couple kissing in an artificial setup going to respond in the same way as they would, left to their own devices?
c) Are the samples taken representative by age bracket, prior experiences, social background/status, educational level, etc?
d) Is a three-year cut-off a result that can be duplicated?
e) I am not aware of these, because I did not look. However, what are the researchers' positions prior to the study, is there a prior bias?
f) Even accepting a three-year cut-off for being in love, as an average, that would be just an average. Maybe some subjects would stop being in love at six months, maybe some would last a lot longer.
g) The measurements of outcome is not objectively measurable. People can and do lie about being in love (or not being in love) on a daily basis, for reasons of their own.
Shit, I always end up with more questions than answers. Time to do some reading, and check the peer review.
And, maybe, get some answers. Meanwhile, it does look like another case of determinism.
Sighing at the ether.
I stay. I'm here to stay, even if I can't write the reasons for my distance, one thing I do not do is to lie.
It's your sadness that draws me. I cannot but wish I had the power to make it all go away. You DO know that.
My eyes do not lie. If anyone insists, then I dare the evidence. The only one I lie to (sometimes) is myself, to go on.
No harsh word coming from simply expressing your pain will drive me away. A "No" from your lips (phone or face to face) will achieve that.
Instantly.
Meanwhile, I wait. Always, as I did tell you face to face. Remember?
And I'm still here. You call it, as we both know. Bring a friend if you're worried.
Meanwhile, the net is full of hoaxes, like the false picture (purportedly from Uganda). Need I remind you you all fell for that one? I'll keep searching for all kinds of answers to all kinds of questions. I'll seek shelter in reason against this madness where we can't keep away from one another and cannot find a way to meet.
Saturdays, 7-9 pm, H. Wycombe.
It's your sadness that draws me. I cannot but wish I had the power to make it all go away. You DO know that.
My eyes do not lie. If anyone insists, then I dare the evidence. The only one I lie to (sometimes) is myself, to go on.
No harsh word coming from simply expressing your pain will drive me away. A "No" from your lips (phone or face to face) will achieve that.
Instantly.
Meanwhile, I wait. Always, as I did tell you face to face. Remember?
And I'm still here. You call it, as we both know. Bring a friend if you're worried.
Meanwhile, the net is full of hoaxes, like the false picture (purportedly from Uganda). Need I remind you you all fell for that one? I'll keep searching for all kinds of answers to all kinds of questions. I'll seek shelter in reason against this madness where we can't keep away from one another and cannot find a way to meet.
Saturdays, 7-9 pm, H. Wycombe.
...
Only one reason I keep that channel open. Of course, once we go past a certain point, we have to keep face in front of the others...
Being hurt, causing pain, the old cycle. Words for the public which could easily have been said...
And your biggest mistake, to judge me as were the ones you knew when you grew up. That's not me, it's what it is.
It is comforting to see people around you, I never doubted you could easily make friends.
You said changing hearts for brains. You know they're one and the same.
And, come Saturday, I'm there. In case you think it worth it to slap my face. I won't miss a single day out there. In that rain we both know so well.
I read as much as you do. Why not ending this charade?
Being hurt, causing pain, the old cycle. Words for the public which could easily have been said...
And your biggest mistake, to judge me as were the ones you knew when you grew up. That's not me, it's what it is.
It is comforting to see people around you, I never doubted you could easily make friends.
You said changing hearts for brains. You know they're one and the same.
And, come Saturday, I'm there. In case you think it worth it to slap my face. I won't miss a single day out there. In that rain we both know so well.
I read as much as you do. Why not ending this charade?
Oh, dear, just more mishaps.
Well, I'd very much love to DM with any member of the public. I am not bothered. What do I have to answer for, anyway?
Just ask, with your name, I'll answer. To you, I'll answer.
When it comes to people who think they're clever, they are ready to join my army of the "blocked". Without batting an eyelid.
Meanwhile, I have work to do. I wish you all a good day, without sarcasm.
Just ask, with your name, I'll answer. To you, I'll answer.
When it comes to people who think they're clever, they are ready to join my army of the "blocked". Without batting an eyelid.
Meanwhile, I have work to do. I wish you all a good day, without sarcasm.
Editorial note.
I erased a number of entries, I hate the mere possibility that I might hurt anyone. Least of all, you. If you think that, you didn't get anything.
I read something this morning which I won't reproduce. Reactions towards bereavement. Anger was mentioned. With you, it was never on the table. Or do you think I made it this far without learning a thing or two?
Dear readers (there's at least two with a +1 on each entry).
As I said, I do not set out to hurt anyone. I never harmed anything other than the rats in my old neighbourhood in Seville.
This blog, as well as the rest of my digital footprint, is not advertised anywhere. I do not tend to advertise across the platforms. You're here because you stumbled upon me, or you sought me out.
I even use a different language to which I was born.
My dominant feeling is not anger, but perplexity. To a number of other losses came that of somebody dearest to me (that is you). The hardest thing is to see her like me: a stranger in a strange land, alone. I do not know what happened to her. That is what hurts the most.
If you read things under a different light, I'm afraid there is nothing I can do. I wished there was anything, anything I could do.
Dear reader, if what I write in this blog does offend you in any way, shape or form, you can certainly stop visiting my lounge. That's what I do when other places cause me discomfort.
It is that simple.
To that special someone, I would say that I continue to wait at that railway station, in what is now my home, HW. Saturdays, from 7 to 9 pm.
It is for a simple reason, I was to her the shoulder of a friend, and I'll be that at a second's notice, leaving aside all the fantasies I might or might not indulge in.
Why I sought her, I'd only explain to her, for it's nobody business.
I do wish you all as nice a day as possible.
I read something this morning which I won't reproduce. Reactions towards bereavement. Anger was mentioned. With you, it was never on the table. Or do you think I made it this far without learning a thing or two?
Dear readers (there's at least two with a +1 on each entry).
As I said, I do not set out to hurt anyone. I never harmed anything other than the rats in my old neighbourhood in Seville.
This blog, as well as the rest of my digital footprint, is not advertised anywhere. I do not tend to advertise across the platforms. You're here because you stumbled upon me, or you sought me out.
I even use a different language to which I was born.
My dominant feeling is not anger, but perplexity. To a number of other losses came that of somebody dearest to me (that is you). The hardest thing is to see her like me: a stranger in a strange land, alone. I do not know what happened to her. That is what hurts the most.
If you read things under a different light, I'm afraid there is nothing I can do. I wished there was anything, anything I could do.
Dear reader, if what I write in this blog does offend you in any way, shape or form, you can certainly stop visiting my lounge. That's what I do when other places cause me discomfort.
It is that simple.
To that special someone, I would say that I continue to wait at that railway station, in what is now my home, HW. Saturdays, from 7 to 9 pm.
It is for a simple reason, I was to her the shoulder of a friend, and I'll be that at a second's notice, leaving aside all the fantasies I might or might not indulge in.
Why I sought her, I'd only explain to her, for it's nobody business.
I do wish you all as nice a day as possible.
I want it all.
I want to be the one that wakes cold in the night when you pull the covers.
I want to be the one pulling the duvet over your neck at night, so you'll sleep comfy.
I want to be the one bearing your bad moods, and be the boost for when you get the blues on the phone from Spain.
I want to be the one to bring you an ibuprofen and a hot chocolate when your ovaries go on the offensive.
You still did not realise that a man who has seen two births does not idealise anymore.
I want to be the one pulling the duvet over your neck at night, so you'll sleep comfy.
I want to be the one bearing your bad moods, and be the boost for when you get the blues on the phone from Spain.
I want to be the one to bring you an ibuprofen and a hot chocolate when your ovaries go on the offensive.
You still did not realise that a man who has seen two births does not idealise anymore.
Doors...
What do you fear? You also told me once, a friend of yours tended to get hung up, and feared.
I fear, too. I fear I won't measure up to that guy you have in mind. But I won't stop casting my petty spells.
Open a door long enough for me to know it and take it.
I fear, too. I fear I won't measure up to that guy you have in mind. But I won't stop casting my petty spells.
Open a door long enough for me to know it and take it.
Yes, still lost.
Did you think I stopped searching? If only you opened one of your doors...
If only you came and we could talk, my beloved Karenina...
Did you think I would not get the reference?
Do you fear competing with your image? Come, find out.
I'm sick of the image. I hurt for the you that you bring.
For you, and just you I pine.
The you I always wanted. The child in the woman I met.
Stop being a prisoner of those fears already.
Please, everything but that.
If only you came and we could talk, my beloved Karenina...
Did you think I would not get the reference?
Do you fear competing with your image? Come, find out.
I'm sick of the image. I hurt for the you that you bring.
For you, and just you I pine.
The you I always wanted. The child in the woman I met.
Stop being a prisoner of those fears already.
Please, everything but that.
Lycannthropes.
Morphing under the midday moon, my she-wolf hides in plain sight, attempting to separate facets of her, hoping to outrun the pain. If only it worked, take it from a schizo poet...
Each chrysalis gives birth to fifty sad butterflies that break souls in their beauteous descent. True to her nature, she gives away her light to the blind, and keeps none for herself.
What I'd give to have your head on my chest this very moment, to be your comfort when you tire of putting on the brave mask and breastplate...
I'd give mi all.
I'd give my life to her, who is my life.
Each chrysalis gives birth to fifty sad butterflies that break souls in their beauteous descent. True to her nature, she gives away her light to the blind, and keeps none for herself.
What I'd give to have your head on my chest this very moment, to be your comfort when you tire of putting on the brave mask and breastplate...
I'd give mi all.
I'd give my life to her, who is my life.
What does it all mean (at least to me)?
Daily quotes for all tastes. From the illustrative to the combative, through melancholy, rage, love... The quote market caters for every single taste and opinion, event and stance on any given issue.
And we look oh-so-smart when we find a short sentence assigned to a terribly clever personality:
...giving his or her opinion outside his field...
