Christ’s mess is not Yeshua’s problem.

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To the often slained lancer
the brave and better prisoner,
of the wild cackling arena
friends of the night
who are fatally strangers to one another

I begin with my own limits
and spear everyone

Betrayal.

Be a wonderful trail.

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the machine!
transport me
to the rolls of Joyce

No literature
on ligature
the pincers
I squeeze the universe with…

…into a fragile image
I, the volatile rose
choose the abyss
for peace

Depart!
despite,
there is no echo.

On your footsteps
Depart!

let the guide
you lose
sum the paths
together
as a brain

Then… Report!…
Back to life.

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Voice automatically recites at the loading of this page.

Voice automatically recites at the loading of this page.

Emerge from the stone bed of prehistoric confusion,
you are not flesh,
you are not just a facial expression
incised by television,
nor you are the indignity of a jet of words
inherently missing the target

Begin in bytes
The message is clear

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.
.

What good is a question if the answer doesn’t render it useless?

Is matter more intelligent than meaning?

What is inherent in any answer is the gravity that makes one compose its question in the first place!

It’s ubiquitous and formulaic normally. Only the poet inside you can shift the positions of the question and answers with a serious weapon.
It’s called thinking.

“A question always answers the same way a mirror does to a face?”
— Oneiric Emptiness, a song by KiNo

What good is an answer if the question doesn’t render it useless?

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The only thing I care to give is an argument, it seems to be the only worthy energy that could displace the agonising niceties of my New Vague City daze ― I much prefer being on a boat in the Mediterranean, touching fish by the tail, licking salt off the rocks or the shoulder of a woman whose smile could alone decapitate me with a number of songs instantly surfacing every time I look at her, ready to be plucked, oh sweet imminence for your sake I have been hidden away in the caverns of imagination; illicit and advertised as a disease for the masses ― here I lie with an anchoring feet and a heavy soul gnawed by the sawtooth manifestation of witless, night after night dragging of crying expectation for something instantly recognisable and therefore remote as an act of life.

I feel the necessity of a microphone permanently attached to my mouth as a pacifier. I want to issue my interviews in the form films and songs, a lot of songs to be injected in the electric veins of the world. After all I must make a conscious dent on the steel of everyone’s boredom; the room with no view or temperature.

This fucking city is the coffin of romance, nailed by long haired bastards.

I am not eating properly this week. I do not speak of the pharaoh in my shoes.

I don’t know who belongs to my generation, but I assure you they are as boring as unused socks. Don’t know where I fit in the grand scheme of things, but I find a great purpose of being among people who don’t even bear the slightest depth of a slit to cast a shadow on the pavement. Nevertheless, your essence is what I can grasp, made up of by the same stuff as stars and galaxies. Does it ever occur to you as well that cosmologists are a bunch of twonks still referring to the big bang as ‘the moment of creation of everything that came into existence’? A statement which doesn’t hold any mathematical equation of certainty, because it bears two incomprehensible values: everything and existence.

The brain is a three dimensional lump. The mind exists! Even though science cannot account for the place where it lives; beyond the threshold of the physical, electricity of neurones and their atoms conjure up our riches in a dimension that is created from the same element as time. How would a scientist know about this?

Any starry eyed child would ask the same penetrating question; what is outside of space?

My morality is still as caustic as any old desperation of a nondescript instance like this one. Permanently fixed at the peak of an oscillating awareness. Some girls come to mind and I push the door.
I don’t think I was ever properly loved by the ones I pick, as rarely as an epidemic. Try to explain someone why I don’t listen to bands, why there is not a speck of truth in American movies or accents. Who could ever stand a chance to be taken seriously if their mimicry is created on television? Individual clones of society, genres of people that make up nations. I uphold anyone who can prove the claim of their identity without a region. Thousands of years of sleep. If God blesses America, what happens to the rest of the world?

There are a lot of wankers in my way. One of which is the standard vacuum of short span of attention. That’s the bladder of this gasping modernity, shackled in the corner of oblivion.

Nowadays, there seem to be more artists than actual people. It requires an instinct to ignore fickle virtues. For that reason, I am a poet.

Contrary to popular belief, I am not a pretender. I do not have anything other than an ancient dedication to remain naked to remind you; human forms the truth = human form is the truth.

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I conclude with this thought that comes to mime…

Inspiration avows me the now.

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The view is a tunnel.

An event trigger
of this certain bout
encodes my heart.

I spit on mediocrity systematically on a vision.

Logic mars
its shadow;
my conduct.

o, obscure and instantaneous laughter inside the mind
you touch everything.

.

.

9

A concise evaluation of films watched at the Hotel des grand hommes.

.

Voice automatically recites at the loading of this page.
Written in Hotel des grand hommes, New York.

Visitations by private beguilers, varied in beauty.

None, whom will I palm?

.

Thinking into the anchoring silence with a view as broad as a rumour.

.

They are pointing the finger at me

the smoking barrel,

the cracking windshield,

I was going far into the obscenity of a good story

then ending up in a limpid sentence.

Oh, volare!

.

Their pearls have their own minds,

they say,

‘Fill up your pockets in dignity,

your origin is a safe.’

.

In a series of images and sensations that only occur during deep sleep

The marble admiral shows me her left breast

it works like a mouth,

the same contraption

that captures honest men.

.

A vast army of 9 months.

.

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