Once the unique sparkly eyes Jimmie Durham asked me are those real poems or did you wrote them yourself? Then we laughed. These are other “poems”, more like poopoozas. That’s the intro, now copy paste duty calls {sight}

looks like a photograph  February 2016


The word
out of the mouth
into the world
unwrapping itself
from any sound:
I am the punchbag of silence

The memory is the mother of memory says Pietá but she also says I’m a lonely wolf but she also says I’ve been in this world for too long but she also says she has balls but she also says… and I cannot but hear the song, the sad nested soul-song, the one the Earth weeps and weeps and weeps, I can hear it, even with all the asphalt, it is soo sad and everybody seems to avoid it, to auto-deaf themselves… to entertain the slightest chance, how could we even reply? It is a sad sweet song indeed, I wonder why do we pretend that’s not important, that’s not there… I also wonder if I’m loosing my mind, maybe my mind’s growing finger nails attached to finger tips which touch everything but grab nothing. I wonder if I’m delusional ’cause I fucking hear it, I hear it damn it!! I hear it and makes me sad also… I had to escape the city, literally I got sick, my soul was being shuttered, consumed, tainted… and none of the human made leisure cubes could make any difference… try to explain that to your friends, see their faces, feel their ronhonhô sympathy. Anyway I’m glad I’m back to the bay, as a good fish that I am I need to nurture on the ocean and the waves and the storms’ sad pomelegy and the seagulls, the lovely crazy and free seagulls that I do not own but they’re as mine as my lungs and the clouds always buying new clothes, so conceited and hasty yet playful… I think I’m on the process of stopping being a human… not so much as a kafkian sequel but as an enfolding (involute) movement… back to the nothing, back to the void, back to the form, back to the unknowable non-entity energy stream someone left flowing inside a donut



..as every moment frees from itself  February 2016


A veces no puedo,
no puedo y me entrego
a la tierra,
a las raíces,
a la sal
ála sal
toda mi energía
atroz o depurada
te regalo,
ofrenda humilde pero total
no me quedo ni con la nada
con este rayito de sol
que viene
desde antes del ahora
y que en verdad
es sólo un préstamo,
una luz caliente
un suspiro del universo
que por un micrón
de enésima potencia de quarzo
combuste el origen mismo
del amago
que es mi existencia




Ex-Madrastra (from Karuma diaries) – – – What are you talking about man?!!! – – – 490 words, NHIF!  November 2015

Korsori banta TST?
Back in the city with some home made ten took and a better Karma, jiji
Saw a pregnant cat lady with chewed up ear. We pet her for a bit.
Just outside campus getting high on the rush hour’s activity.
In my bag a whale with a round stone, a shell and radioactive-green fishing line in her belly; my gift for Chiara‘s 38th birthday.
We are getting old and wise and no doubt childish at the same time.


It is time that ceases and not the ending of meaning.
J. Krishnamurti


Snorkelling man, goofy but friendly rises his hand yellow =)
The fool moon, glowing between two traffic lights
it’s unavoidably comfortable to watch.

Leaves… dry and wilingly fly around in all directions, what a strange scenario!
Seven two six to Pontinha, a mess of white balance decisions, fearlessly, glitched yet detached, beautifully random plastic bags dancing amongst the cars.
I am no cool, also I’ve stopped worrying ’bout what gets me and strive for its rhythm. Bullshit choreography, darkness postponed one more day… who’s the soundtrack?

God what a great yesterday flowing get-together of familiar faces. Known friends, new house from before the big earthquake, versed habits, mixed alimony, permeable ideas, heterogenic energies, empathic orchestration on the dream of being alive emancipating itself from any possible programming, ja ja ja come ‘n’ get me, renewed bonds… yes… acceptance, active, tender and sincere, smiles, laughs, loads of laughs, blinking shiny eyes that just for a split second unravel its roots from the soul’s bight. Completely drunk on friendship, on celebration, on the spunk of timely and buoyant conversations…

Beauty, beauty borned on the faces of my good old friends

Dusk is all, and here we are in a packed two zero seven back to somewhere yet to discover… let’s call it Ex-Madrastra

Bon Voyage Lagoa, Stay cooli-iaooli Ki, Piteripoweris quebranozes, Thomas assim, Karma de corazao poço, Javi chulo gachas-migas, Dani fragilizantemente, du Snup pelos telhados, a Joana sem fim e o Maxû e seus poopoozas



… of irked shadows  November 2015


The heart’s pounding like mad
cannot tell the outside from the inside
in its crude and sloppy crib
immured by flesh and bone

I wonder if that’s ‘cause
I’m so high at this depth
of the machine, turn it off, please
turn off the machine of being human,
let the shadows feeding light to the bay
inhale the night
into their cute little dagger-souls
and randomly slight the hollow intent
of bringing life to more words;
let them all naked and free
as just-noises,
as nightmares made out of dead wishes,
covetous gazes and expired memberships;
let them prowl
and find us
let them
gobble up
inside out
through our guts,
from the bone marrow
to the glittering mosts of hair,
it would be neat the extra space
and to lose for good the grip of
this zonked gaussian retina.
~~ Tired of being lonely
but not of loneliness,
sick of the darkness
but ever more of
night dressed.~




Extract from Karuma diary  November 2015


27 • X • 2015

Biuli and I left the bay very early this morning, rain’d stopped but the night was still entangled will all things. A full-blown moon was our companion, beautiful in its scarlatina slow dance towards the mountains.

