memory lane

Twiggle cream, acid bulldozer. Crystallized shadows with a veiled tint of Sahara. When December kicks in, I’ll be gotten. Shake down the fillers, saccharine albino. Shread the soles, wholes, completeds. I doubt the police’ll tone down my grammarettes. Grammarly mine and on-time (subtly sublime). You are worth a ton of pieces — a bunch of lots, you. In December, when I’m sorry — much to her disillusionment, loss of enchantment and embracing dissolution (on antibiotics) — would you care to let me die. We fainting spells are leaving mayhem behind and I’m ahead of you. At the center of a disk, I utterly repeat: you are.

Gerard caught them, at the Falklands. The heresy from within — tilted heavy burden — was to him what a cross-hair is to a main killer. What was more important, alternate wires sucked the soaked little sin he stored he couldn't destroy. Give away of those before they breed retribution, I whispered. Why, oh Gerard, herald of Gezzoya, so articulate in topics of doom, conceiver and cruzader, from time to time, could you not, couldn't so, why oppose, Gezzoya woke the wars, at 3am I got the call, surreptitious, at times reptilectric, silly in metrics, Billy eclectic, sold me a soda, Coca-Cola, burger up your lies, burger up your sound-proof broken heart. Several stories could be told about how Shelly was so old in disguise, — what matters most, mother knows — masterful sillables. Would stare at night, beyond sound and a cryptic soul that I made up. For you I stood while upside down. For you I stood while upside down. Shoot your digits, shut your mouth. Every candle owns a song. Should have ended you alone. Code atrocious, big at gigs. Bet you cried in american, grr.

Borderline was innocence best described, as if ours corrosive deeds would follow, hand in hand, a lagoon of serpentine — side with me, AI; get behind me, Satan. Would the incendiary and fluffy do-it-yourself be sanctified enough for us to fit in? What were the talks about, who was enough aroused, would war enhance our fouls? Hippy juggernaut as a theft genius. Has many incisive, remarkable quotes. I dislike the craft of painting. Each colour, the brick of the craft, is well under basics. Writing offers you so many compositions in the form of words, all already made, and so so unfinished (western ones, in my humbles), so so inviting for destruction, for remixing and for the greatest pain. Music is similar it's insane. You never start with single notes, but with fully loaded melodies. Insane. Inviting. Maybe painting follows similar guidelines. I couldn't know. She draws the same faces and body silhouettes. I want to tear them apart. Start again, please. I love it when you try to figure it (figure what?) out.

It was Itadhi, in slashes. In painted harvest, among the suns. When the sirens flushed your head away to the heavens, I stayed and watched them glow. It was a distilled version of youth, fanatically yours and entertainingly mine. And deep beneath cloths and super hazy cool, none of your fiery agents were sentient the way my wishes intended. Cut with heavy slayer in micro doses of dusted thought and dull oblivion, just to watch you bleed. But no. A kind of everlong should not suffice, never mingle, with endings. Love is the utter disparity of truisms. Furthermore, the solvent seismic fairytales gave you deep sunshine through my eyes. The later debate disputed many points against me, but my argument was my pulse you held so tight, like an inanimate object. Maybe it was as static, for it was timeless. What happened, no? You can re-happen many times again, I doubt I care. Your relevancy falls flat the longer you stay better, the greater you become — the more detached. He who thinks, measures. And girl you hated numbers back then.

The altered soldier entered with shiny pieces and merry-go limbs. Golden metal was his honor and selfless was the defense. "I ask no more", he said, "Of whatever recipe of joy, I desist from it. Gentlemen, I ask no more". Yet the things he held, the red flesh as human debris, they felt heard unsatisfied. "We demand for his head", they appeared to flash in our ears. It was a spectacle of seizure, spectacool carried with bare hands. "Unai, you's got no business deciding how you'll may be rewarded", protested the High Court back. Laughter was audible as Unai dropped these things—the viciousness of the love of war—and these same things followed his brain, gauged him and silenced him, silence. For whatever the visions of supersound and ultralight were, they cease, only when you're not there. Unai's melted body received applause during the military parade in his name. We were showered in golden metal and his honor, and selfless were our shares, for we didn't care. Arisa then took a grain of salt and spoke it through my veins. I shall desist from everything, but her joy may be the very must. All things sublime, shake it up, crack them down, gravity around with the ultrasound blood and superlight blues. Maybe in darkness God acts in sanes.