...or with an incomplete quote...
...or badly translated...
...or wrongly assigned...
By and large, we tend to forget that many of these might be true... for he or she who said it at the time, and not as absolute truth. It's like a CRT with an small or non-representative sample.
But, if peeps are willing to believe anything they see in a pic... Well, it's a case of analysing one by one, and I just don't have the energy.
I do what I can.
And we look oh-so-smart when we find a short sentence assigned to a terribly clever personality:
...giving his or her opinion outside his field...
...or with an incomplete quote...
...or badly translated...
...or wrongly assigned...
By and large, we tend to forget that many of these might be true... for he or she who said it at the time, and not as absolute truth. It's like a CRT with an small or non-representative sample.
But, if peeps are willing to believe anything they see in a pic... Well, it's a case of analysing one by one, and I just don't have the energy.
I do what I can.
Ineffectual.
And I try to evict you with reason, with research, with debates in which to vent my frustration, playing with Photoshop, transcribing music, playing it. Spreading ideas, creating conscience.
This old trotskyite needs not convince anyone of his convictions. They keep him afloat when the child is forlorn.
Pass the torch that will set this world ablaze someday.
Someday (sighs)...
And my mind returns to the Spufford on the post-Stalin world, when we had a brief glimmer of hope. When there were practical dreamers and I would have been red within the red.
My mind wanders to our discussions, on my fears that I voiced to you. On the hopes that you gave me.
And there you are, again...
As Benedetti would say, "Soy un caso perdido".
Impartiallity is the trap.
This old trotskyite needs not convince anyone of his convictions. They keep him afloat when the child is forlorn.
Pass the torch that will set this world ablaze someday.
Someday (sighs)...
And my mind returns to the Spufford on the post-Stalin world, when we had a brief glimmer of hope. When there were practical dreamers and I would have been red within the red.
My mind wanders to our discussions, on my fears that I voiced to you. On the hopes that you gave me.
And there you are, again...
As Benedetti would say, "Soy un caso perdido".
Impartiallity is the trap.
Tuesday, 27 May 2014
Boundless.
Does this guy ever stop? Yes he does on the screen.
It might be just words to anyone. It's (as far as I can see) expression. My own graffiti screaming "I am in love with you so deep it hurts".
I cannot say "forever". Not even our universe can. I do certainly know that it's "as long as there's breath in me, I'll exhale your name, L"
Beyond that, betrayal. I won't do that.
It might be just words to anyone. It's (as far as I can see) expression. My own graffiti screaming "I am in love with you so deep it hurts".
I cannot say "forever". Not even our universe can. I do certainly know that it's "as long as there's breath in me, I'll exhale your name, L"
Beyond that, betrayal. I won't do that.
Words only?
I never really stop, you know.
It's not just words.
It's the times of day and night that they come out.
It's the remembrance of every little thing that means I recognise you amid thousands of pictures (even under a pseudonym).
It's the ability to stop commenting on your platforms to give you the space and respect you deserve. Specially when the ache runs so deep and tears burn my skin and melt the screen into a fuzzy thing.
It's the typographic error and a shattered screen. It's to have you present in my day and night dreams. To stop only when exhaustion overwhelms me.
It's jumping into a train to the Treehouse at the smallest inkling.
It's waiting for you every Saturday at High Wycombe railway station, from 7-9 pm.
It's not just words.
It's the times of day and night that they come out.
It's the remembrance of every little thing that means I recognise you amid thousands of pictures (even under a pseudonym).
It's the ability to stop commenting on your platforms to give you the space and respect you deserve. Specially when the ache runs so deep and tears burn my skin and melt the screen into a fuzzy thing.
It's the typographic error and a shattered screen. It's to have you present in my day and night dreams. To stop only when exhaustion overwhelms me.
It's jumping into a train to the Treehouse at the smallest inkling.
It's waiting for you every Saturday at High Wycombe railway station, from 7-9 pm.
Falcon speeding on the stoop.
I get carried away in my imaginings, there's no end in sight when I hold your hand.
It's a hand of smoke, I'm not that deluded. It's the tangible presence of your absence, the deep gash in me that will not improve or worsen by that coffee (or that night, if I be so bold).
The space in me that seeks you.
The desire to gallop across the plains of your insight, always with a new landscape.
The sheer delight of your laughter, life beaming at itself.
The boundless appetite to commune with you, to partake of all.
Alas...
It's a hand of smoke, I'm not that deluded. It's the tangible presence of your absence, the deep gash in me that will not improve or worsen by that coffee (or that night, if I be so bold).
The space in me that seeks you.
The desire to gallop across the plains of your insight, always with a new landscape.
The sheer delight of your laughter, life beaming at itself.
The boundless appetite to commune with you, to partake of all.
Alas...
Talk about the devil...
Just a small gust will light my flames from embers well hidden deep within
From that depth that made me a man 200.000 years ago, that made our ancestors crawl out of the water, burrow underground and climb a tree.
From there it is that I burn to breathe you and to have your claws dig deep parallel furrows across my shoulderblades, to have your fangs sinking in my neck while I furiously give myself to you.
A fire that needs to be quenched by having your lotus calmly floating upon my surface, gently swayed by the breeze.
A fire with rainbow smoke that will choke both of us as we breathe one another.
A fire that will meld our separate insomnia into a welded sleep.
From that depth that made me a man 200.000 years ago, that made our ancestors crawl out of the water, burrow underground and climb a tree.
From there it is that I burn to breathe you and to have your claws dig deep parallel furrows across my shoulderblades, to have your fangs sinking in my neck while I furiously give myself to you.
A fire that needs to be quenched by having your lotus calmly floating upon my surface, gently swayed by the breeze.
A fire with rainbow smoke that will choke both of us as we breathe one another.
A fire that will meld our separate insomnia into a welded sleep.
Fear of fire.
Or is it the foolish dreams of an insomniac that you fear? Do you fear feeding flames that will rage and rack somebody?
For all your stances, I've heard you voice fears like those, and I hope you forgive this small betrayal on my part, but...
But nothing that you do could make a man loose control if he genuinely is a man with self-control. True, he'd suffer in the process, though.
My letters (just like anyone's) paint my dreams. Vivid dreams of you and I intertwined, and I won't go further for now. Just the thought...
You won't be fanning any flames that aren't there. You won't make them gone, either.
You won't make them burn you...
Unless you ask (explicitly), and only then.
For all your stances, I've heard you voice fears like those, and I hope you forgive this small betrayal on my part, but...
But nothing that you do could make a man loose control if he genuinely is a man with self-control. True, he'd suffer in the process, though.
My letters (just like anyone's) paint my dreams. Vivid dreams of you and I intertwined, and I won't go further for now. Just the thought...
You won't be fanning any flames that aren't there. You won't make them gone, either.
You won't make them burn you...
Unless you ask (explicitly), and only then.
Facing the music.
I don't set out to be well-liked. If I learned a thing, it is that it just doesn't pan out. You know how blunt I can be, and how oblivious I am when making a point.
To all but you (yes, darn it! You!)
I always cared more for calling it as I see it, and for my freedom to do so.
There are a lot of places where peeps could reach me if they had a strong dislike for me. I am not bothered.
Though I'm an all-round nice guy, I only care for those I care about. The rest, I just try to get along with in a civilised fashion.
I try, though I can be very trying.
To all but you (yes, darn it! You!)
I always cared more for calling it as I see it, and for my freedom to do so.
There are a lot of places where peeps could reach me if they had a strong dislike for me. I am not bothered.
Though I'm an all-round nice guy, I only care for those I care about. The rest, I just try to get along with in a civilised fashion.
I try, though I can be very trying.
Sandman vanquished.
Our fears were made to be confronted and overcome. Our parents showed us the way by daring the monsters under our beds or in the closet.
Just as simple and facing them and switching the light on. For that child to be happy, she must stop cowering in the dark, hiding under five blankets.
As long as she keeps doing that, she will think that the shadow coming from the window is that of a hand.
Switch on the light, please.
See that it's a harmless branch.
Even if it branches away from me, forever, I'd still urge you to do so.
Just as simple and facing them and switching the light on. For that child to be happy, she must stop cowering in the dark, hiding under five blankets.
As long as she keeps doing that, she will think that the shadow coming from the window is that of a hand.
Switch on the light, please.
See that it's a harmless branch.
Even if it branches away from me, forever, I'd still urge you to do so.
Scabs.
I'll be blunt. I don't want to be your wound any more than you want to be mine. In being somebody's wound, we hurt.
Our paths have already crossed. You could try and forget, but neither of us can uncross them. It is fact. Hard fact.
On my part, I know that I shan't forget if I lived a hundred more years.
On yours, it's hard to tell. You know (yes, you do, you have proof) that I would not try and talk you out of what makes you happy.
You know (yes, you do) that I've never spoke a word to your ear for my own sake, but yours. Even if the outcome was something against my deepest desires.
You know that I would have you at my side, any which way that you would.
Any.
Let me stop being a wound. I'm here, calling from afar.
We make things more complicated than they have to be.
It should be easy for you. Its just a train ticket. Bring him, if you like. I'd shake hands and tell him how envious he makes others.
Our paths have already crossed. You could try and forget, but neither of us can uncross them. It is fact. Hard fact.
On my part, I know that I shan't forget if I lived a hundred more years.
On yours, it's hard to tell. You know (yes, you do, you have proof) that I would not try and talk you out of what makes you happy.
You know (yes, you do) that I've never spoke a word to your ear for my own sake, but yours. Even if the outcome was something against my deepest desires.
You know that I would have you at my side, any which way that you would.
Any.
Let me stop being a wound. I'm here, calling from afar.
We make things more complicated than they have to be.
It should be easy for you. Its just a train ticket. Bring him, if you like. I'd shake hands and tell him how envious he makes others.
Rubicon.
You and I know some about each other, though there might be some catching up, dark moments to share.
