Not a vicarious

I don’t deserve to live.

I should be removed from society and be eaten by fleas.

I should be chopped up in pieces and my eyes left open to glass stare and scare little kids in the street.

I don’t mind kids, I just think they spend too much paper. But they don’t deserve to be scared away by a dead opened eye. They will have the chance when they contradict their parents and unlucky end up deep in the woods.

But me, I don’t deserve their glass staring eyes either. But I’m veil. I should be bitten to death by bees and have my eyes turned into propolis.

That would be nature’s backlash. That would be the backlash of my nature.

the toilet is clean, the garden is wide and beautiful, the smoke of a past barbecue is still in the air, the ‘compost’ board  in the little lump in the ground, molly the blue sheep stays put next to it to give any required information.

All set. All ready. Inspiration lurks tickling my imagination long tied up by frustration or is it boredom?  I see that garden, that pots in the kitchen, the black and white cat walking  with grace around the flowers, why bored?

I hear voices from the neighbour. They complain, eat and laugh at the same time. I am silent, not hungry but have no reason to cry, this reasons have been so pungent that i seem to have finally transcended them, turning it into deliberated grins.

Eventually in this ocean of coincidences and bizarre accidents I receive some replies, not passive, not polite.

light

today I thought about the weightlifters.

maybe because I thought about how heavy I feel.

I could barely drag myself out of bed.

today I thought about the weightlifters.

would they be strong enough to lift me?

would they feel like winners?

would they have made it?

today I thought how prolific and productive I could be,

I’m heavy instead and heavier and heavier

dumped in a weightlifters training room corner.

Heart cup

It rained yesterday. It was hot and I could feel that familiar smell of my childhood afternoons.

When my ball used to roll away from my hands to your garden.

You never returned them to me and I never asked them back.

I was happy just to stare your red hair as you walked away between giggles with my yellow and blue ball trapped in you fat, strawberry scented hands.

My mum used to go to yours. I would stand still in a corner with this pain in my belly, my eyes heavy and numb trying not to see you.

I felt as if I was in your heart-shaped cup stirred with your gaze.

That same gaze from when I saw you in the pool. Your hair waving through the water, your heart cup floating away from your hands.

Your mum rushed to your rescue but it was too late.

I had already escaped in your little cup, with your gaze in my belly.

it seemed like an eternity

They were mischievous insomniacs and parlayed into sick, funny stories,

it became a distraction, with that horrid sense of love affair,

she was a shark woman, unsmiling, really interesting and real.

As hard as a frozen snowball, a cassette flew into my chest,

there was a story about robots in it, that could neatly illustrate,

we looked nervously at each other as if getting banned.

I can tell you, the silence was defeating, colorful.

I couldn’t believe in her amorality, she couldn’t believe in my disgusting cynicism.

At that moment, she ate my unconventional beauty.

july, 07 2008

……………………………………………………………..

Today i noticed my neighbours had moved, i never really met them but for some reason it made me wonder who they were, their favorite fruits, their reasons to cry or smile, their “whys”. The children used to shout “helloooo” at me, i always shouted back “helloo” stumbling at their wood tiny bikes locked in the fence…i wonder where they moved and who their new neighbours are, who the little girls are shouting hello to…

well, people always go, and i’ve seen them going quite a lot, or maybe i am the one who always go…

i felt stingy when i passed by their door and didn’t see the pepper plants outside, i turned extremely sensitive, and started to remember microscopic glances of their presence, the smell of their food, their dense voices closed behind their doors, what did they speak about while i was in my room suffering of headache or scratching my records or crying like a penguin who’s lost his egg for the 80 degrees below icy ground…

well hope they’re well and hope i’ll be,  when  i make my move.

………………………………………………………………………….

Cats romance

Snow lives in my stomach

it covers the peak of the mountain i’m yelling from

can you hear it?

it carries the anguish that has always pushed me to the top and back, as long as an orgasm

as brief as the glimpse of joy i feel everytime the world wakes me up,

as asfixiating as when people’s eyes lay on me,

as resilient as when a car hits my flesh when i crossed the street without looking,

you eat my shout,

you make me have that feeling of transcending into smoke again,

of abandoning myself from the bottom for you to catch me on the top,

whenever i’m alone with you all rest seems so cliche

april 04, 2008

Contortions

No fireworks at the end “rules of conduct”. And the sun comes up.Why aren’t there women? This is so beautiful it hurts. Why oh why just simply delta blues? I’m gonna eat her fresh and spellbound face.

A jug o’ milk and a big easy chair raving into the forests. I don’t know the answer. Life goes on chasing an atmosphere, breaking the waterdrum, jumping.

Imitation, constipation, westernization.

Although bottles of handmade spirits !to swing on! were authentic and intense, the next day would be more profound. This ritual to catch a train so i could bring a stunning thought. Made inumerous calls. Allowed myself.

Cact-us

Singing music, our genuine Christ, true, never forget!

By 2am a hole in my strength sang arrogant. Overtoned singing women, sublime, swapping great.

Please darling drag yourself out into the garden-prophet and pegendary- come back to my thinking, i’m starving to death.

in our homes

Pummeling.Turning strangers into friends., like cheap deodorant.We’re not getting any younger. And funnily enough, we’re like a broken romance, a hormonal soup frenetically alive.

An incredible impact evoked a sense of revenge that gave place to a circus-like atmosphere, orchestrated during the last hours, a fake noise less organic than before. infamous, sinister, calamitous.