Me es desafiante narrar empleando líneas íntimamente sincronizadas. Pienso que debo esconder verdad y significado detrás de mezcla quizá ardua en apariencia pero confortante en lo cierto. Un hilo bien predispuesto culmina siempre en un cul-de-sac—o es que acaso no sé escribir; o peor aún, no tengo estilo y no se que hago y no quiero saberlo y lo oculto de ustedes pero en realidad de mí mismo porque yo soy ustedes. Yo soy todos ustedes y me es bueno saberlo, recordarlo. Dice un psicólogo algo loco—como todos los que algo valen—que la lengua madre es la gran enemiga porque enemiga es la madre y ella está presente en el pensamiento nativo de uno. El pensamiento nativo está corrompido por haber sido el primero que se tuvo, dice el loco psicólogo de YouTube. Sin anuncios lo dice. Yo recuerdo que Olivia Flores gustaba de mi escribir. Yo escribía sin más y ella me amaba sin más. Cartas, yo escribía. Ella las leía. Claro que recuerdo. "Me gusta lo que dices pero ya no me gustas tú". Y las olas como látigo de ultramar. Flores/Riviera.

In his barks there was a long for what will never be, with utmost certainty. Claire would set them up to meet each other and I’m still writing about you. It was a laugh, I bet, a great laugh. My foreign status would only cease to amaze you, but no more than my depleted humor (it really depends on the receipient, and my good mood). My socks are cheap and probably ill (and ill-fated), and you were all in black, you white cream, not so white, of course not, fuck white, what would you call your skin color, please tell me more, I need to remember. Your dramas, your friends and hatreds all dissipated very soon, too soon for me and right on time according to the clock of things (real, American). Mine, my clock, is broken. My theories are about creating the illusion of narrative, of alt time. A time in which everything nice happened and will happen and if it never happened it happened still—you should know. And so I am not slipping but it is you and your glorious curly hair, angel—are you an angel?—, your dusty CDs and I am dust in between them, and dust gets wiped from memory sooner, and its presence reflects epilogue, it is a wormhole to better times—yours, not mine.

To strive in stop-motion like a runaway cat does, one has to duplicate in luck and fever. I don’t know neither, never had. Not in a comprehensible way, at least. For each of us are—and even the runaway cat is—submerged in fever of deliberate order. The frames inherit the properties of the runaway cat, too. Each one is secular in its approach to total momentum. I would suggest, with deep nerve but utter certainty, to follow the instructions so scattered in screen. And even pixels lie, I’m sure of it. I, an engineer of faith, understand the implications of gathering flickering fume and fire and so often even disregard technical specifications, all in service of the jarring noise. We strive to become static, but constantly so. The cat yearns for multiple shots: my take, her take, their take, none’s take (as valuable, if not more, for the massive potential about to burst). And in a solemn withdrawal, the cat guards itself, omnipotent, while everyone else is at stake.

The waves redacted me by the end of the day. I am optimistic, renewed and unleashed at the thoughts of carefree inevitability. Greater was ambition and the lack of a flick played the reversal of our ordeal. Dennis Q would have you believe otherwise, but avenues never felt cluttered. Unisons are a common mistake, I tend to agree. Traffic shines in butter-orange plastic visual scent, while the police gets its rhythm from the inside. "I like Linkin Park". I dream about the emergence of mainstream. Y'know, before cool was cool, when cool was a given, an imperative with quiet switches by its sides. Discovering felt like a personal achievement, not an "algorithm" triumph. Turn on the fire courtains and welcome yourself into the Great OK. It surely was, I wish I was. Blogs were blogspots and dire calamities slept steady on trends not renowned. "I made this", one'd exclaim. You don't say "thanks, mothercells" after winning a marathon, do ya? Why did the algorithm had to go public? We were made, born and shakled to fail. Washed in militant play and western decay. Us kids really believed the world was a shuffle.

There is a saying that goes "America merits much". I remember the scent of intermitent flashes and carbon dioxide. Some conspiracists, con men, pirates and racists would bark all night with their mechanical bends and toystered keys. I, however, am not here to tell a story. I am here to And later the flashes became cows and the sand became bounced with rhythm and cacophony. I came to replace her in thirty minutes of my time. What would the deal be if two perfect Gods where found? And then, a third one. And so on. Would one die in bliss or in boredom? Spaghetti sauce creeps and the caffeinate command. Machines are so complicated. What is harder, to create a program or to align a human into making one? Xe gathers the rodents and swallows them whole. I spit in xer mouth in an attempt to insult the abyss. Nothing changes. They are bleeding and nothing changes. Millions are dying but it's okay. In the end what will be left is my was gratification. There is nothing outside America and God knows it. The cars and the computers and the fast food and the wi-fi. There is nothing outside America, I've tried. My everything is American and we should have lost the war. We were destined to continue.