I've got a few of my own. I'm sure it's no less for you. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
It is hard, we are turtles with cracked shells, lions with worn teeth, famelic cheetah heaving under the hot sun.
And we strive. We endure.
What is it you fear, I keep thinking? How can it be that you fear me? Or do you fear another betrayal? What is it that you fear saying when you look into my eyes?
Do you think you can sink me any more? I already face the prospect of not seeing you again, the second hardest thing in my life (I'll be honest).
I put my heart on a sleeve and come out with my name on my words. A true slave to them, for I do not hide.
I've got a few of my own. I'm sure it's no less for you. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
It is hard, we are turtles with cracked shells, lions with worn teeth, famelic cheetah heaving under the hot sun.
And we strive. We endure.
What is it you fear, I keep thinking? How can it be that you fear me? Or do you fear another betrayal? What is it that you fear saying when you look into my eyes?
Do you think you can sink me any more? I already face the prospect of not seeing you again, the second hardest thing in my life (I'll be honest).
I put my heart on a sleeve and come out with my name on my words. A true slave to them, for I do not hide.
No tricks.
...and I wait, for there is no place I can say that I'm there (and many other besides) but to you, where you can see my eyes when I say them.
I'd leap into the void with you. Hell, I already did. Let me rephrase that (yes, I always improvise), I'd leap out of said void and drag you out of yours, if I must.
I'd leap for joy at seeing you, even if you came to say farewell, even if what I hear from your lips drags me through a road lined with rusty razors. I'd still leap for joy.
To see you in the world makes it already a better place.
As I said to you many times, I see being that special one as an unattainable dream (unless you...).
I'll be the one you can ALWAYS lean on.
Just turn up. I'm there.
I'd leap into the void with you. Hell, I already did. Let me rephrase that (yes, I always improvise), I'd leap out of said void and drag you out of yours, if I must.
I'd leap for joy at seeing you, even if you came to say farewell, even if what I hear from your lips drags me through a road lined with rusty razors. I'd still leap for joy.
To see you in the world makes it already a better place.
As I said to you many times, I see being that special one as an unattainable dream (unless you...).
I'll be the one you can ALWAYS lean on.
Just turn up. I'm there.
The final straw.
It was a dish. The final straw.
We were sitting in what once was my kitchen. I had cooked, leaving your least favourite green out.
That was my only conscious act of treachery. I betrayed my mum's recipe.
You ate heartily, with a contagious lust for life, your alto gracing the air around me. My favourite music by a long chalk.
And you asked for seconds.
A million scenes, each with a different motive, took hold of me. I saw myself bringing breakfast to our bed among them.
I was hopelessly lost then. That was my point of no return.
We were sitting in what once was my kitchen. I had cooked, leaving your least favourite green out.
That was my only conscious act of treachery. I betrayed my mum's recipe.
You ate heartily, with a contagious lust for life, your alto gracing the air around me. My favourite music by a long chalk.
And you asked for seconds.
A million scenes, each with a different motive, took hold of me. I saw myself bringing breakfast to our bed among them.
I was hopelessly lost then. That was my point of no return.
Rain
The rain covers the face of this green country that's now our home.
You seem as remote and inaccessible as a Saturday evening from the vantage point of my Tuesday. So far as to make one weep.
Awake, as ever I was, waiting for that missed call that would prelude hours of our voices caressing each other's ears.
So long has passed, yet I'm the same. It cannot be otherwise when someone sees the child we once were. I also saw the old lady you'd become...
How not to fall head over heels for you?
You seem as remote and inaccessible as a Saturday evening from the vantage point of my Tuesday. So far as to make one weep.
Awake, as ever I was, waiting for that missed call that would prelude hours of our voices caressing each other's ears.
So long has passed, yet I'm the same. It cannot be otherwise when someone sees the child we once were. I also saw the old lady you'd become...
How not to fall head over heels for you?
Blame? Mine!
Blame between friends, both wanting to assume it.
Otherwise, being thrown around like a tennis ball.
I'd listen to what you think it is, yours or mine. I have plenty to apologise for, with my lips and/or my hand on you.
You already know who decides.
Otherwise, being thrown around like a tennis ball.
I'd listen to what you think it is, yours or mine. I have plenty to apologise for, with my lips and/or my hand on you.
You already know who decides.
Footnotes within footnotes.
Just as I knew, a screamed secret. He who can't track, can't shoot for shite. I saw you in so many places, and not all were mirages.
My strategy and tactics have been clear from the outset, haven't they? This bottle sent to the sea states: "not just to ten or a hundred, but with me you can count." It is not much, it's just the whole of me.
We could probe, or we could prove. Or both.
That, you also know. What keeps you?
My strategy and tactics have been clear from the outset, haven't they? This bottle sent to the sea states: "not just to ten or a hundred, but with me you can count." It is not much, it's just the whole of me.
We could probe, or we could prove. Or both.
That, you also know. What keeps you?
My favourite book, can you guess?
I'd eat from your prologue to your epilogue, not neglecting the calluses of your footnotes.
12th fret
On tenterhooks, and not exactly unable to concentrate. But very close to it.
When a fingertip caresses a vibrating string in the middle, you obtain the harmonic.
That's what you do to me.
When a fingertip caresses a vibrating string in the middle, you obtain the harmonic.
That's what you do to me.
Shadows.
Hidden by the glare of the spotlight, shadow become substance. Me. You?
You'd think I turned my back on you. Not so, ever. I read you as I ever did, when I know where to find you. Avid, I drink any word that may mean you feel anything for me as I continue my static search.
The barbs, I ignore until I get indisputable confirmation.
The purported photo from Uganda fooled everyone, who preferred to accept and transmit the believable fiction. That's why our revolution is doomed. People prefer the easy explanation and mistake it for Ockham's blade.
I found a heady freedom, that of not caring what the world says or does. There's only so far down anyone can be pushed before reaching that point.
Am I crazy? I'm in no doubt, for we all are. The dangerous ones are invariably the self-righteous who assert others' madness as a means to conceal their own. Invariably.
Free to come and go, to say or keep silent.
I iron my best clothes for that rendezvous of ours, and count the minutes. How did that quote of the Little Prince go?
You'd think I turned my back on you. Not so, ever. I read you as I ever did, when I know where to find you. Avid, I drink any word that may mean you feel anything for me as I continue my static search.
The barbs, I ignore until I get indisputable confirmation.
The purported photo from Uganda fooled everyone, who preferred to accept and transmit the believable fiction. That's why our revolution is doomed. People prefer the easy explanation and mistake it for Ockham's blade.
I found a heady freedom, that of not caring what the world says or does. There's only so far down anyone can be pushed before reaching that point.
Am I crazy? I'm in no doubt, for we all are. The dangerous ones are invariably the self-righteous who assert others' madness as a means to conceal their own. Invariably.
Free to come and go, to say or keep silent.
I iron my best clothes for that rendezvous of ours, and count the minutes. How did that quote of the Little Prince go?
A minor # dawn.
Serrated clouds claw the hills in the distance, with the roar and thunder being mistaken for aeroplanes and mopeds.
My own pit lay open, it has been since those days last summer. It was the knowledge that anything will (shall) come, anything.
And there's only two things. Fight or die.
I was dying. I have been since the day I was born; lately I have that sense of pressing urgency which I can relate to a person (yes, you, but not just any you, just you. Only you).
I will the clock to pause and race at once. To pause my descent into the maelstrom of the day, and to race toward that empty station, to find out. I'll leave Doc Martin to ponder that one, for I'm just a dunce.
My own pit lay open, it has been since those days last summer. It was the knowledge that anything will (shall) come, anything.
And there's only two things. Fight or die.
I was dying. I have been since the day I was born; lately I have that sense of pressing urgency which I can relate to a person (yes, you, but not just any you, just you. Only you).
I will the clock to pause and race at once. To pause my descent into the maelstrom of the day, and to race toward that empty station, to find out. I'll leave Doc Martin to ponder that one, for I'm just a dunce.
Monday, 26 May 2014
Returning.
Another step back.
I just hope it's not a farewell in a history of them. Each time I think I smother you and try not to be a controller, it's taken for rejection.
That's who I am. Your friends are now yours, since that's what they were. I barged in, painted all over the walls. I'd scream it from the rooftops, and maybe that's what I do.
Daily.
Tantric, you said. I, who deny the existence of a soul, dream a million ways to fuse with you, to honour every inch of you just the way it clamours to be.
To melt into you and you into me: sound, sight, touch, taste, smell, proprioception, cognition. Hours, you say? Lifetimes, death and reincarnation in you, oblivion in ecstasy in me. Androgyne reborn as Plato didn't even have a clue.
The deepest ache in my centre, hungering in more ways than I know. So primal, primeval.
And you want me to hate you as a way to forget? I'd only bleed, you know that now, or should.
I can take and abide rejection, even by you. I can take the silence, though it's poison. I cannot take the way we parted, when it was so close, and when I was needed in more ways than one.
...and you never left. Not for a second. You're here though you're not.
There will be psychobabble from those who'd call any desire or its lack an illness. For whom to eat too little, too much or too balanced is regarded as a disorder.
For whom the desire of the slave to be free was considered a disease, who made their fears a modus vivendi. For those who'll sit at a terrace tonight in Madrid, Zaragoza or Jaen, not daring.
From those unlucky to get cut and who decided not to chance another fall.
From those stupid enough to think they can grasp a mind's workings in under 140 characters.
I'll scream, because I've got something worthwhile to fight for.
You in my life, just any which way you want. Just any, I'll seize
I just hope it's not a farewell in a history of them. Each time I think I smother you and try not to be a controller, it's taken for rejection.
That's who I am. Your friends are now yours, since that's what they were. I barged in, painted all over the walls. I'd scream it from the rooftops, and maybe that's what I do.
Daily.
Tantric, you said. I, who deny the existence of a soul, dream a million ways to fuse with you, to honour every inch of you just the way it clamours to be.
