Chronicles from the Gutter.

Dig some more, I saw his fingers pointing at her telling her to come closer. The snakes are out of poison he said as he slipped his hands under her green cotton skirt.
That old fairy tail stopped repeating itself, dogs from the underworld licking your fresh wound, warm saliva it's fine until it gets cold and it gets colder when you feel better.
I saw my picture on my neighbor's wall; she said I was going to hell. Her plastic fingers used to scare me a lot, an inhuman lady thrilled to be loved, seducing dirty soldiers, drinking dirty water. She only eats scrambled eggs with melted cheese on top. Some things sound ugly when you combine them with dairy.
Sleeping on the stand of some heavy-duty machinery. water leaking from the ceiling, breathing down humid stench. There's no way back home unless you can walk on water, craving to go back home to see who is using daddy's new shaving cream. A black cat chewing on my meat while I lick the stairs to the attic, if you ask her why, I think she will say, 'These are the thoughts that cross my mind when I wash down the ants into the sink'.

She said: -do not let him in, he ate onions and beans... his moustache could be heavy on your lips.
-I'm gonna let him in, he saw me through the peep hole... go into my room and put some lipstick on.
Another day had beaten down... another hole on the bedroom wall. She stood in line to get some warm bread, crossed a dead rat and threw it in a well.
Blue jeans and white eyes, she wants to get along with the wife of a stranger. How many time's can you introduce yourself to the same old person?
Undress your self, gather some saliva, you are going to talk long, can have your mouth dry.

Stay away from me, I'm unjustified, impermanent.
Retracing footsteps spiraling down to the city-underground. I feel nauseated...I light a smoke and think that I should read the prescription note that the community doctor gave me. The emergency room was crowded; I had to wait in line to get my pass. I'm usually impatient with formalities of respect- it's got to be either raw or rotten. It shouldn't be served; it should be spat on your face. What made the waiting more unendurable was my conviction that all these people are imaginary invalids. The doctor was synoptic; apparently I had a fractured rib. This got me thinking that on another level this would be the tare-down of what made me human. I know, i tend to get symbolically dramatic.

She is asking if she is mad but Beethoven was already red. Machinist tendencies, I'm reduced to an apple but I still believe in alchemy. Restart from the middle, no need to go back to the warm swimming pool. What if you die in there? We all know there was no space to spare.
He is the perfect villain, zapping on a pink remote control, beat boxing with a doll. Flip flop cigarette box, saliva and cigarette butts. Eating ash and drinking gasoline, identifying with to some popular cause. Dolly is mad, dolly is stressed, broken glass, bleeding head. Dolly is dead, she was only a sheep.
Jesus has horns; he was born in late December and killed by a deer hunter.

Some thoughts for today before i go to bed...

I don't know why but i was thinking about poetry while pinchin the sawing needle in and out on a doll.
the idea first started with people, their sadness, the way they express it. This brought me to think on the way i see poetry and how i want it to be.
I don't like a poem that cries and laments it's sadness. it's either love or hate...no regrets. You don't like to see a mother crying her motherhood. Repenting...yes but with grace.
well...it's the way i see it, i'm not making a stiff statement.

I just finished reading "the adventures of Pinocchio" by Collodi. Now i see everyone as a Pinocchio but first and foremost myself. I think i'm stuck in between the two last chapters before reaching my end...
What else did i trip on in my head? hmmm oh yes! people want to be loved for what they are not and if you love them for who they are they might be hateful...you gotta humor their illusions and ideals...thats quite easy!


quote of the day: ""It's man devouring man my dear and who are we to deny it in here" Mr.T and Mrs Lovett

Attempting to find ultimacy to Gods existence or its inexistence is similar to a dog running around its tail, a merry-go-round to nowhere.
There's always going to be something refuting it and shaking your 'sacred grounds'. You should keep silence upon your God out of means of respect; it cannot be shared in a city where everybody is a self appraised prophet marketing his God.