Dead sorrow. Black one nine. Rest assured: Black one nine. Deafness. Twinkles. Hurry in backwards and in descent. Not everything is lost. What is not lost is in my pocket, smelling and not there. Whisper. My lone romance. No sound, no imagine, no connection. Aimless. In between time and my unserved dish, we cordially guess for the demise of sinister. So much for a motiveless party. You know, the fact that we’re alive means we’ve lost. No self, no country & no miracles today. At the mercy of a thousand suns. With the strength of a distorted arrow. I am born again. I wanna die in an idiom I understand. Maybe I can figure it out, send you a couple encryption keys.

Utter serotonin. Ultranol of the staples. You knew better than that. Saccharine of commodities. Juliet of the spirits. Insipid as always. Let me tell you a story. Atoms fuse and fusion succeeds. No. 1 Party Anthem plays for me. I arrive home and two of your friends, agents of shame, ask me to meet you there. “She is having a goodbye party”. So we arrive and there you are. Beautiful as always, smiling to my face. You were busy with words while I was busy with my thoughts. If it weren’t for them, would you have stayed? Afterhugs should be miserable. I saw you smiling. Yes, I saw everything. I stalked my way out, sure of your putrid lies. I hate you. Why bother, why bother.

Alkajoy

I was somewhat interested in humans because I thought they were machines. Even though they are machines, they are the worst kind of machine. Whereas you ask a computer to sum “5+3” and it gives you “8”, a human will give you “Starbucks”. There is thinking required from me to really guess why.

Yes, people are like machines. But most of them have some shitty firmware already installed. No room for disruption. No room for the exciting. When I was 17 I knew they'd laugh at my songs. When I was 18 I didn't care. Computers let you do that, they let you not care about people as much.
But sometimes I get bored of computers. It's just the same as you get bored of good food.

Well it is true that we hate one another, people and I. Sometimes it will "work" but that'll be just a fractal illusion (a momentary singularity (a one-month honeymoon)). Divorce. I divorce you but I hate you because I need you. Attention is all you need, to quote Google. We only wanted to be loved, to quote PiL.

Entities that care

A fruit races ahead of blood spikes. Gracious defenses, hymns and loyal consumption. What do they have in common?

Lately I would buy Genesis time to reorganize me. The flag was like a black hole. I summon you not. Install, install. Brokendate.

Back in 2017, I’d sing you songs that nobody cared about. When they were sang we were not (anybodies, anymore).

Back in 2017, she just wanted to be seen. You played out from the shadows of your occult. Smart and disinterest, self-classified as basic. Smart, but not smart. Sorry—sorry not.

Bring the ends together with stains. Tame my alternet bends and go on, please (go on). Gather crossovers like a queen, crazy queen. Be slow, love and gore.

Wretches and kings. Bitches and pimps. Mistress so thin.

I am motion in full stop. When I think of you, I rearrange you.

God is dissapointed. You let his only child die. The repercussions won't be felt for thousands of years. Learning won't get deep. Symbols won't stay wicked. Misery could starve you out. Boring tides are stuck in wax, minus tax.

Well it is true that we hate one another. It's a complex lexicon. A domino effect I refuse to care for.

Maybe in the rivers, lone by the shore. Augmented in solipsism. I'll come to forget by replacing parameters. Lasering artifice will keep me sane. In arms I will follow to destroy my sweet collar.

Untitled

After all these years, rocket launchers ignite dust only. Breakthroughs are meaningless now. Last summer I bothered to check out some lightning pannels.

Listening to time capsules, visions correct. Much nonsense in loop and in rewind. Incinerate (but I am under shadows). None correct. High machinery in the name of unlimited financing of a class-new order.

The so-called organic unlimited: what a fraud. Where did I get those frequencies from? From me. All is blank, all is canvas, unmutable, boring. I, on the other hand, I am creation.
Streets in saturated flames. Modifiable brains. Reigns. Remains. Totaliratian happiness. Bearable stuff. All else—I don't care.

Insectica

The waiting room is being disrupted by gigantic bees. Shiny, Tantive IV-esque, now place of payback, redemption is attack against the others. The queen bee knows this.

She's ugly as fuck, in full poetics. Her brainiac monster eye coupled with intense sweatings—oh God her Eye is Dread. It wasn't me (you had doubts?) who brutally defeated this insectica. One of a kind, once kind. Truly sublime. The agony of suffering speaks to art men; it is joy for the left-apart.
Sure thing, I apologize, in semantics of course. And back to the clinic, my credentials far lacked authorization and I was trapped with her, with them but mainly her, only her, and truly, just myself.

