February 19th, 2016
January 10th, 2016
December 14th, 2015
October 17th, 2015
All the languages identify me. Even the loving ones. Especially the loving ones. Devour me, unidentifiably inclined. Must use words without language. Must demand for words outside languages.
Otherwise, hands down, neck down – you can’t see me in my sands. Oh, you violent lovers and haters, brothers and sisters, mothers, fathers, friends who are too sober to lose your tongues in the foreign border zones.
When I close my eyes, I see war. When I open them, you nail me where you want me at. Between war and martyrdom I’m neither torn, nor released.
Switch that light, get me a rainbow that changes all the colours. Inverse inverse. Ride it, my pony.
Fucked up by wars and stalked naked by your knowing where I am nailed at, I lay onto concrete roads and pavements. The leaves of weed that crack it, enter me, unidentifiably inclined, through my holes, light and dark ones, ease up into my bones – I know the sky for a moment (….) it rains.
Won’t close my eyes for the warlords, half close them for the lovers and the haters, that – for reasons unintelligible – have disguised themselves in the drops that drop the rain.
I know the sky.
Through the weed pupils I am a master of unidentifiable inclinations, declaring now – once and for naught – the time of no one, which will be unlanguageable and date-free, thus exempt from murder and caress, that permeats all thornless things.
October 17th, 2015
Crossfire, double dire, I will be something you never guess. Imma appropriate your cultural habits, your material habitat. I will dance so , that your wife starts doubting your marital vows. Imma seduce your husband, Imma offer you a chance. You practise in manufacturing monsters I have to find home for. If only because they become the bringers of the lights, the Lucifers to the gods you pray to.
My god is a water. It dissolves the paint I paint your kitchen with, it dissolves the pain I get paid back with. I gonna be the best worker you had. I will plan the revolution, that’ll leave you houseless – that might gift you a home. Free. If you manage to suffer through.
I will be a liar at night, so you will give me shelter – you’re conscientious, right? I will wear the portraits of the men you despise on my chest, and the men you worship – down. I will sell you anything, just to be in your pockets – I can strike the lowest there.
When you’ll want to know my name, I’ll hand a card, that will change the second you’ll think of remembering it. Imma follow all your rules, so you keep me in high esteem, and then break them, thus making a hole in your understanding trust.
On saturday evenings I’ll become an existential terrorist, so you can’t relax enough to forget. And you won’t. You’ve forgotten much already.
I will not know who I am, nor who I want to be. I will be anything and nothing you want me to be. I’ll jog by your side, I’ll play tennis with you. We will talk about our jobs and beer and how your guts can’t take no more tomatoes. I’ll smile with the most honest smile there was. Then I will frown, my eyes dark and red.
You’ll be my guest and I will take care of you, then you’ll become unsettled, for I won’t answer or return your calls, won’t shake your hand at the grocery store.
I never knew who I was, why should you? I’ll be bad, I’ll be good, I’ll be joyous and sad. I’ll be the worst rhymer, the mediocre poet, the master of pose.
I’ll be a father, a son, a husband you want. I’ll be motherless, childless and alone.
When you’ll ask where I live, I will take you to the place the stars kiss the soil there. I’ll be gone. You won’t know the way back, the way forward. You can become the stars, the soil. Or the kiss. I won’t know.
I will never be something you want me to be, I will be nothing, that I know. Before that, though, I’ll be rude, obnoxious, cheap and absent minded. Dumb minded. Smart ass minded.
Whenever you will try to tell me apart, I’ll be another hole. I will lick it, suck it, as long as you get pleased with your pin downs. I don’t mind you being happy or satisfied, as I won’t mind your despair or your pain.
There will be a time the sun heats the sand, and I am naked and your hand naked on my naked belly, mine under your naked ass. That time can be said to be a time when I will suspend your disbelief and all’ll be calm, in its predestined place. I don’t have no problems being something neither I nor you or anyone else has or will ever be.
And when I’ll insist on making no sense, you’ll have to deal with that, motherfucker.
Deal with that, motherfucker.
Deal with that.
(open my eyes open my eyes open my eyes open my eyes open my eyes)
September 17th, 2015
The glittering new grey on your windows, so you can look at the tragic comedy of the world through the fine framed glass squares. Between which the brass coloured winds blow up into the interstellar space. So the rain acquiring each and every colour that has been or will ever be, can pass onto the grass, making it deeper green, onto the pavement, giving it its grey essence; under the planks of your red house, where sun don’t shine, making things rot, making shit rot, so you have your hands full next or the double next year, ripping the old ones off, nailing some new, wood colour ones, to paint it red again. Why does it drip? Why does your house act as if it’s bleeding?
