dazed

The questions generated by dazed thoughts have no value for all realities. ‘Cause all thoughts generate a self inflicted interview. And you’ll end up hiring different, suspicious personas which will act as you. These questions born from downfalls are useless when asked too late. That desired knowledge must be searched beforehand.  But we are just humans and we don’t know shit. We keep on hiring until when we truly think we found the one that should have got the job all along. For many it could be that the vacancy will remain open to the end. We don’t know shit. There is this powerful sorcerer which acts without our consent.  This guy is closely related to time and uncertainty. Time, time is what we need and we despise so much when the hill is too high. In the beginning, one’s measure is characterized by optimistic presumptions. Up the hill, feet start squealing and time stretches in every muscle and bone, minutes turned in hours.  And the road gets narrower as one tends to the top. Not all plans conclude with the desired situation. Keep on fighting they say, keep on banging your head to the door. No answers. Just these evanescent questions popped in dazed and confused heads, all lead to an unsatisfactory state full of disgust. If there’ll be a place with greenery and pace, a place of tranquility and contentedness, in a short time people will destroy it. We don’t know shit.  

Hangovers

I defecate my feelings, for my stomach hurts every time I fall in love.

Moments collapse under the weight of demands

A change of style, a change in time, one-night stands.

Skinny hands emerged from empty bottles

Boxing gloves jerking off my thoughts

I spread my ideas all around your beds

Emphasized existence through dandy events.

Cemented hearts, fortified souls

No way in, keep the search alive;

A struggle to puke away into the night

Among choking strangers, a glamorous vibe

A compelling speech I might say

A fear that survives strong winds

A need to run on the wither fields

But emotions brutally slither

Burning my stomach, hit after hit

Until I have to take another shit.

I roam around reality

…and after all, why should we dream in this dreamless world?

White walls wait in vain a paintbrush, a hand with sand,

shattered glass canned in bodies, familiar faces hold deep scars past recognition

in faded paintings of the past, kept for unknown reasons in lugubrious feelings

and it all comes down to this. I light my spirit with a handmade satisfaction,

I rub my brain off on sleepless nights with friends like Johnny and Jack,

I lack the sense of now and here when sharp shards of the past sting my flesh,

and blood  gushes to my brain with floods of ruined houses.

Days pass like whores I never paid,

towers I never knew how to climb,

 lips I never knew how to approach and it seems time skips over credits

and my present needs certain edits. Naked stories dash in from spread shaved legs, sweet sweat and honey drop nipples, Anaïs Mountains explored in hot summer nights, a rush of adrenaline

and then it all stops. I wake up in solitude.

No drama here, no love, no desire, no pain and everything

melts in a green pot.

Old and dusty memories mixed with dreams and hopes until the mirage transgresses pushing my reality towards a floating state. I try to stand against the wall; I fall on the ceiling from where I see me on the coach. I am a miller of emotions and experiences, a jack on the road,

a philosophical monkey in a human body. I kill my hopes with useless dreams for that I call it off,

I run away from these false prophecies,

 I hide myself in realities embrace

…and after all, why should we dream in this dreamless world?

blabbering around

When you feel the soft embrace of tolerance, dance around the opportunities. Take them by the hand and push things forward. Accelerate the process if it’s necessary to get it faster. Images tend to take form when you truly desire something. And when something fails to happen you blame it on others. Everything collapses at the point when you realize the illusion of the walls that separate your worlds. Your confusion born from shattered words and images. Mystifying your space blinds your eyes and you can’t see the naked truth that lies on the brass bed.

                Turn the tap on and let the stream amaze you. Put your hands in the stream. Watch the process. Call it off. Bang your head against the tap until blood gushes and fills your sink. Do you feel it now?

                On the way to the hospital, yell at the nurse, call her a whore… Reality is dressed in white. Reality saves you from the evil you’ve created. Bloody paintings hang on the corridors walls. Jump from the medical stretcher and dance with yourself. Check the wall if it’s there. Or maybe the door through which you exit on the porch. It’s late and you play the harmonica like Sonny Boy Williamson. The Sun says goodbye and calls it a day. You sit in the rocking chair with your whiskey on white dust and the feeling of being another one among the others.

the hardest part of the night

enclosed by our secrets and forbidden desires

freedom seems so far from its initial design

and happiness is some dog that ran away

to stray with the hobos.

that hard to define Sunday morning drunkenness

keeps you awake in the perspective of finding

a happy end to the collective story we’re writing.

our body is pain and our souls are dead

confusion has spread through all that’s alive

and smoke is ripping your lungs every time

a cigarette lights the apartment.

undisclosed secrets pop from the past

smashing your brain or what has remained after the last shot of tequila.

you ask for forgiveness but who’s there to hear

the morning alcoholic shout of a stranger.

who’s the dog in the manger

that now ran away ?

these invisible flying creatures are gunned down

we as a healthy communion between a man and a woman

is the illusion created by god and other religions,

by your father and mother and the flying white pigeons

that shitted on your jacket, over the years.

you stand like a statue waiting for we but the shit of a pigeon is not a bringer of luck

and your lack of perspective gets you stuck in bus stations, with your beer and your fear

of missing the bus.

you grope for physical interaction in the darkness of pubs

flirting with invisible faces, with vodka and wine.

unhealed scars opened by the one way sign

that makes you stray on the city’s streets, looking for that we

which hides between the sheets of couples and drinks the morning coffee

and dances, and sings

and fucks, and smokes.

that we, that lights candles in the coziness of bedrooms

and drinks the red wine.

your perception is wasted as well as you are

and far is your answer up in the sky like a flying white pigeon

released from the cage.

we dies in the end

killed by someone like me.

a nightmare that doesn't involve you

I have this dream, every time I look around and see sad faces

a joyful place with cats and dogs and other races

and maybe humans too.

I have this dream when I’m surrounded by a perverted empathy that ends with “ok”

a dream involving me and some of you, on a deserted island, a different space and time, somewhere;

in the universe there is a place without a single war crime.

but we live here, on this land covered by waters

with our laws and religion, no friction with liberty

just an well staged illusion hiding poverty in branded clothes

kids grow in confusion, Santa is not a employee at the Coke company

and you don’t need talent to appear on TV, fake icons and prophets, football gods and Hollywood stars

they’re sold as commodities and never forget, all Arabs are enemies.

we live the grotesque in ignorance and selfishness

never to wake up from this nightmare

a terrible situation of misunderstanding happiness

which jailed our opinions behind barcodes and plastic

don’t ask for forgiveness, nobody will hear the shout

of a sellout.

I have this dream that dies

When someone buys another lie.