Berni’s in Denmark searching for answers, Piteripoweris in Budapest wearing out the soles of his heart’s shoes… we’re gathering first sunshine rays at the airport.

Nuno‘s just arrived

It is now……………………. it’s night now. Behind, (THE) 3 breakfasts, noisy flow, some sun and some rain, hypnotised fellow tourists scratching the surface, 3 black cats crossfading environmentally, a nap with dutch patterns, cuban rice lunch, lots of good dust-talk with my lovely friend and hostess Daniela, Samjana and Nirsara at street level, plenty detached interactions with perfect strangers, incredibly vast and dense free catalog of scents and odours – black Betty Boop coming, the experience of following her trail. Lively streets where arquitecture’s made out of cathedrals gathering a myriad exotic fragrances.

So yes, much flaneuring, documenting everything till soul’s buffer is full. Got a bad teeth removed – – twisting and creaking and cracking; a fascinating sweaty irreversible nightmare this one time show, this “healthy” breaking of a bone – – the girl-doctor was stronger than I thought, should I say “good technique” (?), she was also fatter than last time, maybe two years gone. Despite the finger-mouth I asked her if she knew anyone who liked dentists.

Quick stop at Soonam‘s

Chiarita joins us for dinner – “only” ice cream and beer for me =) – she sports a great sense of humour. These are beautiful ladies I’ve been gifted for company.


28 • X • 2015

A new day, a new body each day, a new body inside the same rotting carcass, all good. Daniela and I grow old talking about lots of thing, na na na, na nana na naaaa…

Where can the dust settle?

48 hours have gone by and I hadn’t had the slightest mindspace to write anything whatsoever.

Got to meet my Karma though and we got to get drunk yo – yeahhhh!!

Life first
Life’s first
Refilled the buffer, soul’s buffer with life so many time these last 48 hours.

Right now there’s a mosquito – and we’re ending October – making tactic round flights overhead… Akira entertains herself smelling the stories impregnated on my clothes, she likes the sound the pen does when I write, she’s young and curious, we play hide and seek, my hand and her claws.

I’m sheltered at Pedrito‘s… who’s stressed out and very tired of dealing with the absurd of Culturgest’s systematically inept bureaucrats… ahhhgggh the people who’ve sold their dreams and hopes and try desperately to suck everybody else into the putrid swamp that their hearts have become … tough business. Nevertheless he’s going to Korea in December +)

Before we, Ribas and I, had tickling epithelial arousing non-stop eating momus and dido at Soonam’s. Rose was there, luminous as always and as I was crying (literally) ’cause of the chilli’s boost, I joked with her “I’m so happy” to which she very calmly replied “your happiness it’s my happiness”.

We had a super-chachi-piruli-juan-pelotillas geeky talk. Ribas’ the utter most geek being I know and he’s able to go thousands of layers deep… we try to practice the healthy and pro-active kind of geeking out.

Before that I went to the usual afternoon master-class with the hood’s gurus: twisted bad-ass Luigi d’Angola, who’d got removed 8 teeth in 1 day, one of which infected, “I’ll never again go to the dentist”; The Wet Engineer, a sweet 50 something child with a snow beard, a big belly and an inextinguishable desire of seeing women without clothes; Zé Dubar and a very weird tall, long haired, black dressed chinese dude that popped up like a mushroom and just sat there drinking with us… So much bullshit!!!

Before that breakfast at Dani‘s with Diana and Ribas. Then met a very cool mozambican old lady at the bus stop…. it’s empowering to cross with old people fully engaging and openly curious about life. She farewelled me with a “good luck” within a sparkly eye in eye’s good look.

Somewhere in-between the befores, maybe merged, maybe lost but happy camping, got to the edge of moço Edgar‘s 42, delivered the handtage, went chinatown for material hunting with Paulinho and very attentively heard and memorised all about his brazilian girlfriend’s orgasms and other boyfriend.

Akira purrs and I really need to sleep some.


30 • X • 2015

Despite I spent a good piece of the last 48 hours listening to sad complains and futile little disputes comin’ out cauterised brain-clogs, despite assisting in ego-decadence, despite all the BS, me own included, despite the pain, despite capitalism, its noiz, despite the sea of loneliness… life’s surely beautiful.

Back at the bay, morning steel guitar, festool talk and delicious grilled fish lunch with Ribas. Truly feel lucky and grateful



  October 2015

Por el suelo – a rayas – una culebra lleva un bicho, pero no un bicho cualquiera, un turbillón de Antequera, reluciente, despanpanante, como si fuera nuevo y se estrenara majestuoso en sus ojeras.