Well it is true that we hate one another. Such is the nature of western romance. Testing never did me any good. Exchange was but a fantasy. And deep down I hope your triumph is your defeat in disguise. Besides, infamy doesn't work locally. I will convert you to data.

Alien Eat World

Would get excited for things that just weren’t there. Then they’d say that wondering on made-up things was nonsense. Well, these islands were mercy of mine. Theirs were a foreign production. No shame in digging public servers. I always liked mine. Even if tickets outsold attendants, mine still looked rad.

OH I MADE SO MANY SERVERS FOR YOU. WORKS OF ART. LIKE YOU! Works of art. I replicated every detail to perfection, convinced like a Christian that your second coming was near. “She surely detests where she is now!”. I made ARGs for you. Left intricate pieces, labyrinths of I-love-you’s, made sub-plots and interactive robots. A true tailored experience. You would have loved it. You would haven’t had nadend helped yourself. You never did, right? I was that cool. I am that cool.

I made libraries of content for you. I make them still. They all bear your name. You are like God: you forgot.

I still explore those places, from time to time. Always will.

Things out there don’t exist. They may wave and approach and act as friend, hug and cajole and bring amends. But this is a ghost town. My last remains is what I made for you.

This doesn’t make sense.

And the special agent caught the bag containing the orb and launched himself into the flying helicopter, shot Murdoc’s car and got him to confess where the remaining nukes were. Soon after he was decorated with High Praise Immense Top Quality Soldier medal and I tried everything and I would have tried more, I can’t try more, I wish I could, I would, I just know it is right, you are letting time prove me wrong, a broken clock is twice a day, oh you so want to prove me wrong, what did I do to you, why Jules why, why why why why.

Then, an alien force so fatal that it outdated every human hope by light years just happened and we unhappened. I had everything prepared. It probably is still around, floating somewhere. After all, private servers are hard to destroy.

We may have died, but I tattooed us on things with a higher half-life.

Apogee

Fleets, fingertips, flour, barricade. Game of words and reversing in backwards. Mess concussions and an alter sense. A stage is set in italics and flash lights. My destination is frozen in iceberg and apogee. Suddenly, subtly, subreptitiously. Lost: aloof in icebergs. Universal defense against… who?

Had a break in between broken ministers. I left available classes after omnipresent oblivion. You oversaw my fall and took photos. Dissuaded me from opting out. Veiled agent—ignorance is the new stealth.

What could have been useful of you is gone, so any payback is impossible. They told me about us. I invented streaming services. It didn’t hold you back and you did it again, time and until the disfigured exclamation point of the absurd, you still remained convinced that everything wrong was not your fault.

Terrible moves, if any. Dream of cooling down and I’ll be stationary as an island. You set it all on fire like an orphan child despite being the essence of my conviction, now the sentence of my laments.

Atteggiamento cannibale

Mi sembra di essere accarezzato dalla voglia di soffrire. Non potrei certamente predire come possa questa scritta rimbombare sulle TV nostre, quelle che anni fa facevano esplodere le case fatte con cemento, colori veri e valori vecchi. Caso mai, avrei dovuto incinerare la disobbedienza che se m’era dimenticata di esercitare. Insomma, non se ne parla della lotta digitale che crediamo sia ancora in corso. Ma no, no, lascia stare (ma quanto è brutta la batutta, pure). E poi, magari fammi una spiaggia di desert con la somigglianza pagana, malamente ideata e di paesaggio pieno. Con tutto sto terreno mi facevo una biochimica bestiale. Ma basta parlare di me.

Appunto.

P.S.: Rimane una tempesta di maggiori dimensioni. Devo ricordà. Dovrei. Assaggia il fallo della nostra coscenza. Un’astro di pietre mi farà più ridere che tutta sta ostinazione collettiva. Fuoco e strisce, fuoco e strisce (fuoco e strisce) — fuoco e strisce.

Cinda Kasan

I could not lie around motolov parties. Equally, I would spare seconds of wishful manifest instead of stationary floating heads. It comes as a surprise, but neither was Belgium an agent supreme. I mean, I’ve seen.

I would only talk in braces like the ones she bothered to wore. I expect similars to attach dismals and dismays over my centipede of frays. I am a verb in synthesized syntaxis, so splendid and stale. Verb out of sentence is void inside fences.

You could recite in order of multitude. Reprises limit the range of sudden notes. You are so brave, such a martian. You mean every right and all is forgiven. You starred in the latest shows outsold by refine taste. You have perfected the art of masks. How am I suppose to keep us going on, then? Oh would you be willing.