I’m seeing red again!
The rain floats down, meets the river, water of unnameable hue, all hues as it were, not all of the rain, though. Move your hand in patterns formed through triadic memories, oh, memories of nothing happening, the best nothing of all. If the edges of grey cross the border invading the whiteness of the inside, be sure to check them in place, add white with hairtips of a brush, that has never brushed before – all must stay clean inside, so as not to let the tragedy make her stand up right in your face. Keep that outside. Shh, says the painter, his fingers and palms red, his smile must be hiding something else besides a few rotten teeth. Might be the pink of the inner skin, interskinnar place.
Red! Who’s seeing what?! I’m seeing none of that.
The glass gets some drips, scrape most of them off for the master, leave few for a boy, who dreams golden at night. Dark as the drainpipes are black. Sucking the rain that acquires all colours and some shapes, covering it with the blackness to save it from the yellow death hovering in the sky blue sky.
Can’t see red no more.
Must be far from the insides that frame the outsides so fine. Here the bench, at the border of comitragical world, your eyelids heavy from work, close that. Last traces of colours flickering away. The silence, fuck that!
April 4th, 2015
For the warrior one thing to love, so she does not tear it all apart.
For the lover one thing to fight for, so he does not whore it all out.
For me, to find three girls of the dream, with the sweetest lips, in need of tasting the salty ones – from work and the white crystals of seashore rocks. To kiss three soft opening of the mouths, to feel hardship forget its fate. Split the rock, extract the crystals – I place the history of being alone on the petals of your tongues. Suck it, melt the salt, swallow the days and nights of wandering by sea, devour my fate, drown me in the waters of the spring sugar. Don’t ask my name, I will be gone by the time of the question mark. Burn into me the memory of sweetness, which I won’t manage to sweat out, even if I go far into the shadowed shored, where, now fateless, I will fall asleep surrounded by black clouds, the sweet trinity having descended upon me. My loneliness, now diminished and shared, will have found a better home, one with the srawberry doors. During the time of uneasiness and disquiet, unable to sleep, I will lick my lips, and through the salt dust touching my tongue I will enter the kingdom there are no names, signs or annal registers for. Just exactly eight folds of the flesh, that, driven by curiosity, have found something that one only dreams of.
For a dreamer, one door to bypass the alertness of life.
For the living, to dream to dream to dream.
March 10th, 2015
At time, between dusk and dark, i think of the smallness of my life. My hut is tiny, i have to bend to go through the door. It barely has enough floor to accommodate two people – all mattress, no space for anything else. My needs are few, scattered on a little shelf – tea, sugar, strawberry jam, coffee, some bread, herring, a bottle of sauce and some whisky. On a child size bed, above and behind my sleeping pillow, a backpack and what can find its place on it – a book, some cds, few pieces of clothing and vitamins. My head lies close to the concrete part of the wall, my body, in a sleeping bag, feels the air coming through the door gap formed by the cable going under it.
I need nothing much more. My life is small. I think and i watch the sky, the mountains and the sea surrounding the city. I hear its distant drone. The silence and the emptiness. As if there’s nothing else, but dreams. As if the smallness of my life makes me live in dreams. Closed by the groundless abyss and infinite heavens – my mind has nowhere else to go, but dreamworlds.
And so my life – even to the point where i don’t know if i’m dreaming, i become a dreamt life. And as in a dream, so in life, i am capable of extremely chancy things. Tending to be someone first and then somebody else in a matter of milliseconds.
As a creature of no identity, just the one of being between abyss and infinity, and so infinitesimal, i have no control of my dream. The atheistic randomness of it lets me understand what is meant by the two most used characteristics of a god: allpowerfull and allkind – almighty and benevolent, otherwords.
For all power is the one that is not limited – the power of creating or destroying anything at anymoment, out of groundless abyss, up to infinite heavens. A true dream uninterrupted by smallness of life.
Allkindness is loving everything at all moments – undifferentiated, for the good, the bad and the ugly – a pure dream escaped from the smallness of life.
And so i think, whether the smallness of my life is a definite argument against the existence of god. For if there is life, however insignificant, there is a limit (to and of power and love) – a moment of waking up. But since i live and am as the one who is dreamt – being kind and violent at the same time – breaking the hearts that i love most kindly, i wonder whether being an atheist is, in a somewhat inexplicable way, being a god.
Yet, all of this is false. The groundless abyss forbids one to dream truly, and infinite heavens – to dream purely: by simply circumventing the need for belief – there’s no need to believe in what one dreams (or how one dreams) – all of power, all of kindess is just given for free and taken for granted in the easiness of a split second.