Ay! no se puede, en la noche dormir con prisa y malas maneras, no se puede porque la almohada se acementa mientras que el lecho voltea chicle y uno mismo sinónimo en desusanza… y aunque poco quede para que todo lo achique la pereza…

La pecera de la muerte, mientras tantito de lo dicho antes, la van llenando fantasmas del pasado caducos y en el futuro-tanqués.

Qué bién se teclea con la estilográfica, obcecadamente de bién, onomatopeyicamente fluído… un dia, porque siempre llega el dia tras la insomnia, el sonido del própio escribir será un cliché usado para referir fulminante antigüedad… como el mini-traqueteo acelerado de un proyector de 8 milímetros, más o menos, más o menos.

Soy un fracaso… pero no miento si digo que el admitir del própio hecho me colma de paz. Ahora ( con tremendos aspavientos… del género que sólo ocurren dentro de nosotros, como y para siempre grupo anónimo), ahora cuánto va del conformismo y de la innanición del espíritu al aceptar qué es uno, a sincronizarnos con este ahora tragaperras? Yo personalmente no poseo respuesta alguna, en vez, me divierto sobremanera viendo al mosquito intentando desesperadamente – y si tenemos en cuenta lo poquito que viven los mosquitos pues aún más desesperante se vuelve la cosa – intentando, decía, aunque ahora que la veo ahí, tan concienzuda en su escrutinio ( qué poco sabemos de la vida emocional de estas lumpen) , más parece que prepare una emboscada mortífera, musquitum pterodactilis … en fin yo quería rimar con la palabra “mosquitera” pero ni modo oye, no hay manera.

Aparte del incordio de estas pequeñas vampiras-F16, sólo quien haya visitado una zona tropical plagada de malaría otorga a esta sábana hecha de agujeritos poderes mágicos y reboza cariño con sólo contemplar su puesta en escena. He dicho.

Voy a subir a la nevera y comer unas galletitas con un vasito de leche tépida, ja ja ja, que no, que no, que a mi me gusta fría… igual y si sobrevivo a la emboscada, al ratito nos vemos… O será mejor si la mato, espachurrándola entre los dedos…?
Ahí está la respuesta, ya viste?! NoJotros podemos cuestionarnos, las mosquitas no. Poder elegir es una mierda, ja ja ja

Bueno; pues ya así de puestos y no más que aunque ahoritita mismo ya me vea yo como que en la obligación de intentar de algún modo continuar entreniéndole -pues que leer trae solera como actividad individualizante – ya me comí las galletas, no sé cuántas porque no las cuento, pares, de las pocas pares en mi pertenencia, porque me las como de dos en dos, bueno y los calcetines, pero esos no me los como, los agujereteo.

Mientras que del desayuno madrugador, he pensado ( actividad de riesgo por lo infructuosa, falaz y adictiva) en las hormigas. A mi las hormigas y las abejas me caen bién; son trabajadoras y socialistas. Los mosquitos son medio facistoides, que no?! Los grillos son temporeros, anarquistas y fumetas… por cierto, increíble lo definido en la banda sonora que trae la noche: el chirpi chirpi hiper-agudo de los grillos y mira (míralo bién) que estamos a medio-octubre, pero la verdad hace de manga corta y los grillos lo saben; el ronroneo oxidante, omnipresente y no-sé-que-que-que de una fragata-draga anclada en la bahía y, claro, las olas de la mar, ésas 24/7/365. Las olas, saladas, también me simpatizan.

Pues antes que ocurra algo más ( para contar) voy a ver si viene Oreo, digo Orfeo ( oro y feo, qué mezcla?!)… Mañana ( bueno de aquí a poco) va a ser bonito.

Soy brutote pero muy agradecido, así que gracias por leer y que te vaya lindo



cabac=1 / ref=4 / deblock=1:-1:-1 / analyse=0x3:0x113 / me=umh / subme=9 / psy=1 / psy_rd=1.00:0.15 / mixed_ref=1 / me_range=24 / chroma_me=1 / trellis=2 / 8x8dct=1 / cqm=0 / deadzone=21,11 / fast_pskip=1 / chroma_qp_offset=-3 / threads=32 / lookahead_threads=4 / sliced_threads=0 / nr=0 / decimate=1 / interlaced=0 / bluray_compat=0 / constrained_intra=0 / bframes=3 / b_pyramid=2 / b_adapt=1 / b_bias=0 ☀ / direct=1 / weightb=1 / open_gop=0 / weightp=2 / keyint=250 / keyint_min=25 / scenecut=40 / intra_refresh=0 / rc_lookahead=50 / rc=2pass / mbtree=1 / bitrate=1500 / ratetol=1.0 / qcomp=0.60 / qpmin=0 / qpmax=69 / qpstep=4 / cplxblur=20.0 / qblur=0.5 / vbv_maxrate=31250 / vbv_bufsize=31250 / nal_hrd=none / filler=0 / ip_ratio=1.40 / aq=3:1.00  September 2015

Throw myself into the streets as a normal thing to do on a normal day… but something’s strange; off. Where am I, what is this? Am I going crazy? Oh my god (read accentuating the pauses between words as if a teenage girl in Minnesota) I am tripping, I’m squinchtilating, zeddubing, flipgortitating, rotoblasting big time… uuuuu, uuuhhhuu uuh uu uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhh aaahhhha aaahhh!!!!