And yet you let me in. No, you didn’t perfected anything. It was your brokenness that allowed the star you uphold to shine through every teal and velvet tear. You can convince yourself of anything and that’s why I can do the same to you. We were bordering on insane just to be unlame. Sing, then, undisclosed soul so whispery on the outside, graceful and transparent, invincible from a thousand blasts, invincible from a thousand blasts.

I should make songs about you. They would turn out cohesive. There is a difference between freestyle and please Cinda Kasan why are you so great.

Reduxer

El aire era blanco guerra. En las calles no había más que desperdicios. Y es que todo estaba perdido.

“Se requiere de un ejército para ser bondadoso” fueron las últimas palabras del Coronel Aristo Acosta. Luego, dio vía libre al fuego. Fuego, como una tempestad de ácido atestado por la ciencia del dolor. Fuego, y todos reposaron para él.

Yo desconocía y aún desconozco las mecánicas detrás de este episodio, tan elegantemente nombrado “Masacre de los héroes clandestinos” en los libros de historia de una posteridad que en ese entonces parecía postergada indefinidamente. Julio y amigos estaban en la misma página.

En un callejón se escondieron de las balas y reverberaciones constantes de explosivos americanos. Julio escondido en la tregua momentánea que ofrecía el callejón, Marta vigilando la duración de esta tregua mediante pequeños asomos furtivos hacia la calle en llamas, Pedro metido en estas llamas, a poco de hacerse con el vehículo de escape llamado Nueva Esperanza.

Reduxer, reduxer. Da la bienvenida a lo más lejos de tu vida.

“¿Cual fue tu recuerdo más importante?” preguntó Marta, y Julio no sabía si decir sus últimas palabras. “Fue una tarde de diciembre. Mi diciembre. Llovía, y servían jugo de uva”. “¿Donde?”. “¿Crees en la brujería, Marta?”.
Pedro llegó puntual a interrumpir la conversación. “¡Chicos! No hay buenas o malas noticias, solo noticias”. Julio y Marta se miraron en confusión compartida. Pedro continuó, “Solo hay dos lugares y somos tres. Por orden y jerarquía, Marta viene conmigo. Julio, estás fuera. Vámonos”.

Reduxer. La posteridad está programada y su espera ha culminado.

Yo no podría dar tales noticias. Mas al Coronel Acosta le encantaba hacerlo. Lo publicó en Twitter esa misma mañana. En la tarde lo compartió en sus otras redes. “Son diez las personas que están atrapadas en San Sebastián. Nueva Esperanza solo sacará a nueve”. Lo reiteró tantas veces y en todos lados, pero menos en San Sebastián.

Al enterarse, Julio se quedó boca fría, cabeza arriba, corazón de rodillas. “¿Qué significa? ¿Me van a dejar aquí?”, fue un comentario más que una pregunta. “Si hacen esto les va a pesar toda la vida”. Pero ya se habían ido. Y es que ya le habían contestado pero Julio no escuchaba y solo repetía una y otra vez, repetía más que Acosta. No preguntes si no quieres que te respondan. Julio había sido desterrado dentro de su mismo hogar, dentro de un San Sebastían que promovía el olvido.

Y en eso, una tenebrosa alza del reduxer. Como en los cuentos de medianoche. Pero esto si es real, esto si pasó y yo lo recuerdo porque no puedo olvidar los rostros de Pedro y Marta cuando llegaron al campamento Bravo.

Reduxer, reduxer. Una voz dentro de la otra. Reduxer. Un canto en armas y gorgojos.

Diesel salesman

My font is American. So are my issues. So is everyone’s. Vices and clothing, hear me do not. For my language is American. Your car is a WesternBrand. So is her everything. America is death, destroyer of worlds. Her teeth are American (to my relief).
And life is good again: thanks America.

Braids americana, her dog speaks Yorkshire. Motor incidents: Massachusetts Cars Insurance. Red roses and blue velvet for the North American scum.
American, American, God is an American, joy plus my demise.

She resembles a wasted opportunity gone viral.

Chapter 1

His name is Robetr. Named after a tree of quicklove hurricane. Misspelled by action and repetition.
He stole used farmtrees, those shiny ink-screen typewriters. He sold them as limited collection items. I bought him one that “belonged to Asia Powells”. But you don’t know Asia Powells. And you don’t know farmtrees. Or pilotees. It doesn’t matter anymore.

And so he sold me a defective farmtree, and I cared to call him. He forgot to put a fake number, turns out. Why, oh Robetr, of all misspelled men. And so our friendship began.

Chapter 2

I numbed into her shirt, sorry, blouse. We were dark ephemeral in white lights. Then a shotgun sound. A beaten-up deer in pink dress came crawling to us and asked for survival. Came out of nowhere.