Where are all the artisans with sawdust in their hair, brushing it off with their sclerotic hands?
This is not a matter of getting me to believe in a white lie, neither a creation of an adequate neo-reality, it is only a challenge to find Beauty that lies beyond good and evil.

My logic limps but it moves ahead, I don't practice my fascist regime from a high tower, neither am I a fortress moving on feet made of steel. I work under the regime of the Heart, if it tells me to be cruel, I'll be it in the most innocent way, if it asks me to love, I'll love till its rhythm runs astray.

Agnosticism, theism, atheism, so many alleyways that we chose to venture through by assumptions of a boundless Freedom. 'We will meet again some sunny day'.

quote:

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God is the only being who, in order to reign, doesn't even need to exist.
Charles Baudelaire

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Feed the crowd...
There's the opening song
Teutonic glances from the lady on the bicycle, she died with wind in her hair.
Home! I want you to be everywhere I go
Mystic blue forests, Bucharest through the peephole
I'm a cannibal baby, i love it when you fall into someone else's trap. My head is in a cotton candy field. The rest of me inside a bitter boys mouth
Pretending to be gods. Accidental insanity. I'm Human.
Loud television, blame it on Ebonite.

-I don't belong in this army with phantomatic enemies. I rather lay upon the grass and become all the colors i could be under the sun. Warming my hands on white sheets, like the falling leaves i'll be swirling upon emptiness, upon my own absence to myself.
Fireworks in the underground, great expectation's for a lycanthropic child waiting for wings to hatch through her spine.
I, myself, am the daughter of a winter deer. I'm covered in snow and i will never grow.

I got a couple of guests inside and a plum pie on a silver plate. Where's my cross? I'll put myself on a sacrificial pedestal to spare me from myself. Paint me in black, I'll become a silhouette and lure the sun. My body, my caravan caught up in a whirlwind of illusions without any punctuation. Sunday! It's a good day to envy your neighbor, butcher the wife to give her paleness some color. This is not a rainy day, its just God shedding a tear to cover nothingness.

Eat Red Meat and you will stop giving that little someone the shit that every other person gives you. We get older, more and more conveniently civilized, socialized, pacified. Talk about Big Ideas with peers and then stop and wonder why you give a damn in the first place about something that wont make your day. "It's Just for the thrills" says missus XxY...yet another mean for self-amusement. Children prefer parks and colorful machines...You...just want to bite someone elses toung to see what it is that they are not saying. Eat Red Meat but eat what you can kill...if you don't want to get your hands dirty, go fishing; all you have to do is to knock it's head on wood and may the devil hear you.

I ran across this poem from Paul Valery while i was researching about a quraan saying concerning the drunkness of the angels and hence the soul. I have to share this. So beautiful

The Graveyard by the sea- Paul Valery

This quiet roof, where dove-sails saunter by,
Between the pines, the tombs, throbs visibly.
Impartial noon patterns the sea in flame --
That sea forever starting and re-starting.
When thought has had its hour, oh how rewarding
Are the long vistas of celestial calm!

What grace of light, what pure toil goes to form
The manifold diamond of the elusive foam!
What peace I feel begotten at that source!
When sunlight rests upon a profound sea,
Time's air is sparkling, dream is certainty --
Pure artifice both of an eternal Cause.

Sure treasure, simple shrine to intelligence,
Palpable calm, visible reticence,
Proud-lidded water, Eye wherein there wells
Under a film of fire such depth of sleep --
O silence! . . . Mansion in my soul, you slope
Of gold, roof of a myriad golden tiles.

Temple of time, within a brief sigh bounded,
To this rare height inured I climb, surrounded
By the horizons of a sea-girt eye.
And, like my supreme offering to the gods,
That peaceful coruscation only breeds
A loftier indifference on the sky.

Even as a fruit's absorbed in the enjoying,
Even as within the mouth its body dying
Changes into delight through dissolution,
So to my melted soul the heavens declare
All bounds transfigured into a boundless air,
And I breathe now my future's emanation.