My bedroom’s window has been uninterruptedly wide open for the last 5 months, that must be it, the city’s fumes finally kicking in. And so this disproportion of scents, the splotch of colours hurting me eye, the weird twixtor in movements and semi fluid state of earth’s spine… uhuuuuu, now all these people make sense, it makes sense they’re in ma head. Nhgek! wish I’d been issued some kind of warning, some clear, unavoidably giant luminous sign… but on the other hand, what a nice surprise YO T!!

So… relax Max, fasten the seat belt and enjoy the trip, ride along IF-brother!!

//// ……….. some indescribable and defying any notion or concept of a possible beyond “this” {time} after ////

At my street’s soul-sourcing, ritualistic mumblings, publicly accepted addiction’s get-together, simplistic abridged to café – but nobody drinks coffee after 5 o’clock {face off} – this is a fucking theatre, the theatre of life and it’s a blast of fun and I can participate and all, in all and with all of my own bullshit; can you believe it? For free!!

Let me see what’s on the program, between the mistreated woman and the bureaucracy needed just not to be mistreated, the football, the soft political satire and tax cursing, the burnt raisins going on detail about the good old times, their lovers, the one whisky bottle a night, the whores, the booz feed, the recipes for great sexual life… alone, the six o’clock soup, the ´whose paying this round?´ echo, the football, the undercover cop that looks like a crossbreed of lonely pimp and travesty, feeding the dog without elbows, feeding the wax lady, feeding all preconceptions about myself, the voluminously tight butt fighting to break free from within a two sizes below white pants’ nurse from the dental clinic, the football, lawyers carefully analysing the odds to squeeze a bit more, a lot more out of anyone, everyone, the wifi controlled children, the smoke made out of time, the time made out of sticky sexist jokes, the old unflagging lady always bringing strangely sweet plasters – wait we have 2 black widows (yes I repeat two widows in black) from a man, a neighbour who recently died, sorry passed away, now into the rot, he went to get his toe nail cut lalalá and something went terribly terribly wrong, so we, somehow, quickly have to stop drinking, stand up, put sad dog face and say maximum 10 words that make sense, you know what? I’m not getting up – … Gee there’s a lot to engage with and get even higher

Tried to go shopping but the lack of inspiration and the “products”… How am I supposed to eat this veggies? They look like a deformed cute little familly!!!
Bring it on, lets dance!!




( . . . ) in – out  September 2015

Woke up with a hard-on, what a waste!
Woke up to the dead of night… so hungry…

I light up a candle, dress stealth under the moustache and embark on a quick trip to raid the kitchen, trying not to disturb VP. Managed:
A cluster of round, dark and sweet grapes, a black beer, organic corn cakes ( 5 and 1/2 by my count), fresh and middle-matured goat cheese, some french butter and dijon mustard and a handful of pink radish sprouts.

Ate and drank it all, still hungry but realising food it’s not gonna put down the bug’s inextinguishable fire. Bill Viola anyone?

The tiny rodent making late anthropological work in my room doesn’t care… Just don’t wake me up oh little you!!
Roll a cigarette, open the window, jump outside. It’s dark still, it’s hot still; the cicadas seem to be getting out of batteries. Some faraway lights, some clouds, a couple anxious roosters and plenty stars.

Glad I called my friend Arne. I’m a reckless lonely wolf, a lonely wolf with a mobile phone… of which I barely make use. But somehow, when I’m about to start travelling I like to call someone, by now has become a kind of personal silly tradition.

This song’s cover on ma head playing looped since I woke up; South Salito

Writing has a lot to do with filming at least to me it does.


A cloud comes to mind; Madrid, that fiery summer’s night I crossed the whole city ridding a magic owl to meet… to be with Ana. What a beautiful night it was, how hungry we were, how unaware of anything beyond the reach of our hands. Love devouring from inside…

Breath… a deep in – out movement, in – – out, feel much better now.

Come back inside, close the window, hear the mosquito’s rave that got started, blow out the candle, lay in bed, in – out, in – – out, in – – – out, happy I’m here,
in – – out, in – – – out, now, in – – out, this sense of gratefulness almost makes me wanna thank aloud, in – out, in – – – – out, thank you in – – – out, in – – out, little careless mouse goes on with night excavations, in – – out, thank you for waking me up buddy =)



August 2015

The town’s effervescenting with life. If you were here you’ld fucking know that the only possible word to describe this collapsation of spice-time is effervescenting.

People’s skins are toasted to a healthy cinnamon tone and a gentle breeze goes around loaded with hormones, salt, sun lotion and summer ephemeral passions.

Sitting under an old tree in the central square.

Many years ago I also lived my passions here, though now it all feels distant and foggy like the residue of an ancient dream.