To melt into you and you into me: sound, sight, touch, taste, smell, proprioception, cognition. Hours, you say? Lifetimes, death and reincarnation in you, oblivion in ecstasy in me. Androgyne reborn as Plato didn't even have a clue.
The deepest ache in my centre, hungering in more ways than I know. So primal, primeval.
And you want me to hate you as a way to forget? I'd only bleed, you know that now, or should.
I can take and abide rejection, even by you. I can take the silence, though it's poison. I cannot take the way we parted, when it was so close, and when I was needed in more ways than one.
...and you never left. Not for a second. You're here though you're not.
There will be psychobabble from those who'd call any desire or its lack an illness. For whom to eat too little, too much or too balanced is regarded as a disorder.
For whom the desire of the slave to be free was considered a disease, who made their fears a modus vivendi. For those who'll sit at a terrace tonight in Madrid, Zaragoza or Jaen, not daring.
From those unlucky to get cut and who decided not to chance another fall.
From those stupid enough to think they can grasp a mind's workings in under 140 characters.
I'll scream, because I've got something worthwhile to fight for.
You in my life, just any which way you want. Just any, I'll seize
Ebb...
So broken, I reach for a teaspoon and a bucket to pick myself up from the floor.
All the same, I'd rather die a slow death each second of every night, or hide in a hospital toilet to cry than to see any harm come to you.
I can't.
Just.
Can't.
I'll be that crazy woman, going to the docks to await the return of her lost love claimed by the sea.
In time, I might get noticed, and I dare not think what might come of it, but I'll be there.
As long as I'm alive and free.
What a waste of our lives.
All the same, I'd rather die a slow death each second of every night, or hide in a hospital toilet to cry than to see any harm come to you.
I can't.
Just.
Can't.
I'll be that crazy woman, going to the docks to await the return of her lost love claimed by the sea.
In time, I might get noticed, and I dare not think what might come of it, but I'll be there.
As long as I'm alive and free.
What a waste of our lives.
Sunday, 25 May 2014
Una cerilla para mis barcos.
No tengo derecho
a ésto que me hago,
empalmar días sin noches
como cables
con cinta aislante.
Masacrarme una y otra vez,
angustiado,
atento (en sus dos acepciones) a:
"¿Qué será de ella?"
Debo aprender a odiarte
como nunca,
nunca odié,
a fingirme que el mundo
es un mejor lugar sin tí.
A odiarte,
no por rechazar una polla,
(¿y a quién le importa ya éso?)
sino por reducirme a éso,
no viste más allá.
Y te hice excusas
"la habré asustado",
"dale tiempo",
"igual quería no hacerme daño".
La navaja de Ockham en los riñones,
insistiendo,
mientras me aplicaba tiritas
de haiku y de razón,
sangrando a fuego lento,
inexorable.
La respuesta más simple,
con menor número de entidades
se impone.
La realidad es terca.
Debo considerarte inhumana,
desprovista de empatía,
que sólo usa a conveniencia.
¿Por qué me resulta imposible?
Maldita evidencia contradictoria.
Maldito escepticismo
que me impide echar mano del estereotipo
a ésto que me hago,
empalmar días sin noches
como cables
con cinta aislante.
Masacrarme una y otra vez,
angustiado,
atento (en sus dos acepciones) a:
"¿Qué será de ella?"
Debo aprender a odiarte
como nunca,
nunca odié,
a fingirme que el mundo
es un mejor lugar sin tí.
A odiarte,
no por rechazar una polla,
(¿y a quién le importa ya éso?)
sino por reducirme a éso,
no viste más allá.
Y te hice excusas
"la habré asustado",
"dale tiempo",
"igual quería no hacerme daño".
La navaja de Ockham en los riñones,
insistiendo,
mientras me aplicaba tiritas
de haiku y de razón,
sangrando a fuego lento,
inexorable.
La respuesta más simple,
con menor número de entidades
se impone.
La realidad es terca.
Debo considerarte inhumana,
desprovista de empatía,
que sólo usa a conveniencia.
¿Por qué me resulta imposible?
Maldita evidencia contradictoria.
Maldito escepticismo
que me impide echar mano del estereotipo
Saturday, 24 May 2014
Call me naive...
Call me naive. In the screamed privacy which is not such I renege of all to do with your memory, yet I'm unable to forget.
I wish I could make you dissapear... Is that what you felt when you were unable to reach me
I have to stop.
Now.
Or I'll die.
Ockham's blade did its job. You assumed, I did, end of the story of a self-announced prophecy
I wish I could make you dissapear... Is that what you felt when you were unable to reach me
I have to stop.
Now.
Or I'll die.
Ockham's blade did its job. You assumed, I did, end of the story of a self-announced prophecy
Undisciplined.
It couldn't be any worse. The Undisciplined at the Hobgoblin (High Wycombe), a great band (pix will tweet)
But you won't hear them, more's the pity. You just won't, though you have plenty of time to make it...
You won't. It's easier to curse and hide behind that facade and blame the whole world for it. That I'd also say.
But you won't hear them, more's the pity. You just won't, though you have plenty of time to make it...
You won't. It's easier to curse and hide behind that facade and blame the whole world for it. That I'd also say.
Just like that...
I recognised the photo, and your invective, clearly aimed.
But you never had the courage to say "goodbye", or anything. That I will say. Just that.
No invectives from me. Just the continued wait. Did you really think I would stop to want you with every cell in my body? I will not finish this.
You already made a fool out of me, another head on your mantel.
Bitter words want to come out, but won't. It's just not me. You could call me and finish what you were saying in September, or not.
You know now where to find me.
But you never had the courage to say "goodbye", or anything. That I will say. Just that.
No invectives from me. Just the continued wait. Did you really think I would stop to want you with every cell in my body? I will not finish this.
You already made a fool out of me, another head on your mantel.
Bitter words want to come out, but won't. It's just not me. You could call me and finish what you were saying in September, or not.
You know now where to find me.
Thursday, 22 May 2014
####
It's not the language, or anything in particular and it's everything, the whole and the addition of the parts.
Everything, now nothing after another river of tears, and why should anyone care? When did anyone?
Anyone?
I thought as much.
Rhythmically, the patter of raindrops brings you back, and what doesn't?
Raul, welcome back to August 2013. Level:...
You made it all too clear now. Yet, I'd be the one to turn for a word that won't come.
I'd swallow my pride, but it won't affect. I'd show some backbone, with the same end result.
Just one mistake. One.
Welcome to your life. Drink it to the dregs and rejoice in the bitterness.
It's just one bitter swallow, then gone.
Everything, now nothing after another river of tears, and why should anyone care? When did anyone?
Anyone?
I thought as much.
Rhythmically, the patter of raindrops brings you back, and what doesn't?
Raul, welcome back to August 2013. Level:...
You made it all too clear now. Yet, I'd be the one to turn for a word that won't come.
I'd swallow my pride, but it won't affect. I'd show some backbone, with the same end result.
Just one mistake. One.
Welcome to your life. Drink it to the dregs and rejoice in the bitterness.
It's just one bitter swallow, then gone.
+1, recapping, fin de la cita.
...which begs an answer to that question previously asked: why that fucking +1 on almost every single one of more than 1500 combined entries in my blogs, and an instant minimum of 2 "reads"?
Is it such a peregrine thought to infer there was one constant reader, with a mobile/laptop double set up? Mentioning the fact to a friend, he did reach the same conclusion. Hence, hope.
On the other hand, that video running in our common facebook friends list, which prompted me to remove them, a cheap shot at me, complete with comments.
A reaction to feeling hurt, understandable... to a point.
An attempt at an apology in september, without credit on a payphone, and a few scattered sms, which the network delivered as it willed (or not).
A failed photo message on 26 September, which haunts me still. A visit to The Treehouse, Croydon. The phone just did not answer: "this phone is unable to take your call".
And the silence. Months of nights in winter being cold and inhospitable, as though un silent solidarity. The +1s commence to arrive, never to stop again. The +1s also in my YouTube.
I become CC in Facebook. I pour on the screen, casting my net in every verse, in every stupid joke, in every work of a more serious tone.
...till march and that poem by Borges.
The rest is history, more attempt s. Sleeping two or three hours, searching, writing, opening to other networks.
I thought I find you in Fb, then in Ask. Then in VK and twitter. As well as asking a common friend.
And a message today. This morning. Saying: "if you're man enough, put a ring on it". Messages duly sent, from a friend and yours truly (yes, truly yours).
The only reply is Twitter: "hurt that someone who wants to be your friend, and he won't be"...
And other things...
Oscillating between mockery and pity are not the actions of a friend.
To quote Amitabh Acchan; , "BAS!" Enough is enough. You crossed a number of lines.
I cannot say I can forgive, there would have to be a number of "things".
1.- To ask for it and to acknowledge. I suspect you won't. Pride...
2.- For me to ascertain (face to face). Again, you won't.
Well, go look for your next victim, my beloved wild pony.
This prosimian is on strike, the only freedom afforded me, given my position.
Is it such a peregrine thought to infer there was one constant reader, with a mobile/laptop double set up? Mentioning the fact to a friend, he did reach the same conclusion. Hence, hope.
On the other hand, that video running in our common facebook friends list, which prompted me to remove them, a cheap shot at me, complete with comments.
A reaction to feeling hurt, understandable... to a point.
An attempt at an apology in september, without credit on a payphone, and a few scattered sms, which the network delivered as it willed (or not).
A failed photo message on 26 September, which haunts me still. A visit to The Treehouse, Croydon. The phone just did not answer: "this phone is unable to take your call".
And the silence. Months of nights in winter being cold and inhospitable, as though un silent solidarity. The +1s commence to arrive, never to stop again. The +1s also in my YouTube.
I become CC in Facebook. I pour on the screen, casting my net in every verse, in every stupid joke, in every work of a more serious tone.
...till march and that poem by Borges.
The rest is history, more attempt s. Sleeping two or three hours, searching, writing, opening to other networks.