Beautiful heaven, true heaven, look how I change!
After such arrogance, after so much strange
Idleness -- strange, yet full of potency --
I am all open to these shining spaces;
Over the homes of the dead my shadow passes,
Ghosting along -- a ghost subduing me.

My soul laid bare to your midsummer fire,
O just, impartial light whom I admire,
Whose arms are merciless, you have I stayed
And give back, pure, to your original place.
Look at yourself . . . But to give light implies
No less a somber moiety of shade.

Oh, for myself alone, mine, deep within
At the heart's quick, the poem's fount, between
The void and its pure issue, I beseech
The intimations of my secret power.
O bitter, dark, and echoing reservoir
Speaking of depths always beyond my reach.

But know you -- feigning prisoner of the boughs,
Gulf which cats up their slender prison-bars,
Secret which dazzles though mine eyes are closed --
What body drags me to its lingering end,
What mind draws it to this bone-peopled ground?
A star broods there on all that I have lost.

Closed, hallowed, full of insubstantial fire,
Morsel of earth to heaven's light given o'er --
This plot, ruled by its flambeaux, pleases me --
A place all gold, stone, and dark wood, where shudders
So much marble above so many shadows:
And on my tombs, asleep, the faithful sea.

Keep off the idolaters, bright watch-dog, while --
A solitary with the shepherd's smile --
I pasture long my sheep, my mysteries,
My snow-white flock of undisturbed graves!
Drive far away from here the careful doves,
The vain daydreams, the angels' questioning eyes!

Now present here, the future takes its time.
The brittle insect scrapes at the dry loam;
All is burnt up, used up, drawn up in air
To some ineffably rarefied solution . . .
Life is enlarged, drunk with annihilation,
And bitterness is sweet, and the spirit clear.

The dead lie easy, hidden in earth where they
Are warmed and have their mysteries burnt away.
Motionless noon, noon aloft in the blue
Broods on itself -- a self-sufficient theme.
O rounded dome and perfect diadem,
I am what's changing secretly in you.

I am the only medium for your fears.
My penitence, my doubts, my baulked desires --
These are the flaw within your diamond pride . . .
But in their heavy night, cumbered with marble,
Under the roots of trees a shadow people
Has slowly now come over to your side.

To an impervious nothingness they're thinned,
For the red clay has swallowed the white kind;
Into the flowers that gift of life has passed.
Where are the dead? -- their homely turns of speech,
The personal grace, the soul informing each?
Grubs thread their way where tears were once composed.

The bird-sharp cries of girls whom love is teasing,
The eyes, the teeth, the eyelids moistly closing,
The pretty breast that gambles with the flame,
The crimson blood shining when lips are yielded,
The last gift, and the fingers that would shield it --
All go to earth, go back into the game.

And you, great soul, is there yet hope in you
To find some dream without the lying hue
That gold or wave offers to fleshly eyes?
Will you be singing still when you're thin air?
All perishes. A thing of flesh and pore
Am I. Divine impatience also dies.

Lean immortality, all crêpe and gold,
Laurelled consoler frightening to behold,
Death is a womb, a mother's breast, you feign
The fine illusion, oh the pious trick!
Who does not know them, and is not made sick
That empty skull, that everlasting grin?

Ancestors deep down there, O derelict heads
Whom such a weight of spaded earth o'erspreads,
Who are the earth, in whom our steps are lost,
The real flesh-eater, worm unanswerable
Is not for you that sleep under the table:
Life is his meat, and I am still his host.

'Love,' shall we call him? 'Hatred of self,' maybe?
His secret tooth is so intimate with me
That any name would suit him well enough,
Enough that he can see, will, daydream, touch --
My flesh delights him, even upon my couch
I live but as a morsel of his life.