Sufi say “the whole world fits in the heart of a man”, Gabiot the seagul couldn’t care less about that stuff… surfing the coast, making spontaneous poop art and eating fresh fish is what is all about, maybe making a baby once a year and then push him from the rooftop so he can enjoy the world, pretty cool I’ld say… anyway I drift again…

An elderly couple is sitting in a bench nearby, we’re all under the same old tree. They are having a snack and probably engaging the same present I do, maybe just a bit slower; I wonder if by now their dream has shunted further away or just blended completely in.

While the teenagers rush somewhere a couple’s friend arrived. They greet him.

In another bench there’s this girl with long long beautiful hair. If I say that it looks like a flow of honey, doesn’t make it justice.

Food of the fifth gamma and fucking camera freezed out ’cause of pal or ntsc dilemma, stupid fucking piece of… uhmmmm the fish is just too good… total unashamefullnable mouth-stomach orgazm.

The fog engulfs the bay. Human ghosts emerge from parallel worlds. If I weren’t so happily embodying the best grilled fish in the universe I’ld totally go for a swim, water’s temperature feels just perfect. The general mood is very peaceful, everybody seems at ease and energy is high and jaunty.

Yes, I am drunk and happy!! I want to salute all souls that pass by; young, and innocent or twisted old and loaded with the wisest sins. The truth is I make no distinction, I feel brother and sister to all of them; the wrinkled old fisherman, the widow and her grandson, the ever loud brazilian couple and the cranky retired bus driver, the rich ukranian tourists and the tall, burnt dutch misses.

I am one with them, without hysterism nor passiveness.

I rejoice within same present.

I flow in the same moment, I smile to life… and to death…

I am as part light as part shadow as everyone else’s =)

Forgive me my little princess, you know I’ve got temper/patience issues; in the end the fault was mine anyway, you rock and record my world I hope you last longer than last one, je je. Look how bichifool chu recordid di flawer chuchu chuuch@!!



The embarrasing moment of being myself  July 2015

Burnt eyelashes
albino tinto breakfast without a soul,
naked palm-tree
inpudic dead dancing.

All I see
but the kettle sprayed on the wall,
my heart is gone
my heart is gone

with the sad potato chips
back skin peeling off
wrist invader strain
enhancing cosmos

Meet my neighbour
she grabs my hand
and tells me about
her dumb-ass husband,
we plan his death
by poison.

A little table
looks like a spider




Cansado de esconder
la boca en la mano,
me trepo a mi ego…
mira qué chiquito
se ve todo!!
y si me caigo?

El perfume de las mujeres
se mezcla con el de las flores…
ya no sé adonde estoy
ni cual era mi destino;
bueno que no se me olvide de respirar

Comprando filtros y cerveza,
una chica tatuada por el sol
y una tan viejita
que el propio tiempo se perdió
entre los pliegues de su piél



The feet
on the sand
at the sun
a strip of blue sea
a gradient sky
on top
as backdrop
a clear gradient of sky
and under
some humans
and over
Then waves
and patterns
and drift they drift
spin then drive
then drift
beautifully hopeless
millions of holes
like dunes
but smaller.

Faraway mountains
of semen houses
a stick
a butt
a plain
the green
of the pines
the loco-flora green
sand beetles
going about
their funny walks
not so funny flies
a breeze
the feet getting red
seagulls’ master class
on tap dancing.
Squeaky bird
feeding the beat
and beetles
eating a peach,
baby seagull
another plain
my brother
… time to wake up

{unfinishable loop}




HOUNDss no borboletario


Today’s hot
people looking crazy
reality’s melting off
leaving a grotesque delayed
. . . trail
of humanity . . .

What is it that is
you want me calling you?

My base is sound
extra pacacity dismal reflexion
so I can leave the ground
to the other side of sanity.

While we excel at being us
the clouds merge into each other,
people go shopping,
a little girls’s mesmerized
by her reflexions on the cars
as she walks . . . very slowly,
her father shouts – hurry up!

The light holds all
buildings’ roofs
and a black mama passes
with a collosal butt
enclosured by too tight
a pair of jeans.

Budhas’s watching over us
assisted by the solar powered praying wheels
made in China.
Dikky’s onto online puppies,
we’re about to eat

I drank
I spoke my BS out,
I looked
and was looked in the eye.

In the public transport
next to 3 african muslim pops,
My heart is my biggest person
. . . really . . .


an impromptu form, from just now


All the tyrant children of the world
were transformed into tiny baby squids,
they kept their shinny innocent eyes
while their parents ate them.
It happened on a Sunday
precisely, when the same phrase
letf the shelter of their blossoming mouths:
I always want to remain bored.

more loose stuff from afternoon at the park

The tree is leaving
I don’t know where
but it’s leaving.
Said domethin’ about
the only path being the one under its roots

The tree is leaving
and I am taking its place,
’cause I always wondered
how would it be like
to feel the rain
for a couple hundred years
and then take six weeks
to undress . / . ;
droping leave by leave
onto the whirly mouths
of northern winds

Having a family of coal ravens
or a myriad sparrows
would be such a cooly coolio YO!