I thought I find you in Fb, then in Ask. Then in VK and twitter. As well as asking a common friend.
And a message today. This morning. Saying: "if you're man enough, put a ring on it". Messages duly sent, from a friend and yours truly (yes, truly yours).
The only reply is Twitter: "hurt that someone who wants to be your friend, and he won't be"...
And other things...
Oscillating between mockery and pity are not the actions of a friend.
To quote Amitabh Acchan; , "BAS!" Enough is enough. You crossed a number of lines.
I cannot say I can forgive, there would have to be a number of "things".
1.- To ask for it and to acknowledge. I suspect you won't. Pride...
2.- For me to ascertain (face to face). Again, you won't.
Well, go look for your next victim, my beloved wild pony.
This prosimian is on strike, the only freedom afforded me, given my position.
Wednesday, 21 May 2014
Fare thee well, my dearest love.
Hostility and tenderness in what appears on the screen. It's been long now.
It's clear now.
Painfully so.
No reproach.
No comeback.
Only some good memories and the knowledge not to trust again, nevermore.
All the same,
and without irony,
thanks.
You'll forgive me if I keep attending that train station on my saturdays, knowing you'll never come.
And, if you don't, or you hate me, there's nothing I could do. I searched high and low, and I know "it's not you but me".
Nothing.
I just wish I stopped seeing that +1 that gave me so many false hopes.
It's clear now.
Painfully so.
No reproach.
No comeback.
Only some good memories and the knowledge not to trust again, nevermore.
All the same,
and without irony,
thanks.
You'll forgive me if I keep attending that train station on my saturdays, knowing you'll never come.
And, if you don't, or you hate me, there's nothing I could do. I searched high and low, and I know "it's not you but me".
Nothing.
I just wish I stopped seeing that +1 that gave me so many false hopes.
Emotional boomerang.
Sticks and stones for breakfast, and words of hurt; of person hurt and hurting others in self-defence.
"Hurt him as an easy way out", an old trick I already played twenty years ago.
A trick that (unless you're a psychopath devoid of all empathy) will hurt you (yes, you, the person behind all the masks).
A trick that I only could think of as a last resort of frustration and pain, and caused more.
I made amends. It was not easy, but it was not half as difficult as anyone would imagine.
Lies? Not me. I'm here with my name and face.
Meanwhile, a reply sent to you, on rings and other herbs.
Come. Talk.
"Hurt him as an easy way out", an old trick I already played twenty years ago.
A trick that (unless you're a psychopath devoid of all empathy) will hurt you (yes, you, the person behind all the masks).
A trick that I only could think of as a last resort of frustration and pain, and caused more.
I made amends. It was not easy, but it was not half as difficult as anyone would imagine.
Lies? Not me. I'm here with my name and face.
Meanwhile, a reply sent to you, on rings and other herbs.
Come. Talk.
Tuesday, 20 May 2014
Please, laugh.
The world is happy with you, and I have to be fundamentally stupid, for I have no hate left in me. I just used it up where it was needed, where it was deserved.
I won't analyse, or judge. I won't cut, Ego ipse sum.
I'm full of bile this days, more than many can handle. And I handle it.
It's called deconstruction and I'm not doing it for your benefit, or anybody's.
I will rebuild, I'd like you to be around, I'll continue to wait, of course.
Because love ain't blind, but retarded.
#frasesamericanas
I won't analyse, or judge. I won't cut, Ego ipse sum.
I'm full of bile this days, more than many can handle. And I handle it.
It's called deconstruction and I'm not doing it for your benefit, or anybody's.
I will rebuild, I'd like you to be around, I'll continue to wait, of course.
Because love ain't blind, but retarded.
#frasesamericanas
Monday, 19 May 2014
Trails.
Exhilarating, the mere possibility that I might have been speaking with you. I might well have.
The only hitch (oh, the poor old Hitch) is that it was only a pseudonym with words penned as a seed cast to the four winds. Hints within hints that get systematically discarded as I sort out the wheat from the chaff.
But not all. Not by a long chalk.
The only things that seem to make it across the divide are those that seem devised to hurt and maim.
I'm cut to the quick, to be sure. Yet the wolf is never as true to the trail as when he's cold, hungry and footsore.
And this wolf has learnt a thing or three. #frasesamericanas
Do you fear that meeting me will cause you to loose face, or is it any other type of fear? Tell yourself you are not afraid, day and night. Repeat it till you fall asleep and start again in the morning.
Meanwhile, you know what there is to fear, and it's not me. That, you already know in the marrow of your bones.
Unless there is another reason, which I will (shall, would) listen to very attentively.
The only hitch (oh, the poor old Hitch) is that it was only a pseudonym with words penned as a seed cast to the four winds. Hints within hints that get systematically discarded as I sort out the wheat from the chaff.
But not all. Not by a long chalk.
The only things that seem to make it across the divide are those that seem devised to hurt and maim.
I'm cut to the quick, to be sure. Yet the wolf is never as true to the trail as when he's cold, hungry and footsore.
And this wolf has learnt a thing or three. #frasesamericanas
Do you fear that meeting me will cause you to loose face, or is it any other type of fear? Tell yourself you are not afraid, day and night. Repeat it till you fall asleep and start again in the morning.
Meanwhile, you know what there is to fear, and it's not me. That, you already know in the marrow of your bones.
Unless there is another reason, which I will (shall, would) listen to very attentively.
Iron pyrite.
Hammered by the constant blows of years upon years and forged upon the anvil of a relentless machine is forged the toughest steel.
A game played of hide and seek, where what I won't name may motive an increase in the tone from those with the words and without the reason to write, other than self-aggrandisement.
I keep my search of an answer from the source (you, and you only), as relentless as in my prior assignments, with a difference: This is not a publication to be exposed to thousands, but personal.
The end result is unknown, a few hypothesis are being considered and, in the end there will be an answer, which might or might not fit any of my preconceived ideas.
I, of course, treat the croaks of ravens as so much hot air, which will disperse eventually. I've seen far worse.
And that would mean that I'm closer than I think. In the end, the answer will (or will not) be on your lips in that train station any given Saturday, from 7-9 pm.
Wishing my love a happy day and a better night.
A game played of hide and seek, where what I won't name may motive an increase in the tone from those with the words and without the reason to write, other than self-aggrandisement.
I keep my search of an answer from the source (you, and you only), as relentless as in my prior assignments, with a difference: This is not a publication to be exposed to thousands, but personal.
The end result is unknown, a few hypothesis are being considered and, in the end there will be an answer, which might or might not fit any of my preconceived ideas.
I, of course, treat the croaks of ravens as so much hot air, which will disperse eventually. I've seen far worse.
And that would mean that I'm closer than I think. In the end, the answer will (or will not) be on your lips in that train station any given Saturday, from 7-9 pm.
Wishing my love a happy day and a better night.
Sunday, 18 May 2014
Just passing through this platform, will go to another one.
I begin early to throw letters. It seems I'm not the only one that does, but I am the only one putting a name to them.
Well, I did not just start to write now. That much you know.
I remain puzzled, and see many possible readings, each with so many interpretations for the answers you won't (or can't) give.
Many different combinations of entry and profile, it is easy to loose one's own mind, and maybe I already reached that juncture, who knows?
I can only go on as I have, trying to live as though my part in your life is well and truly over.
At least, I have to pretend that whilst I still have no answer. The silence does not give one.
I cannot bring myself to think you so heartless as to do this on purpose, that there must be (and there could well be) another reason for the silence that maims.
Every living minute is of dying. Every single one.
Well, I did not just start to write now. That much you know.
I remain puzzled, and see many possible readings, each with so many interpretations for the answers you won't (or can't) give.
Many different combinations of entry and profile, it is easy to loose one's own mind, and maybe I already reached that juncture, who knows?
I can only go on as I have, trying to live as though my part in your life is well and truly over.
At least, I have to pretend that whilst I still have no answer. The silence does not give one.
I cannot bring myself to think you so heartless as to do this on purpose, that there must be (and there could well be) another reason for the silence that maims.
Every living minute is of dying. Every single one.
Sunday: the blues.
The disappointing anticlimax, not less crushing for being expected, but worse each week that passes, through its cumulative effect.
Did I expect you to know that my waits are not metaphor, but real, in the vertical plane?
(insert stupid pun on horizontallity here).
They are, I cannot but think its either a complete unawareness or an utter disregard from someone who brags on what a considerate person he or she is.
Meanwhile, I am Jack's emptiness, filled with voids of all sorts, longing for an oblivion which (like you) insists in not coming to at least say "hello".
Did I expect you to know that my waits are not metaphor, but real, in the vertical plane?
(insert stupid pun on horizontallity here).
They are, I cannot but think its either a complete unawareness or an utter disregard from someone who brags on what a considerate person he or she is.
Meanwhile, I am Jack's emptiness, filled with voids of all sorts, longing for an oblivion which (like you) insists in not coming to at least say "hello".
Saturday, 17 May 2014
Troll?
Am I a troll? In the small hours of the morning I enquire what my ask will not.
"Trolling" is a term I hear often at work, as in: "I gotta troll the notes for so-and-so's details of relevant past history", or "I gotta troll the profile for past equipments issued".
In that sense, I'm afraid I might well be one, searching for answers. Digging for the peace that has been negated.
Am I another type of troll, the type who will seek to pester, harass or intimidate? One that does not understand the meaning of NO?
One that is incapable of moving on, once there's a clear answer?
What do you think, based on the direct evidence you have of me?
You do know.
And you do know that you know. Only you can end this.
"Trolling" is a term I hear often at work, as in: "I gotta troll the notes for so-and-so's details of relevant past history", or "I gotta troll the profile for past equipments issued".
In that sense, I'm afraid I might well be one, searching for answers. Digging for the peace that has been negated.
Am I another type of troll, the type who will seek to pester, harass or intimidate? One that does not understand the meaning of NO?
