Glad, the fire ants perform their gaiety tasks
such as hunting for giant creatures
or polishing shoes for surgeons and moths.
Blind all creatures who cheer for their lifetime
of self inflicted industrialism.
Especially frightened warriors and gods
when a child stares up close
into the window of love.
All secrets must be kept
by the king’s lips of stone.
A world of light waits in ambush
for truth to run free,
like a rich whore on new years eve.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Fragment on Deviance
This is a reflexion on the road of sin. It is a fragment from the second chapter of the novel I have been working on for the past couple of months. It is still just a mirage and who knows if it will ever take a substancial form, for I have a love-hate relationship with long story lines. Here it is, a comment on that deviant road which seems also so seducing.
It was much later, when I started meddling with other sort of matters, when I realized how wide is the array of concupiscence and how tight is the essence of all dark acts. Regardless of the action itself, there is something intrinsically intimate in all depravation. There is a long road that people take, sometimes for eternity, sometimes briefly or even sporadically. It is a road ornamented by curiosity and beauty, but with mere lecherous gratification as its primal purpose, a road were the flesh is the master and freedom the anthem. It is a road that crosses all the world infinite amount times. It goes from Africa to the Americas zigzagging hundreds of times through the oceans and the poles; it goes to Europe and the Middle East. It is also a timeless and time traveling road. It passes through opium smoking dents in ancient China, through Russian roulette leagues in Vietnam. It travels from Oceania to Atlantis and to a wild orgy in Ancient Greece. It passes through a corner in Sodom where merchants sell virginities, and rounds a plaza in Babylon on an August afternoon. It takes a turn in Tangiers, right after Casablanca and crosses Gibraltar on a raft with a bunch of sad eyed Mores in disguise. It goes parallel to the Road of Santiago, only it passes through one thousand Spanish Tascas with gypsy cokeheads sweating flamenco over the nylon strings of their guitars. It passes right through Lacoste and enters through the main gates of the majestic castle of Marquis de Sade in the very moment that he is ravishing Justine. It loops around in circles three times in the heart of Montmartre with a newborn twentieth century, and a million bizarre wenches and syphilitic midgets that swing wild bottles of absinthe and chatter over art. It is a road that passes through the door of a house in the slums of Mexico City where there are cockfights every night, while Chabela Vargas sings haggardly and a man gets beaten to death outside over a twenty seven dollar debt. It goes from a dogfight in Tijuana to Rio de Janeiro, passes through a whorehouse in Buenos Aires and shoots all the way back to a dozen Caribbean islands and to Moscow. It is a road of constant pleasure and thirst. It is a road walked by all humanity, to a certain extent. It is a road where once Saint Augustine and Bukowski could have walked holding hands. It is a road that tiptoes on the verge of madness. It is a road beyond a road. It is a constant place out of time and space that we all hold like a flower of ice in our warm hands, but if we hold it for too long our hands freeze. It is a beast that must be tamed, a sentence that must be stripped and then dressed again with full understanding and avid observance. It is what makes this world worldly and the flesh carnal, and an undeniable part of us...
It was much later, when I started meddling with other sort of matters, when I realized how wide is the array of concupiscence and how tight is the essence of all dark acts. Regardless of the action itself, there is something intrinsically intimate in all depravation. There is a long road that people take, sometimes for eternity, sometimes briefly or even sporadically. It is a road ornamented by curiosity and beauty, but with mere lecherous gratification as its primal purpose, a road were the flesh is the master and freedom the anthem. It is a road that crosses all the world infinite amount times. It goes from Africa to the Americas zigzagging hundreds of times through the oceans and the poles; it goes to Europe and the Middle East. It is also a timeless and time traveling road. It passes through opium smoking dents in ancient China, through Russian roulette leagues in Vietnam. It travels from Oceania to Atlantis and to a wild orgy in Ancient Greece. It passes through a corner in Sodom where merchants sell virginities, and rounds a plaza in Babylon on an August afternoon. It takes a turn in Tangiers, right after Casablanca and crosses Gibraltar on a raft with a bunch of sad eyed Mores in disguise. It goes parallel to the Road of Santiago, only it passes through one thousand Spanish Tascas with gypsy cokeheads sweating flamenco over the nylon strings of their guitars. It passes right through Lacoste and enters through the main gates of the majestic castle of Marquis de Sade in the very moment that he is ravishing Justine. It loops around in circles three times in the heart of Montmartre with a newborn twentieth century, and a million bizarre wenches and syphilitic midgets that swing wild bottles of absinthe and chatter over art. It is a road that passes through the door of a house in the slums of Mexico City where there are cockfights every night, while Chabela Vargas sings haggardly and a man gets beaten to death outside over a twenty seven dollar debt. It goes from a dogfight in Tijuana to Rio de Janeiro, passes through a whorehouse in Buenos Aires and shoots all the way back to a dozen Caribbean islands and to Moscow. It is a road of constant pleasure and thirst. It is a road walked by all humanity, to a certain extent. It is a road where once Saint Augustine and Bukowski could have walked holding hands. It is a road that tiptoes on the verge of madness. It is a road beyond a road. It is a constant place out of time and space that we all hold like a flower of ice in our warm hands, but if we hold it for too long our hands freeze. It is a beast that must be tamed, a sentence that must be stripped and then dressed again with full understanding and avid observance. It is what makes this world worldly and the flesh carnal, and an undeniable part of us...
Sunday, April 12, 2009
The Little Hopeless Poem from a Typewriter in Times of Touchscreens
Friday the 13th, Florida, March 2009
10th day of fasting, new typewriter...
A halo of mischief, as on a throne,
sits on this world.
And We
let out decrepit laughter
on the verge of weariness.
I hear glorious misintentioned words
Pronounced and wrapped in felp.
I weave my dreams carefully
Sporadically!
In desperate search for ease.
There is an epidemic, demagogic!
Hunger for hunger.
And keys slouch:
from appearing on a screen
to wildly, mechanically! flying
through the air and slapping the paper
through the ribbons of technicolor ink
like wild hammers.
But I am sure none of this matters
to the frigid functionaries
in this everlasting drought of might and romance.
10th day of fasting, new typewriter...
A halo of mischief, as on a throne,
sits on this world.
And We
let out decrepit laughter
on the verge of weariness.
I hear glorious misintentioned words
Pronounced and wrapped in felp.
I weave my dreams carefully
Sporadically!
In desperate search for ease.
There is an epidemic, demagogic!
Hunger for hunger.
And keys slouch:
from appearing on a screen
to wildly, mechanically! flying
through the air and slapping the paper
through the ribbons of technicolor ink
like wild hammers.
But I am sure none of this matters
to the frigid functionaries
in this everlasting drought of might and romance.
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Los Fantasmas de Camaron y Paco