Of many creatures’ lives
I’ld become witness and confident

\\\ the sound of a beaten and enraged teddy bear at a teddy bear’s therapy session is quite somethin’ – I’ve been told ///

I wonder how long it takes
for an email tree to tree?
I could write:
Salam alecum brother oak,
how are you doing today?




Paco, las perlas de tu boca eran silencios embarazados
April 2015

       It was my last year in high-school – code name in old spanish’s studying system: COU – which is mandatory only if you’re planning to go to university.

What the hell was I still doing there?!! I cannot tell, but I clearly recall I had decided not to go to university and do a 3 year image module instead. For me it was then cristal clear I wanted to understand and be able to decypher the surrounding world of images. So… I spent the best part of the year smoking joints, fucking, playing volleyball, tripping to the beach and… writing… in no particular priority order 😛

Through high-school I met all kind of “teachers”, from the professional ones that took everything seriously and were very disapointed at my waste of potential, to Hitler worshippers, dubious yet very friendly and lived bisexual beings, unbearable little dump smelling mouth rats, to the ones who wanted to be cool, the cynical old masters trying to get to retirement as sane as possible or the ones who didn’t give a fuck.

Paco was neither of those. He instructed language and literature; at the time we used to make fun of him, specially his inability to pronunciate the “r”; so we recite this paragraph of a poem the pearls of your mouth. Paco was from a village that is commonly regarded in Spainish culture as the place where brutish people are borned and thus many jokes start with someone from this village: Lepe.

Irony from the destiny, through my 5 years (I failed one) of HS public study, Paco was probably the only grown guy who understood me and respected me. At the time I was too dazed and confused to see that, but after 20 years – I must now have the age Paco had when I was his student – it is touchingly evident how this guy influenced me.

For starters he talked to me and listened to me, Paco also understood that part of being a teenager is breaking rules, questioning authority, trying new things and so on, so he was pretty flexible about some clowning and some joking during his classes, from time to time he would also engage the hormonal mayhem which was puzzling to say the least. In one of our talks I told him I had zero interest whatsoever in his subject matter, I also confessed that I didn’t really know what I was doing there. He was an awesome humble guy and as such he didn’t take what I told him as something personal, instead he proposed me a deal: You like to draw and write poems and stuff don’t you? So you can come to my classes and do whatever you want as long as you don’t disturb the others. Of course I cannot pass you, but if you change your mind you can study during summer and go to September exams.  

And so I had a warm place where I would spent several hours a week drawing intricate nightmarish stuff and writing many many popoozas. Since recently I have been going through all of them (thousands of pages) and must say, most of it is so obnoxiously repetitive, nonsensical or full of agony, formal yet chaotic and… a search, a search for my own code, my own language, a search for answers and the meaning of dreams, unstable emotions, overwhelming passions… and off course the unknownable… that is not worth even reading. And despite this fact, at the time, Paco was always very curious of what was going on in my little notebooks, ja ja ja. Almost at the end of the year he even offered to proofread them and give me feedback and so he did. He corrected ALL of my orthographic mistakes and took little humorous notes with a very light pencil. Paco didn’t say I like this or I don’t like that, intead he pointed out some writers I might be interested and just underlined some parts.


That (have to refrain from crying as you would not see my beautiful shiny tears) touched me beyond anything I can express, despite all the shitload I was going through I had a clear goal to achieve. I spent the whole summer studying, no beach, no friends, no parties… not easy to do if you’re turning 18!!! I was a devoted studious disciple of the spanish grammar… and of other disciplines. Aunt Rosa (she’s not really my aunt but a cool friend of mum’s whose hair is made out of fire and whiskey) helped me immensely too. In september I passed ALL of them. But in the language test I made a mistake that would have failed me with anybody else… I had to analyse a phrase and I mistook it. Funny enough this guy from the brutish cradle of Spain, so they say, understood that even though I had not correctly identified the type of phrase, I did analyse my mistake correctly and so it was not as important that I just accumulated knowledge as was that I knew how to use it =)

Today I am fully conscient that without me knowing it, Paco was a real teacher, he didn’t taught me with words, he planted seeds to grow in the future, now. I started to write when I was maybe 8 or 9, but since that last year at high-school I’ve been trying to write more freely, more true, more passionate and yet consciously. I knew then, after that year, that images and words, sounds and silences, all are part of a dainty ever-growing and whole pervading language.

Today is almost twenty years later and although I don’t even recall his surname I am plenty grateful that LIFE crossed our paths. I must be now the age Paco was when I was his student and I would underline those same loose lines, part of them run below -)

Te presentas en negro tintada,
atrapas mis ojos
y del corazón alado,
encerrado en la infinita abertura
que es su boca,
los labios rellenos de labios.

Tu lengua es la lengua del tiempo
hace mella en mi boca
eternamente humedecida
por el roce de esos labios.
Marfil choca marfil,
dedos de piel,
calor líquido…
…hombres luchando.

Tus hirientes dientes clávanse en mi yugular,
chorros de tinta,
baluarte e infierno en mis poros,
el color del olvido eterno y frutálico,
una memoria oxidada,
un conducto hepático dañado,
una ducha de sangre y vísceras.