Robetr had become an animal lover. The case is closed.

That’s it, guys. Now go on. Can’t keep them waiting. This sun is killing me. Mariah, bring me a drink. Pepsi Twist! Erik, let the next gentleman in. Hmm hmm hmm. ♪Braids americana, her dog speaks english♪. ♪Massachusetts Cars Insurance♪. Morning sir, how can I help you? What do you mean by “give me toro”? Gee. Barely got enough Diesel to sell.

Mariah, look at his face. What a foul!

Ryders del mañana

Era una conjetura que jamás vi encoger. Como si de lata se tratara, la mas bochornosa cena en Avellana de Azufre fue un escaparate. Tan furtivo como tibio, salpicó el camarón de entre las hornillas de Otelo (el jefe del lugar, con su enorme mameluco blanco) y se sumergió por entre nosotros. Aquel era el festín tan no deseado, ¿y yo qué podía pedir más que la cuenta? Al lanzarme en contra de las rejas aún más blancas, me encontré con la luz y contigo, y con tanta cantidad de automóviles. Entre Suzukis, Mazdas y Mercedes, y una lluvia monolítica de bocinas enfurecidas, revelé consternación: “Sí, enemigos e invitados, he sido yo, soy el asesino de camarones. Arrestadme, pues. Mi epílogo lo sabe pues mi epílogo es prisión”.

Te preguntarás, si aún recuerdas, qué hacía Otelo, señor de los camareros, permitiendo obstinadamente la libertad del camarón. Un ryder me lo contó mientras esperaba muy calladito mi desdicha. “Ayer y hoy, ese carnaval de deformidades contendrá a todo animal acuático en un hexágono hirviente, a un ritmo laico y para todo paladar”. Medité sobre esto y luego le sugerí que si el mañana disponía aún de vacante, debería de llevar en nombre a los ryders.

Telda Platforms

Untrust films because they work as monuments, bureaucracy and shady favors. Tonic grew up in Tulsa, but the choice was ours.

The Telda Platforms, a titanic intent of flourishment in Niger Delta. We got Tonic to lead Telda because he was funny. Once, he said “If Africa were to be an animal, it’d be itself”. High on med and cylinder, one audience started a pyro. Sole survivor, Tonic became the first black emperor on Niger Delta. Many odd derangements for reasons PR.

I told him I’d pass and he exposed me to the classroom. Now he’s earning millions. Tonic you faggot, and your loyal bitches all whores.

Now I’m in a Niger prison Delta cell. And there ain’t a guard at the door. And there ain’t a camera at work. Just failing luck and a lack of locks.

Like cracking stacks

The weird is never healed. I stock piles of ether under my veins. Sinking ritters call the name, call again. Gasoline, take it all for the unisex bathrooms. Beneath reason and under privilege of psyche. (So many sounds).

So when Greer Says Much 666’d the cage, anomaly ensued backwards and down the drain. Say again, call again. Cool is the color of island.

I am bordering on aliases. Indeed she praised my wit to commit, around limits, very cowardly, so low. I forget misremembered things; the not found are my alliances. I cripple towards them like Meteora sits upon garden.

If everything is to happen, I cannot lie to you. But you don’t subscribe to the idea, yet you do lie too. That makes you an awful person, which I’m not.

No Chiara

Previo a anécdotas, él se estremeció por sobre todo el sol. Chisguetes blancos inhalando psiques rápidas. (Ellos no te controlan). Hay que recordar que Chiara canta gratis.
Luego de esa noche, me dejé llevar. Tanto para una fiesta en pijamas.

Ellos seguían contándote historias de plagios exitosos y el auge de China. Prefiero la Coca-Cola. Suscrito hasta los dientes, supongo. Y Chiara canta gratis. Siempre lo hace.
El único duo sobrio, tan impetuoso yo y Coke.

Un bus de dos compartimientos vuela desde las rieles hacia lo desconocido (debe de ser, porque no hay nada que ver). El conductor abre la puerta, en medio del aire, en total franqueza. Saluda (a lo desconocido). Le saludo de vuelta.

Su nombre es Kiara (no Chiara, ella es mi cereza en el pastel). Entrelazada con la inocencia, pero no completamente, siente pena por mí. Yo tormento y ella lamenta. Es lo que somos. Bonnie & Clyde 2045. Jamás en mil dólares me había sentido más Americano.

Escupo sueños con una mística arabica. Me despierto en la nada de Texas Negro. Kiara me hace entender cuan negro es Texas Negro. Le digo, ayúdame a escribir el vigor de mi lengua. Ella dice cosas. Le doy la contra. Ella repite cosas. Porque la cumbre que busco me encuentra cuando estoy bien prendido.