Zeno, Zeno, cruel philosopher Zeno,
Have you then pierced me with your feathered arrow
That hums and flies, yet does not fly! The sounding
Shaft gives me life, the arrow kills. Oh, sun! --
Oh, what a tortoise-shadow to outrun
My soul, Achilles' giant stride left standing!

No, no! Arise! The future years unfold.
Shatter, O body, meditation's mould!
And, O my breast, drink in the wind's reviving!
A freshness, exhalation of the sea,
Restores my soul . . . Salt-breathing potency!
Let's run at the waves and be hurled back to living!

Yes, mighty sea with such wild frenzies gifted
(The panther skin and the rent chlamys), sifted
All over with sun-images that glisten,
Creature supreme, drunk on your own blue flesh,
Who in a tumult like the deepest hush
Bite at your sequin-glittering tail -- yes, listen!

The wind is rising! . . . We must try to live!
The huge air opens and shuts my book: the wave
Dares to explode out of the rocks in reeking
Spray. Fly away, my sun-bewildered pages!
Break, waves! Break up with your rejoicing surges
This quiet roof where sails like doves were pecking.

Sea Trouts

This worl is going round again and i'll run around my tail...
I would just like to know who i'll be selling myself to today...

Am i the child of a god or a devil may care, because sometimes it seems to me that i got a heart turned upside down. Take me to China and i won't be walking on water, i'll be walking on air.
Isn't it a sad idea that she had to die on twenty five, reborn again upon a sermon to the night and all the vicious creatures that crave for blood? Clinging on to the skin of your hand with their crystal claws, reflecting your face on the bright side of the moon. Dig deep under a tree so you could sleep and grow. Color the pulp with blood, heartbeat echoing through the wind reaches the sinners ear; his eyes are a black hole to all the stars above. He says "i'm not a preacher, i'm a daylight criminal. With death eventual, i'll bring you about your deepest fears, your paranoiac seed...I'll turn you into a god and the sages will weep all the holy water held within their flesh".

Closer to the Bone...
A call to mourn for the warms behind the walls...
Gnash within me your razorblade teeth...l

I spent the day in the countryside where i called it a home just a year ago. The first thing i did is go to the woods and pick some fresh spring grass to my rabbit Godot. I drifted so far that i forgot that i had to return home. I always had this fixation about the idea of home. Ideally i would like to be someone who roams and never stays put in oneplace. I came to the conclusion that i have to reach a point where i can find a home wherever i go by making my body my home...a moving castle. Then again, my behavior shows just the opposite. I ge attached to faces and places easily. Just two years ago i learned how to let go of things when it's time comes.
It makes me sad and happy at the same time when i do that.

I was on my way back home and the idea hit me that maybe i don't want to drift far from home cause i know i'm not the type of going back and that's why i never leave my chrysalis. What am i afraid of? i pretend that i don't know why but i do, maybe what i have to learn now is to let go of myself and coincide with it at the end of the road. Where is Geppetto?

Does my story matter? why do i want to become a bedtime story anyway?
I want to live in a world of images and impressions where woods are litten at night by insects of the afterworld, out of this realm of the five sense's. I learned that the 6th realm doesn't come to you ex-nihilo, it needs the heart of what you see, smell, touch and hear. I am the sixth person. I am real only in virtuality, i love virtualy. I don't feel my reflexion, it feels itself. I just stand and watch myself through the eyes of a stranger. I'm the pupper in the circus of expectations. How do i become real?
...by bonding myself to a happiness of a few too many. I'll put myself in the queu and wait for my turn to turn the big wheels, not of fortune but that of the social machine; waiting for evolution in inertia.