Y es mareo el camino hasta-laverno,
como nube verde, paladar rojo,
gritos de auxilio al filo del abismo.
Fría y cortante noche de invierno,
de tu mano que es estéril recojo
las semillas mías… de paludismo

• • •

Como en un río, la palabra de amor fluye…
desde su nacimiento inquieto y goteante.
Mil hojas en un sólo viento
mil lágrimas en una pena sola.

Veo llover en tus ojos
llenos de peces ingenuos.
Soy lago y soy pez,
una ración de pena,
el llorar diseccionado…
en símbolos de piedra.

El tañir de una campana en el desierto,
metálica sombra profunda de deseo,
sonidos besándonos con su rostro líquido
los párpados.

Te huelo,
te siento por dentro
té frío Don Simón.

La acelerada caída del telón
con imágenes encadenadas a gritos
tropiezan con el aire…
es la sombra donde nos ocultamos
del miedo, en su forma de serpiente.

La mente que encarcela
los sentimientos,
en un talud de dolor,
es el mar que no cesa
golpear eterno
de sí mismo contra el sol.

de nuevo empaparé mis palabras
en el enorme perdón.

• • •

Moldeando su cara,
así me lo encontré,
infinitas son las posibilidades
en el lago de tus ojos

Alivia de tu carne el dolor
para que la herida nunca sane,
perdido en la tempestad sé
de unos labios que me darán la calma

Gris plomizo para un sabor
cementado en boca de plástico,
mastigadas palabras como castigo
al abandono del placer sentido…
Inteligible parece el cántico
orquestado sin alma ni motor

Inocuo lagrimeo contorsionado
en el pálido rostro falaz,
me encuentro buscando la verdad
en tu tenebrosa selva sin claros

• • •

Bajo un tremendo dolor
se oculta un infinito placer,
tras la oscura cortina
todo lo abarca
tu sonrisa… feliz

¿Quién maneja
las ruidosas cadenas
con las que la noche
ata mi locura?

Cuelga el teléfono
dime… ahora… cuánto!
Cuelga tus sentidos
del perchero de mi alma;
te llevaré por un viaje,
arrancaré los paisajes
maravillosos, que en tu interior
se forman cada amanecer

• • •

Mis deseos todos
en un punto concreto encadenados,
futuro en lo que somos
de presente aplazado

¡¡Turbinas de carne por
hélices de piel!!
Oscuras pero lustrosas partes por
la unidad que siembran en un ser

La llama encendida
de la llama apagada hermana,
una ostenta la vida,
la otra es un recuerdo en la nada.

El sol padrino de tantos,
la luna en los tanatorios;
la mentira y cerrojazo,
su certeza en vomitorios,

… and BTW ¡¡¡VIVA LEPE!!!!



Can I say animal words?


For some time now I don’t like to think, I’ld rather flow, flow with the rosemary, find the answers imbued on banana peels and pervading all the paths, all the meaning, all the preachy words that come out my dirty mouth.

I’m not happy and like me there are millions of people, maybe you feel the same. But I don’t hope I’ll be, I hate hope… it is the western’s socio-economical tick that has succeeded in hiding its individual growth’s interests and selling us a freedom of choices’ possible happyness bullshit. Meanwhile it sucks our blood, our light, our dreams and spreads larger and larger consumed by an insatiable hunger.

Presenter is a clown, inner most rational realisation, related to will power?… WTF?!!! Personally I would relegate “choosing” to a whole byproduct of most important thing, to be able to be conscious.
For me that’s the only true possible freedom available… and by my account, freedom it’s so much better than (illusory) happiness

But what am I talking about, who cares? That, right there, it’s so freeing and yet scary: who cares?

Quantising the choices, reducing them by bypassing whatever could be there available to a given set, creating niches and one day will arrive cybernetic simulators. Make the most profit the fastest possible says the rabbit before getting beheaded, crazy crazy global comparison models making sure it is never good enough, you are never good enough, what? Yes, oh yeah fucking yes!!! Let me roll down through all the linear schnittstellen and sing the neverending song of the sharing information paradigm.

Meanwhile, there has been stablished a course of actions to attain the cure for all possible deseases, I firmly believe everything I’m being told; I’m a fucking obedient dog, here guau guau grrrrr!!

Around the world, round about the content creation fun moment, people hold hands, reaching for the useless scraps that once were our souls, singing defeated eulogies for the places we used to belong… but don’t worry all is good, nothing to be afraid, happiness is coming said the consortium of downgrading doctors.

I feel like a piece of technology, a piece of human technology, programmed to be obsolete, programmed to go Ego-YOLO and then made liturgically disposable… or maybe recycled in someone better, someone who runs on fun, someone who doesn’t loose pretious time wondering what happened with growing together? Someone who everything sanctions with a good job John!!

Life itself seems to have become a niche, as we navigate through a set of frozen, self unpacking and pre-digested given choices without even understanding or caring anymore for what the fuck are we doing and more importantly WHY are we doing it?!!