One that is incapable of moving on, once there's a clear answer?
What do you think, based on the direct evidence you have of me?
You do know.
And you do know that you know. Only you can end this.
Friday, 16 May 2014
Countdown.
Weird, how we build a mental picture of the peeps we come across on the platforms and cobwebs that line our screens. They become their avatars, just a pic and a line.
Safe. It's safe to come out to play. Complete nerds becoming the lover of the year, and being able to say "howdy" to Paco Bergoglio...
Distances equalised in the region of light-years.
Save for ours.
There's roughly 24 hours left before I call this week another defeat in my ongoing war, with only one goal in mind:
To say: "How are you, my friend?"
Everything else is optional. Hell, everything is optional for you. I'm not bargaining (just how?), but stating.
Tomorrow, HW, 7-9pm.
Safe. It's safe to come out to play. Complete nerds becoming the lover of the year, and being able to say "howdy" to Paco Bergoglio...
Distances equalised in the region of light-years.
Save for ours.
There's roughly 24 hours left before I call this week another defeat in my ongoing war, with only one goal in mind:
To say: "How are you, my friend?"
Everything else is optional. Hell, everything is optional for you. I'm not bargaining (just how?), but stating.
Tomorrow, HW, 7-9pm.
Thursday, 15 May 2014
Staying afloat?
I try to survive, clinging to that board in the ocean, always sighting land.
Always out of my reach, I'm sinking fast.
You have been called ballast. Possibly you call yourself that. Please, don't.
I cannot jettison you without becoming an empty husk (even one that floats). You're lodged deep within me, a wonderfully terminal disease, the tumour that gave light to my eyes.
If the price I have to pay is sinking, so be it.
Always out of my reach, I'm sinking fast.
You have been called ballast. Possibly you call yourself that. Please, don't.
I cannot jettison you without becoming an empty husk (even one that floats). You're lodged deep within me, a wonderfully terminal disease, the tumour that gave light to my eyes.
If the price I have to pay is sinking, so be it.
Wednesday, 14 May 2014
Trysts.
Thinking apropos of something (there almost always is), A and B came to mind.
A was one of our patients whom I met... was it a week or a year ago? It doesn't matter. A very strong-willed individual who overcame hurdles nobody thought she would; pleasant in manner and sure of what she wanted every step of the way, she was one of those that makes me feel proud of belonging to my species.
B was her husband of forty-odd years, seemingly a very attentive person. He sought her to return, even though it meant his having to care for her in the most intimate of ways. Something I do not often see, I must add.
A frequently expressed her longing for B, and did seem to look forward to visiting times (which he would attend unstintingly). She expressed her determination to go back and be with him, a special shine in her eye at any mention of his name.
B phoned her in daily, he always arrived early, left late and the nurses looked the other way.
A would always insist on being on a wheelchair one hour before visiting times, and to wait for his arrival outside the ward area, in the TV room. The wheelchair was to ensure they could move freely together. They had two hours before her supper.
I could not help but be reminded of how the situation was redolent of that of courting youth, when the beau seeks the lady, and she is waiting by the window (go on, and call me corny, soppy and soft if you like)...
One day, she was not able to be on the wheelchair in advance, let's call it the random avatars of her recovery. She requested being put on a wheelchair, and asked for permission to sit with him in an area not used by patients.
The look in their eyes told me he was going to steal a kiss...
We often read of the unloved, the abused, the separated, and what a loud bunch we are.
All forms of love (polyamorous, LGBTIA) are affirmed on a daily basis. I know, because I am one of those affirming and supporting the free right of those in love (or plain lust, each to his or her own)
I see and read arguments about, against monogamic heterosexual love. I see and read the false dichotomy that, in order to combat intrafamilial violence or homo and transfobia, one must adopt a position against the more traditionally accepted forms of love.
All I can see is still in their eyes, after a lifetime, still accomplices in that delicious crime of mutual surrender.
I confess I'm envious that they still sought their trysts.
A was one of our patients whom I met... was it a week or a year ago? It doesn't matter. A very strong-willed individual who overcame hurdles nobody thought she would; pleasant in manner and sure of what she wanted every step of the way, she was one of those that makes me feel proud of belonging to my species.
B was her husband of forty-odd years, seemingly a very attentive person. He sought her to return, even though it meant his having to care for her in the most intimate of ways. Something I do not often see, I must add.
A frequently expressed her longing for B, and did seem to look forward to visiting times (which he would attend unstintingly). She expressed her determination to go back and be with him, a special shine in her eye at any mention of his name.
B phoned her in daily, he always arrived early, left late and the nurses looked the other way.
A would always insist on being on a wheelchair one hour before visiting times, and to wait for his arrival outside the ward area, in the TV room. The wheelchair was to ensure they could move freely together. They had two hours before her supper.
I could not help but be reminded of how the situation was redolent of that of courting youth, when the beau seeks the lady, and she is waiting by the window (go on, and call me corny, soppy and soft if you like)...
One day, she was not able to be on the wheelchair in advance, let's call it the random avatars of her recovery. She requested being put on a wheelchair, and asked for permission to sit with him in an area not used by patients.
The look in their eyes told me he was going to steal a kiss...
We often read of the unloved, the abused, the separated, and what a loud bunch we are.
All forms of love (polyamorous, LGBTIA) are affirmed on a daily basis. I know, because I am one of those affirming and supporting the free right of those in love (or plain lust, each to his or her own)
I see and read arguments about, against monogamic heterosexual love. I see and read the false dichotomy that, in order to combat intrafamilial violence or homo and transfobia, one must adopt a position against the more traditionally accepted forms of love.
All I can see is still in their eyes, after a lifetime, still accomplices in that delicious crime of mutual surrender.
I confess I'm envious that they still sought their trysts.
Tuesday, 13 May 2014
Worming.
With my eyes misted by a veil of tears and the steel curtain that separates us, I find myself unable to focus muy thoughts.
I'm now officially a digital nomad, meandering the platforms, morphing languages, combing for a the hidden presence, swallowed by the earth.
Meanwhile, I'll be unwaveringly waiting, the court jester in rusty armour, whom a few precious moments savoured what it's like to be a king.
I'm now officially a digital nomad, meandering the platforms, morphing languages, combing for a the hidden presence, swallowed by the earth.
Meanwhile, I'll be unwaveringly waiting, the court jester in rusty armour, whom a few precious moments savoured what it's like to be a king.
That crazy little thing Freddy talked about.
Melancholy. It's not the inability to live, or to find peace, but that I cannot find closure, for it is not available
Love. The irrationality of the willingness to lay down our very lives without a second thought. I understand it only too well. It's basic. I learnt it as a boy, with my friends, daring death in any corner. As a man, with my comrades.
As an adult with my daughters, with you in such a final way.
Love is offering without forcing the proffered present. Offering my all, and no holds barred.
You'll call it sickly, irrational. It is. It's the basal ganglia at work. Passion.
Then, there is the love in my prefrontal cortex. Perceiving you and me, and how, where is your space. Where is mine. The civilised compromise of friends who share. The empathy and trust.
Also, the motor responses for those torrid moments are there, too.
The sympathetic and parasympathetic activity (the butterflie, dillated pupils, etc.).
, the processing and integration of all sensory memory/input that draw me a picture of you, 24/7.
It involves all of me, of which you may take what you please, and it would please me. Or you would leave the plate untouched or partially eaten. It would please me, too. I would know.
All I need is it coming from your lips. It's beautifully simple.
I have been known to be quite thick.
Love. The irrationality of the willingness to lay down our very lives without a second thought. I understand it only too well. It's basic. I learnt it as a boy, with my friends, daring death in any corner. As a man, with my comrades.
As an adult with my daughters, with you in such a final way.
Love is offering without forcing the proffered present. Offering my all, and no holds barred.
You'll call it sickly, irrational. It is. It's the basal ganglia at work. Passion.
Then, there is the love in my prefrontal cortex. Perceiving you and me, and how, where is your space. Where is mine. The civilised compromise of friends who share. The empathy and trust.
Also, the motor responses for those torrid moments are there, too.
The sympathetic and parasympathetic activity (the butterflie, dillated pupils, etc.).
, the processing and integration of all sensory memory/input that draw me a picture of you, 24/7.
It involves all of me, of which you may take what you please, and it would please me. Or you would leave the plate untouched or partially eaten. It would please me, too. I would know.
All I need is it coming from your lips. It's beautifully simple.
I have been known to be quite thick.
Monday, 12 May 2014
For sure...
Resorting to desperate measures, and why not? I'll be called crazy, maybe conmiserated, who knows.
Who cares
I'll have an answer, not because I'm owed one, but because your acts will determine.
In the face of a glimpse I act, but not rashly. Never in life.
Whatever the outcome, we both are owners of our comings and goings.
You will or will not take that train on a Saturday evening...
But I'll be waiting. Rain, sunshine, snow or hailstorm.
For you.
Yes, you.
Who cares
I'll have an answer, not because I'm owed one, but because your acts will determine.
In the face of a glimpse I act, but not rashly. Never in life.
Whatever the outcome, we both are owners of our comings and goings.
You will or will not take that train on a Saturday evening...
But I'll be waiting. Rain, sunshine, snow or hailstorm.
For you.
Yes, you.
Questions at night.
...which brought back (filthy lie, you were already there) so many things.
Once more, that imperative question of "how have you been?" It would be tremendously dishonest to say that's all there is in me, but I always acknowledged it.
Always.
And to your face.
"How have you been?" is a question that begs (demands inside me) an answer. I think there is a strong base for that question to feel imperative, given the circumstances of our parting, which I cannot explain. I did not cause it to happen, at least I can say I didn't sever that line.
That question is very likely to be a thorn on my side until the day I die, bleeding.
But let's not be dramatic, for that day is still far away.
It is curious how we were talking about abti-psychiatry. I see a second article from one of my favourite writers on Fb. It should not be difficult, most content creators (including yours truly) content themselves with a stupid picture.