E intentaron hacerme leer (tantas palabras). Kiara corta la cuerda. Y ellos retienen mi cuaje (tantas palabras). Su cara brilla y mis intentos malévolos se van a la mierda, pues hay amor por todas partes. Qué cosa mas tonta y estúpida comerse un explosivo.

In the country

Am-F-Cmaj-E

I got country
In a veil
Simple mountains
Start again

They look splendid
What’s your name?
Alice maybe
Start again

I got me ID
In all over the seas
‘Cause a real sinner
Takes her pride in me

Caught me like this
Beautiful olive fields
Uniformally stated
Appeal of the sick

A-F-Cmaj-E

Nothing will remind or remember
These are the loveless roses

Am I right in so many ends here?
Willfully trying to regret

A-D7-Fm#-E

In the country
We can sing
Don’t remember
But today

Condescending
Towards the other men
I am better
I heard you say

Am

In the country

Hates hutus

Because they weren’t willing to shove useless itineraries outta country. Why would they care? All they do is dare!

Remember that Sam & Cat episode? Her tongue reached surface level and the tight ripe between them two (tongue and surface) created clashes of bacteria and bacteria (everything is wrong). Thus, blood pours out and a laugh track jumps all over you. I swear, no kiddie jokes.

She hates hutus
I could have bought me rain
Shaking doodles
American insane

Take a bite of fascism, it may stop your traitorous tendencies. “I’m just kidding!”, professes the sketch. It’s proto-comedy, because it doesn’t make you laugh (yet). Just like sarcasm: failed beats.

She hates hutus
Color is a game

I have what I can’t want. When I bought my Macbook there was zero thrill.

She hates hutus!

Truce be told

Well, I was more of a wimp. I used to outsource my capacities from elsewhere in better ways. Gabriella would scold me about it, repeatedly. A three-story building explodes and people die in it. It was supposed to be a preliminary scene for a movie in-the-making. But homeless people don’t learn, do they, that the city hates them with blake anger. Gabriella was probably scolding me still when the building caught her on fire. Such a failed Sharon Tate and now she was dying. Homeless, nonetheless.

Well it is true that we hate one another. She is content in her depression, and so am I. Truce be told, and it was nice while it lasted.

At last, she was aghast. Yet she picked fast entropy over every beautiful thing that matters. Every each one damn time.

Freestyle barracuda

When night is nice, the fight collapses. Koi Tweensettle knew this rhetoric and used it to gain voters. Igniting pieces of green dynamo grew sourly into the village people. I told him not to lie. Getting sued isn’t worth the climb. Getting jailed isn’t worth it if you don’t get the situation’s upperhand.

So Koi talked them into reassurance. «No man shall wrath you up,» he proclaimed, wearing a white tuxedo and a lousy zebra hat, «for your wrath will become the new standard. The gold standard». The gold standard. I stood in awe. I hate pigeons.

Isn’t it remarkable?: the later the night, the brighter it becomes. I want them to prohibit jeans the same way they prohibit burkas in France, or my will on Earth. Anyways, Koi is dead. He drank poisoned juice after his inauguration’s after party. Before, he suggested that since humanity does not want to die, he may as well die.

Repeating past mistakes is a brutal sport. Whether you are an angel of chromosomic significance, or a bore, you should still find yourself in a sunny day. The true Wilco towers are a desert island.

All the rage back home

She was set to kill that night.

The gang got into trouble because one of ‘em recognized the cashier as cousin. Julia went furious and a discussion ensued. While at this, Dante, the cousin cashier, silently called the cops. And there it was: Julia losing it with Olivia (cousin’s cousin), Rodrigo asking what the fuck was going on to Carla, the last girl in this ordeal.

Olivia did have feelings for Dante. You don’t just not shoot your cousin because of shared blood, that’s silly, Carla said. Julia ain’t exactly into boys so she was oblivious to her reasoning. Carla kinda got it, yea, but kinda didn’t (Dante is an adult, Olivia a teen). And Emanuel was just your average self-centered nuts.

White dogs will do what white dogs do best: bite till you bleed. Julia hates white dogs. Olivia fingers herself thinking about them. And since this tale is about them both, we don’t care about the others.

Sam was impatient in the dinner room when the gang entered with the guest: Dante. He was furious at the lateness. Julia pointed at Olivia, which came to explain that mercy, in any of its forms, can’t be but a god given good deed. Lunatics, Sam protested. You want to get us all jailed, he came to elaborate.