You can’t believe in what you dream, for there is no need of verification of any kind (which is the source of belief) in a chaotic life of a dream or a dream of a life, which, by being random and chaotic, is most transparent, and thus blind, in a subverted sense of this concept – nothing limits your visions.
Dreams, if correctly analyzed, are the source of disbelief – when one has dreamt, one has become accustomed to smile at belief. And so neither the truth of life, which is smallness, nor the universe of dreams, which is unbelievable, tends godwards.
And so one is rightly and truly between groundless abyss and infinite heavens, crying and laughing as a mad god – writing a teology about its unbelievable inexistence.
As lovable and as powerless as a drunk sailor, lost in a rubber boat, floating on a swimming pool.
February 7th, 2015
There were three gold-miners on a long poll, drinking silver tequila. The sun, drying the sweat of the heat, blistered off metal plates – the noise of white colour in sunshine. In the intervals of cough, you could hear them talking, which made no sense, their words and your ears. A gap, of no precise measure, extending between the listener and the speech. Like a too heavy book, that one is unable to read lying down on her back – because all reading must be done in such a position as to let one rest his eyes while looking at the blue or white grey of the sky – to let it interrogate the book – the book that loses the line of sight and interest; too big, too much work, too few a dream. Let the sky thus, take its place. Perform a reading act with your eyes shut, back firmly against the soil and the grass. Feel the blue and grey-white become black – then multicolour of kid’s pencils. Make the gold become yellow, never to be reversed. Noise the lies of socialism of the rich, of the revolution of the idle, of anarchism of the bookkeepers. Book the losers. Beer the beards. Smoke the young ones. Change your spears. Shake the dust from brown shoes.
One says: can smoke here all you want, we got skies!
Two says: are you interested in my work – my new tools, are they damn!
Three says: some beer for my teacup, mind you won’t, common, man!
The one without a number, for there’s always one without a number, belly up, laughing, getting kicked – contrary to the wisdom of people, contrary to the shore of the ocean, closer into the desert, deeper into the sun.
Still reading. Deciphering the black, so it means nothing. A writer sitting on a coffee table in San Francisco, lost between two continents, drinking Budweiser, marking files with an X. The gold sanddust, covering the rest of California. A dream cover, she performing, uncovering the dreams. The night waiting, long walk acoming. Better grab your bag – sleep your death in it. Golden tequila for a dreamer, 12 years of whisky for a worker in you.
January 7th, 2015
If you ever catch yourself trying to put the endlessly proliferating ideas, visions, futures into words, you know the overwhelming feeling of being thrust into the middle of things you are too slow to grab, grasp, get hold of. Things you come to know to be faster than writing. You come to know something that is called chaos or multiplicity of worlds.
Worlds, in which infinite number of yous try to understand infinite ways of ever abounding other infinities, which might differ only by the length of one nail.
There are infinite worlds alike, different and same. Once you know this, all writing seems like always too late. In all actual worlds.
You feel remorse of all yous feeling it for you.
Indefinite multiplicity of slight differences, always here and everywhere, now and ever. Unframed by past and future. Me going out of myself to give birth to many more. Infinity of Ones, one after one, by sheer power of being seperate, thus already minusculely different. Ones that don’t add up. That share no other genuine property, except for being one in the different. The world in which another Borges does not commit an error of ornithological proof of God’s existence. In which Borges is a pigeon – or he thinks he is – in such way thinking of yet another world.
One can keep calm, for it’s all meaningless, one can assume the personality of the sane madman thinking nothing, one can elaborate the infinite ways and times he celebrates.
One can write, paint, play, always and never too late, for each instance is resumed and restarted whenever new worlds are born in the space and time without measure or signature.
I have my nails cut and long at the same time in different places, I know of this in all of them. I also have my nails long and cut in the same place at different times, being, thus, at least in two places at once and older than myself at the moment of my birth.
Art makes no sense of meaning. It’s its work. It makes sense of rendering things meaningless. It makes senselessness mean. It doubles each and every meaning the world has gave birth to, rendering it free, making it mean nothing and contail all of the sense.
It doubles all sense, rendering it full, making it sense nothing, feel the meaning of nothing.
Infinity of Ones’ Ghosts, Infinity of Ghosts of Infinity of Ones. Each and every differing from all others in the same rhythm of and between being born and forgotten.
Ad absurdum ad infinitum.
I am not and at times in and between these worlds.
Fornever, noeverywhere. In my dreamy melancholy.