It is on addiction and relationships. I cannot but subscribe to the views expressed by the source, but the language was so generalised that it might well be taken as meaning anyone in love is an addict.
I am not so sure. Though I expect it holds true for those trapped in an abusive relationship to which they keep returning, the risk is for it to be taken as an absolute truth, one that holds against all contingencies.
"How does it apply to me?", I tend to ask myself. I get up and go to my mirror:
-Is it pathological that I found myself attracted after such a deep connection, a genuine me-you? I think not.
Drapetomania was seriously considered as a mental illness. One that needed treatment.
-The need to connect with others, and not wanting to be alone is also taken out of context. A lone primate is a dead one. Dunbar's number tells it like it is, without psychobabble.
Psychobabble is a strong term. I frankly lost my patience. There are a number of paradigms for sale in the market of ideas, I will pick mine on tried and tested, thank you very much.
I have already witnessed the argumental and logical phallacy disguised as psych talk to enforce deeply held prejudice.
I'll just live and hope to meet my
friend. One that I love from the marrow in my bones.
Love is terrifying. The first link I got from the troll says so. I, however, do not accept this because an. authority comes and says so. I know that terror of knowing "this is
it, kid. You're gambling with the rest of your life."
And I know it is. I knew that depth on holding my daughters for the first time.
I know.
I only hope she doesn't think she's doing me a favour by staying away.
Delinquent.
Creeping upon me when I least expect it, and refusing to leave. Mental illness.
The conversation I've had was the most curious. My counterpart assumed all manner of things about me, based upon two facts:
1.- I'm white, male, middle age and articulate.
2.- Other people with my profile act in a certain way.
The sheer barrage of "ad hominem" of divers types came accompanied by interesting reading material, which I'm not currently in shape to process. At least, not at the speed I'm used to, which is a source of frustration.
The discussion turns to antipsychiatry. As with other topics, the "ad hominem" have me against the ropes and I have not the opportunity to discuss points. This is snowballing.
It's not common for me to be with so determined an assailant, one I feel I can respond to, given time and a level playing field in addressing one another. This, however, is a genuine troll.
I am being assaulted upon alleged privileges I am in possession of, on not siding with an integral viewpoint at once (without even considering). I am being made responsible for everything everyone else has done and have no right to state that my human rights might be trampled in any way, shape or form.
It's someone with an axe to grind, and they chose me today to hack to pieces. But I don't think I did too bad.
I had the first two questions ready, and I pointed out that being male doesn't necessarily entail privileges, especially when you add being an immigrant into the mix.
I give him (or her) links to some of my work, so he or she can form an opinion on facts, rather than appearance.
At this point, my counterpart makes an argumentum ad latrinam.
I expect life is easier when you categorize everything into neat blocks, leaving no room for doubt.
I'm reeling, because I thought I recognized the style of my assailant.
And not even a coffee or a "how have you been?"
The conversation I've had was the most curious. My counterpart assumed all manner of things about me, based upon two facts:
1.- I'm white, male, middle age and articulate.
2.- Other people with my profile act in a certain way.
The sheer barrage of "ad hominem" of divers types came accompanied by interesting reading material, which I'm not currently in shape to process. At least, not at the speed I'm used to, which is a source of frustration.
The discussion turns to antipsychiatry. As with other topics, the "ad hominem" have me against the ropes and I have not the opportunity to discuss points. This is snowballing.
It's not common for me to be with so determined an assailant, one I feel I can respond to, given time and a level playing field in addressing one another. This, however, is a genuine troll.
I am being assaulted upon alleged privileges I am in possession of, on not siding with an integral viewpoint at once (without even considering). I am being made responsible for everything everyone else has done and have no right to state that my human rights might be trampled in any way, shape or form.
It's someone with an axe to grind, and they chose me today to hack to pieces. But I don't think I did too bad.
I had the first two questions ready, and I pointed out that being male doesn't necessarily entail privileges, especially when you add being an immigrant into the mix.
I give him (or her) links to some of my work, so he or she can form an opinion on facts, rather than appearance.
At this point, my counterpart makes an argumentum ad latrinam.
I expect life is easier when you categorize everything into neat blocks, leaving no room for doubt.
I'm reeling, because I thought I recognized the style of my assailant.
And not even a coffee or a "how have you been?"
Saturday, 10 May 2014
Spread like an oil drop on water
With more platforms than the station you'd use to commute to visit me, you prove as elusive in any one of them.
And all I Ask is "Are you OK?"
That is all.
And you know I'm a man of my word, if it kills me.
And all I Ask is "Are you OK?"
That is all.
And you know I'm a man of my word, if it kills me.
Terca realidad.
Asfixiado, buscando la luz y cayendo de nuevo en la claustrofobia de un mundo que se pliega, se niega a dar cabida.
La realidad es terca...
Nos olvidamos de que nosotros también somos reales, e igualmente tercos.
La realidad es terca...
Nos olvidamos de que nosotros también somos reales, e igualmente tercos.
Only 19 hours before going to the platform
Counting the minutes to my next disappointment, I savour the hope prior to my appointments with the empty trains.
Yes, empty trains, with a flood of faces being vomited by the turnstiles, insisting in not being yours.
Yes.
Yours.
Yes, empty trains, with a flood of faces being vomited by the turnstiles, insisting in not being yours.
Yes.
Yours.
Mirror, mirror on the wall...
It's hard not to feel a touch of self-jealousy when I look at the mirror and contemplate the guy who once had it all.
Now, I'm just the guy who has that guy.
Now, I'm just the guy who has that guy.
Thursday, 8 May 2014
Rollercoaster
A glimpse I thought I caught on Twitter.
Only one.
And I thought it was you I was chatting to, for all I know, it could have been. Point of fact, might have (with a possibility of 10^-25)...
And I soared.
I didn't walk the hospital corridors, I owned them with a newfound spring in my step that erased all remnants of the lame guy who limped in your presence.
The foxtrot in my head (and in my feet) for those precious hours that I thought my friend was back. (Yes, just that, I'm not that big a fool)...
Another door in my face, of course. I learned to steel myself to those, to search and ask at the risk of ridicule, and who gives a fuck about ridicule...
I just have a life to live. Just the one. Who knows, mayhap you'll have the opportunity and pluck up the courage to break the momentum of a number of trains not taken.
Mayhap one of the trains on Saturday carries a lot more than the meaningless succession of strangers whose role in my life is to parade through my visual field.
Mayhap, alas...
Only one.
And I thought it was you I was chatting to, for all I know, it could have been. Point of fact, might have (with a possibility of 10^-25)...
And I soared.
I didn't walk the hospital corridors, I owned them with a newfound spring in my step that erased all remnants of the lame guy who limped in your presence.
The foxtrot in my head (and in my feet) for those precious hours that I thought my friend was back. (Yes, just that, I'm not that big a fool)...
Another door in my face, of course. I learned to steel myself to those, to search and ask at the risk of ridicule, and who gives a fuck about ridicule...
I just have a life to live. Just the one. Who knows, mayhap you'll have the opportunity and pluck up the courage to break the momentum of a number of trains not taken.
Mayhap one of the trains on Saturday carries a lot more than the meaningless succession of strangers whose role in my life is to parade through my visual field.
Mayhap, alas...
Wednesday, 7 May 2014
Lingering.
I resigned myself to the awareness of the futility of evacuating you.
The firmness and solidity of your frontal bone on my lips is the poison nourishing the nightmares of waking up when I'm precisely 0.36mm away from brushing your vertical or horizontal smile with mine.
The scent of your scalp in my nostrils invaded the country of me and planted its banner, never to leave.
I don't blame you. I reached that point in which I know what a waste of our brief time that is.
What be your blame? Having wit, poise, savoir-faire, pheromones? I'm guilty of that, too (at least, of the pheromone part). There's no room for blame in me.
After having met war criminals (true), I would say I have a very high threshold before I think of passing judgement. There is NOTHING you cannot tell me. Nothing.
No, not easy. Not for you, nor for me.
I look for a joke to bring a smile to your lips (either set would be fine, though I aim for both), but I can only come up with poems in MS DOS while my dreams keep bleeding out of my eyes.
The firmness and solidity of your frontal bone on my lips is the poison nourishing the nightmares of waking up when I'm precisely 0.36mm away from brushing your vertical or horizontal smile with mine.
The scent of your scalp in my nostrils invaded the country of me and planted its banner, never to leave.
I don't blame you. I reached that point in which I know what a waste of our brief time that is.
What be your blame? Having wit, poise, savoir-faire, pheromones? I'm guilty of that, too (at least, of the pheromone part). There's no room for blame in me.
After having met war criminals (true), I would say I have a very high threshold before I think of passing judgement. There is NOTHING you cannot tell me. Nothing.
No, not easy. Not for you, nor for me.
I look for a joke to bring a smile to your lips (either set would be fine, though I aim for both), but I can only come up with poems in MS DOS while my dreams keep bleeding out of my eyes.
Reencounter.bat
Call me a nerd, I'd be flattered.
Call me a geek and you'll be
much nearer to the mark.
Call me a geek and you'll be
much nearer to the mark.
Comet
Sick of being rational, faced with so manyvariables boggling the mind.
As Malcolm would say, bamboozled by the spectres on the screen that seem to whisper "come hither, you're nearing home", yell at me "get bent, you mindless idiot" and seek to soothe.
I walk all avenues, and limp back to my lair after another half fruitful search where I (seem to) recognize that much-loved right hand, so specific.
My own right hand seems to grasp, but only ether.
As Malcolm would say, bamboozled by the spectres on the screen that seem to whisper "come hither, you're nearing home", yell at me "get bent, you mindless idiot" and seek to soothe.
I walk all avenues, and limp back to my lair after another half fruitful search where I (seem to) recognize that much-loved right hand, so specific.
My own right hand seems to grasp, but only ether.
And the earth swallowed you.