Flowers give birth to fairies and the waves of tears are those of a dreamer who doesn't fear to disappear with each flap of butterfly wings.

ah dammit, i'm twenty seven again. You know, i'm sick and tired of beginning all over again. i'm always in this attitude...every day is a new day where i can become anything i want cause i'm inconsistent by nature, impermanent.
My dad brought me a bottle of wine instead of cake...i've been singing the happy unbirthday song for quite some time now. At twelve thirty last night my sweetest friend died..i tucked him in a warm blanket and drove my way to the mountains...my sacred lands. It was a cold and foggy morning. My brother and i set ourselves out into the woods to give Godot a proper funeral...we slipped a note under his palm, maybe in his next life it will become those sentences that get stuck in your head that you yearn for. We digged and digged in vain on stony grounds, then i remebered that deep in the woods there is a muddy place...with our energies gone in waist we relocated the tomb of godot. we dug a hole so deep that no prey animal could reach. Godot was sound asleep in the grounds.
He was a wild heart, he taught me a lot. Through him i learned of a responsable freedom. He made me find myself in between the gods and their delirium. The spark in his eyes became the diamond in my heart. My little friend, thank you.

"If we cry now," she said, "it will just be ignored." L.Cohen

To June

Half an hour ago I was laying in my bed uncovered, listening to the frail yet determined pounding of my heart, I was listening to myself breathe, it reminded me of waves. I thought that when the waves set forth to the shore they would be exhaling their self out of the sea and not the other way round...it is the otherworld after all.
This thought reminded me of you and that June afternoon at the public beach...I remembered that black swamp, but what does it matter to throw a rock and not see it sink? I remembered you gazing with dreamy eyes into the pale horizon and me worrying about the crabs hiding under the sand. You talked of poets and little Bedouin beggars with orange hair and amputated hands, of freedom found in prisons, of institutionalized madness and the divine...all the things that get lost beneath the rippling of the waves.

All you need to do is scream at the top of your lungs and break all these mirrors. I wonder what narcissus would think of that. All this anger and hate, where does it come from? Was it heartbreak? No I think it was way beyond that. Maybe you didn't have a heart to begin with, just a shadow ghost. Will she cease existing if I stop thinking? I hope so...
I would repeat 'I hate you' for one thousand and one nights and it will never lose its potency. A person so low that screams out loud self hatred and self destruction.
Dreams of crescent color wings, oh what a laugh! If you'd have wings they will be made out of molded skin and didn't you once sing for the creatures of the night and how unfairly they were considered? And there you are, the daughter of a bat, Rattus Rattus! Blind and moving in packs spreading the disease of the Black Death. What a PEST! A child sent from hell, galvanized with gutter prophecies. It doesn't take any bravery when you ask to be hated. It is fear in denial of its decadence. What takes courage is love beneath the incandescence of stars that died million nights before you .
She says she doesn't regret anything and that she will do it all over again because it made her who she is today...what a cry! What a lie told so badly! If she had it her way she will change her skin.
You would say that I'm being cruel to her...yes...if I had a hand I would slap her on both cheeks, if I had feet of my own I would kick her in the stomach so that she spurts herself out of me.
Is she real? Is she all I'm about? No...I refuse her just like she refuses love given to her; I want to make her cry till she becomes a sea the way she makes people cry their last innocent breath. Such an unforgiving monster, is it me?
You should see her father, a righteous and honest man with eyes severe and deep connected right to the heart and there...there's only love so bare, so silent like dawn.
Am I not his child? Am i just a dream? What is there for me to understand? What is there for me to forgive? Is it Her?

You gotta be crazy for ripping me off my crazy jacket. Where do you think you could take me? Another prison, a place to decorate with things to worship? Time is short and I got million seconds to sell. There's a sanctuary in my head and each thought is a sacrificial one. Show me where the new breed prophets are, take me to the desert where some modern age saint is waiting for a mute god to whisper the awaited word.
Leave me in the city that is bringing me down. Flat as asphalt beaten down by heat and velocity. Lets ride bicycles on a forgotten street, we could bring the man in the human down. I'll be the idea, you will be the body. Catholic girls and self-consumptive nuns tied my hands, right on top of my heart, they say, so I could keep it warm cause the rest of me is dead.