Ivory Coast chihuahua

The wind is northwest. I am a car full of people. Red Subaru ‘n’ disclosed. Germs proliferate on air. I speak dutch for I am a chihuahua. When the time comes, I will be miles wasted, but I’ll still be standing in the same place.

When I arrive to Ivory Coast, two mulato men and a woman welcome me. They offer to clean my car. They clean me as a ghost. The woman has a blind eye. One of the men gets a seizure and I am reminded of jazz music. Regardless of my faith, the other man tells me, I am welcome here.

My faith is I have none and the music spins. It is an old vinyl player. There is coffee on the table. There is coughing too. It is quiet like a personal library.

I read short films and watch good stories. Just like old times, I can’t seem to make sense of anything. Feedback says I am a bore. I should have pushed you into the road. You ignored me! I was in front of you and you dared to look down. And a noisy train called locomotive gives reason to cherish the latest endeavors. Didn’t it occurred to you?

White’s Rage Limited I & II

Back to the catalogue, I’ve lurked paths. It was full disclosure of thought that led HTB&THWR & QuaaludeQuantago, two of my fave selfie records, to their creation.

I’ve been thinking about it more. Ambition comes at a price of juggernaut complexity that, to my experience, sacrifices honesty. In a limited timeframe (and spaceframe), events happen that are akin to my very core. All big events are quiet reactions with good amount of luck.

It comes down to this: all the rage of the world, in one little capsule. My little capsule, I control. My rage of the world, I vituperate.

Not Chiara

Before anecdotes, he shivered all over the sun. White sprites inhaling rapid psyches. (They do not own you). Also, let’s remember Chiara sings for free.
Later that night, I got carried away. So much for a pajama party.

They kept telling you stories of copycat successes and the auge of China. I prefer Coca-Cola. Subscribed to the teeth, I guess. While Chiara sings for free. Always does.
The only sober duo, super goo me & Coke.

A two-compartment bus flies from the rails into the unknown (it must be, for there’s nothing to see). Driver opens door, mid-air, in full disclosure. Waves to (the unknown). I wave back.

Her name is Kiara (not Chiara, that’s my cherry-on-top). Bonded with innocence, but not completely, she feels pity towards me. I torment and she laments. This is our happening. Bonnie & Clyde 2054. Never in a thousand dollars have I ever felt more American.

I spit dreams with an arabic mystique. I wake up in the nowhere of Texas Black. Kiara helps me realize how black Texas Black is. I say, help me write the force of my tongue. She says stuff. I object. She repeats her stuff. For the hit I seek meets me when I’m fully lit.

And they tried to make me read (so many words). Kiara cuts the chord. And they uphold my gist (so many words). Her face lights up and my malicious intent goes to waste, for there is love all over the place. What a silly, silly pretentious thing to eat a bomb.

Wells Dern

“Wells Dern”
“Well… done?” asks the lady.
“Wells Dern” repeats Wells.
“Oh, ok”. The lady searches the files. “Yup, Wells Dern”, as in “guess you’re right”.
The lady is oblivious to the procedure. She hands the job to Wells.
Wells refuses, waits instead.
The lady is staring at him with annoyance. Why are men so condescending?
“Sir, what do you need?”
She’s holding the Bic that he wants to stick in her neck.
Wells would end up in prison and call the vicenda a bona fide stravaganza.

The unaltered by Yi

It keeps feeding the narrative. It is the unaltered by Yi: a whole play in her hands, skipped. A wave of social rejects washed the face of obscure turmoil. It bleeds like a texan beef, only darker, unpredictable. Will it blow, and will it take a goodwill with it? “From here we go sublime”. Prof promised, proofless. Yi and the engine running. Me: not fine, meant to shine. “I would have been so kind”.
The common’s uncharted. Played a cinema in my head. Selena. All the feels are must be lighter. A swim of gold and oxenfree. Oh, Ollie. Olivia, alivio. I love you, I love you.

Emma the slasher

Emma’s playing with her shelf. Emma the slasher. Her right hand travels through the still life. All items pulled towards the center of planet Earth. Week-old crisps unravel, glass symphonies erupt. It’s a mad party, party of her kind.
I like her better when she’s euphoric, big t-shirts of lavender and goldenrod, singing 80s China, 50s America.
Of all the things I’ve created, her joy’s the most. In my world, her joy’s a must.
“It’s Emily”, she abruptly yells from the kitchen.
“Emma, Emily, what’s the difference?” I respond.
Of all things sublime, she may be the most.

That’s why when my wife went ordinary parodic rage, I confessed.
“It’s not you, it’s her”.
“I will make you miserable”.
Touché.