Not a word since september,
not a sign after October (yes, 18th)
I made my dreams,
within which I exhaust my terror,
unnamed,
as the rest of my terrors,
which came to fruition.
A word clear, certain,
I crave.
I fear I'll never get.
I'm terrified something has happened.
And the silence...
not a sign after October (yes, 18th)
I made my dreams,
within which I exhaust my terror,
unnamed,
as the rest of my terrors,
which came to fruition.
A word clear, certain,
I crave.
I fear I'll never get.
I'm terrified something has happened.
And the silence...
Tuesday, 6 May 2014
Digressing?
A time to idle...
I wrote a series of essays on being, reality and perception. Nothing fancy, as usual, just a few loose personal opinions joined up to open the discussion.
It all started with Calderon de la Barca, the final, famous quote about life being a dream...
Which put me in mind of "The Dark Half" and shadows chasing shadows, a circle of mirages.
Am I real? I'd dare say: "very much so". Are you, Constant Reader (to use King's term)? I'd also say "yes", an emphatic one.
The question is: is the "me" you read the "me" I take myself to be? A rethorical question, if there ever was one.
Who "I" am is who I always were, and yet... We change somewhat. It doesn't take a genius to see.
A sorely missed friend once said (I don't remember whether she was quoting) that to look at oneself is to confront a set of parallel mirrors with infinite reflections.
Am I a fictional character in your imaginings? Are you so in mine? I dare say yes, but only in part.
On recently meeting a friend I didn't see in ten years, it dawns. There's plenty of us in ourselves to permit perfect recognition.
The gone years are simply ticks of the clock...
Just that.
I wrote a series of essays on being, reality and perception. Nothing fancy, as usual, just a few loose personal opinions joined up to open the discussion.
It all started with Calderon de la Barca, the final, famous quote about life being a dream...
Which put me in mind of "The Dark Half" and shadows chasing shadows, a circle of mirages.
Am I real? I'd dare say: "very much so". Are you, Constant Reader (to use King's term)? I'd also say "yes", an emphatic one.
The question is: is the "me" you read the "me" I take myself to be? A rethorical question, if there ever was one.
Who "I" am is who I always were, and yet... We change somewhat. It doesn't take a genius to see.
A sorely missed friend once said (I don't remember whether she was quoting) that to look at oneself is to confront a set of parallel mirrors with infinite reflections.
Am I a fictional character in your imaginings? Are you so in mine? I dare say yes, but only in part.
On recently meeting a friend I didn't see in ten years, it dawns. There's plenty of us in ourselves to permit perfect recognition.
The gone years are simply ticks of the clock...
Just that.
Monday, 5 May 2014
Monday.
Not knowing where to start,
not knowing where to stop,
blacking out in the middle of a verse,
my insomnia is your hair on my nose,
and the words cannoned against a wall of silence.
not knowing where to stop,
blacking out in the middle of a verse,
my insomnia is your hair on my nose,
and the words cannoned against a wall of silence.
Sunday, 4 May 2014
False dilemma masqueraded as dialectics.
You'll never get it.
It was always a battlefield for you.
Dominate or be subjugated,
is that your reality?
Be happy in your planet,
I hope you'll be.
There isn't an ounce of sarcasm left.
Saturday, 3 May 2014
Time.
Late,
arrived at rendezvous.
Rushing, worrying
that you came,
that you left.
The next incoming got cancelled,
no matter.
The next,
or the next after the next,
or maybe after that.
It's a matter of time
and time is all I have left.
arrived at rendezvous.
Rushing, worrying
that you came,
that you left.
The next incoming got cancelled,
no matter.
The next,
or the next after the next,
or maybe after that.
It's a matter of time
and time is all I have left.
I need a chocolate.
Born before my time,
or after,
who in blue fuck knows...
A time in which the concern of a brother,
or a friend,
goes hand in hand with the lover's ardour,
when promises of "I won't hurt you"
would have no place,
as nobody would seek to possess
or harm.
I better take a fucking choccy bar,
I turn utopic when I'm hungry,
and I always hunger for you.
or after,
who in blue fuck knows...
A time in which the concern of a brother,
or a friend,
goes hand in hand with the lover's ardour,
when promises of "I won't hurt you"
would have no place,
as nobody would seek to possess
or harm.
I better take a fucking choccy bar,
I turn utopic when I'm hungry,
and I always hunger for you.
Reduced GAF threshold.
Trepidation
and the usual ration.
The usual self-help crap
on my screen:
"be this", "master your fears", "feed the right wolf", "toe the line", "think outside the box".
Verses written by others,
pasted by yet more others, who
don't give a flying fuck,
ain't got a fucking clue,
just indiscriminate ejaculations
born of the mindless,
the hopeless,
the sleepless,
the loveless,
the lifeless.
Ad verecundiam, non sequituri and ad hoc
everwhere,
everwhen,
everone.
Congrats, lemur,
you're officially a misanthrope.
and the usual ration.
The usual self-help crap
on my screen:
"be this", "master your fears", "feed the right wolf", "toe the line", "think outside the box".
Verses written by others,
pasted by yet more others, who
don't give a flying fuck,
ain't got a fucking clue,
just indiscriminate ejaculations
born of the mindless,
the hopeless,
the sleepless,
the loveless,
the lifeless.
Ad verecundiam, non sequituri and ad hoc
everwhere,
everwhen,
everone.
Congrats, lemur,
you're officially a misanthrope.
Strife.
Unyielding, yet pliable,
the stranger in the mirror.
Unforgiving judge,
æternal rival,
stalwart friend in need,
and betrayer of self.
The foe to defeat,
the garden to tend.
Me.
the stranger in the mirror.
Unforgiving judge,
æternal rival,
stalwart friend in need,
and betrayer of self.
The foe to defeat,
the garden to tend.
Me.
Friday, 2 May 2014
Variables and constants.
I am 1.78m tall,
It's beyond my control.
I write when the blues hit me.
It's beyond my control
When there's a 'no', there's only one way for it to be a 'yes'. I'm not the owner of that 'yes' or 'no'.
It's beyond my control.
I met predators, owners of eyes that could calculate and deceive. I learnt they were friends no more than they were of their prey. Admired as men as they might be, I despise them.
It's beyond my control.
I learnt long ago that a word given might mean nothing, no matter how pretty it sounded to my ears. People will say what they want others to hear.
That's beyond my control.
I realise I became an open door for you to walk in or out, that you have always a tidy room and a made bed inside of me.
That's beyond my control.
I'll attend the rendezvous at the train station, every Saturday (19:00-20:55). My heart will leap in anticipation on the arrival of each train.
That's beyond my control.
I might shed a tear (just the one), should you arrive.
That's beyond my control.
I know a man's word accounts for nothing, no matter what he's like, because of bastards like in the picture.
That's beyond my control.
It's beyond my control.
I write when the blues hit me.
It's beyond my control
When there's a 'no', there's only one way for it to be a 'yes'. I'm not the owner of that 'yes' or 'no'.
It's beyond my control.
I met predators, owners of eyes that could calculate and deceive. I learnt they were friends no more than they were of their prey. Admired as men as they might be, I despise them.
It's beyond my control.
I learnt long ago that a word given might mean nothing, no matter how pretty it sounded to my ears. People will say what they want others to hear.
That's beyond my control.
I realise I became an open door for you to walk in or out, that you have always a tidy room and a made bed inside of me.
That's beyond my control.
I'll attend the rendezvous at the train station, every Saturday (19:00-20:55). My heart will leap in anticipation on the arrival of each train.
That's beyond my control.
I might shed a tear (just the one), should you arrive.
That's beyond my control.
I know a man's word accounts for nothing, no matter what he's like, because of bastards like in the picture.
That's beyond my control.
Thursday, 1 May 2014
A sentimental fool.
Classical
romantic love
is fiction
is fact
is illusion
and concretion.
It's not in books, movies and songs.
It's the fruit of our hands,
our lips,
our minds.
It's not what we read,
but which we build
through yearning unexplained,
through howls in the night,
seeking an answer.
The friendship without bounds in the giving,
and to be grateful for the gifts.
It's thirst unslakable,
hunger insatiable,
contented sleep
when it decides to come,
awareness like I never knew.
romantic love
is fiction
is fact
is illusion
and concretion.
It's not in books, movies and songs.
It's the fruit of our hands,
our lips,
our minds.
It's not what we read,
but which we build
through yearning unexplained,
through howls in the night,
seeking an answer.
The friendship without bounds in the giving,
and to be grateful for the gifts.
It's thirst unslakable,
hunger insatiable,
contented sleep
when it decides to come,
awareness like I never knew.
First Book of Unicorn: Hoofesis. Chapter 4
Theicides.
1 It so happened that, as humans attacked one another in an orgy of blood and viscerae, the gods they sung of followed suit.
2 And, one by one, they started to perish from wounds so grievous they could not be healed by lore or magic.
3 On the field lay Osiris, struck time and time again, until his heart, the courageous Isis, was smitten by Allah's lance. Osiris did not raise again. Nor did Zeus, Apollo or Ahura Mazda.
4 The male gods, being hale of bodies and of fey mood, slaughtered the goddesses where they found them, and claimed their land by right of conquest. Athena, Ishtar and Aphrodite would be sorely missed, fair of semblance and of mind.
5 And their mortal subjects wrote poems into law, and turned their women into slaves, and bred warriors like locusts, besmirching the Unicorn's Green Grass.
6 And each army adopted a god as their own, and gave him its terrible strength of steel, wheel and hand.
7 And the gods they served became yet more masterful and jealous in their terror.
8 Those who had divided, like Jehovah or Panchanana, endeavoured to swallow the flesh of the others, and the halls of Valhalla became silent, for they repaired to their own realms, ever frightful of treachery by their peers.
9 And the men raised altars to burn the flesh of their enemies and even their friends, so they nourished the strength of the gods.
10 Of the plethora of their council, only a handful remained.
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