At least ants are unaware and then… who knows?… maybe free of this torture among brothers and sisters.



Arne says this is a song
March 2015









Excerpt from gtr (spen) • paste url to poem

The black screen slow reading turtle
with nails made out precious stones
is coming through a soul-cluster
smiling rainbows and axial-moments
all aspherical light bleeding
little orbed mirrors as pupils
to say: wake up man, wake up


Wonder how much OFF
till everything OFF
had become
swollen flakes and OFF
radioactive dust
backpack glued OFF
spiralLing OFF
sunshine rays
the inner OFF
ear and fingers hard OFF
metal scrapes
. . .
on a
. . .
outer city’s








Back from 2009 Como los Cangrejos




January 2015

I’m sorry yells
the sunset’s engulfing light
While traffic mesh’s score
follows as usual,
people pass by
leaving a trail of unfinishable conversation,
A plain,
another plain imitating the former,
Some funny birds,
excited, playing catch,
Relight the cigarette,
check horizon for stability,
check golden hues,
temperature decreasing
Directly gazing the sun
or grey matter nurturing,
check for spots,
small dogs with silly names
and free falling angels.

Don’t forget to breath
written down
as first to-do list item
Change skin,
spit on tempo
with the universe’s lock down rehearsal,
trim moustache,
exagerate blonde’s leg skinniness,
enjoy the company of solitude,
roll another smoke,
release all the apple’s snakes,
gently accommodate testicles,
both left and right…

said the heart attack
to the humming bird




excerpts from excerpts form exceptions // possible captions  November 2014

..… a burdeos backpack, this guy in hiss-commercial car, making hands even tinier, the kid has a cute face and twisted teeth, freckles and oxygen tank, pulling the dog with the left arm, makes me feel sad, eyes fried with light, heart fried with love, pulling the dog with his right arm, keep the pace, have to breathe now, gashô, the city is engulfed in peacefulness fake dust, helpless bullets giving birth, delta magic and tremeluzentes bursts, wrinkles still, the strangest rolling shutter of a child’s dying scream, wonder wounds, free everything till saturday coupon definitive idea forwarded, old man, hello mum, during that time, new man, pervading shadows, chords of beauty, exits rumbles checking accurate values, LIFE, some other prototypes, entering now, thank you, uhh portrait, ohhh free fall, minimized self oh my, did I mention the cars without context?, sex-up tasks, chickpeas joining the digital age revolution paradigm, that pretty girl all crooked over her pink tablet, exploding airbags, and everybody finally waking up to find each other movements apart, back in the bus, back in bed, back in dream’s twisted arms, I respect you, dog, cat, bird, frying pan, cloud, emails, raining, smoke, fog, water inside out, in order to remain in order to remain in order, pupils, brain, drugged old lady death scent, humid streets, the darkest night, the brightest soul, bodhisattva zone, magic words random your mouth, red little book with drawings, forget, forgive, forload, forroboró, robofor chisel craving my heart, helloooooo, are you there?, let’s commit to the motherfucking common sense, real loneliness, ja ja já, theater is made out many pieces, waiting for mean rain, go away pain, the kid has a cute face, the shininess, taling, timing, trimming, telling and always searching for sugar while the countless freckles span…



loose rumbles  November 2014

By realese all means I jump into the abysm of your pussy wet cream, I obviously meant dream but it’s so tender to render a lie out of life that I’m affraid of overdoing… Digg the whole perspiration of things being borned and sensible to the flesh while already dying in our heads. Sharing flag testaments endorfines and the unshameless light of conscious noodles, making genders cry with outmost desert wave thirst for spontaneous clog swipe bubble psychopathic letchuces’ heart breaking infancy while the world of human crumbles gets harcorisized with sweet, inminent fractal pneumonias most mistake for oranges or orgazms or orcas or ortodox relationing… What a screaming of waste funeral arrangements and pay-me now curative rituals baby!
So, let’s fuck!
I love while I’m rotting
it could be no other way
there’s no contradiction
and furthermore it’s the same

And I rote very fast
so sometimes I don’t get to choose
what I love and
the objects of my affection
become very unusual things…
like a potato peel, the unknown corner of a street,
a scent left (to) drifting // cast away

As I keep rotting
I keep loving, that is
somehow a relief,
a redeeming circumstance
for loving while dying

At dusk a burning cloud
folding into dreams,
where would we take shelter, refugee?

The city landscape seems static and defined
when observed from faraway, but
as soon as one starts walking through its streets
and squares it becomes alive and fluid,
all integrating matrix of life,
infinite spontaneity flow of being alive…
and dying at the same time. Beauty!

One cannot stop loving,
well one can but that doesn’t make the rotting stop

There’s nothing to control
which means we are not free
unless we ditch that silly idea

Just breathing is an ongoing miracle,
why don’t we stop breathing?

Same thing extrapolated to all other “things”
Why don’t we just breath?

Good in nature is spontaneous humbleness
taking place even if is no good
But good or bad are just words,
brother-words from the same mom
We are the father of those words
and the outcome
and the mirrored image looking back
where they change costumes
and comb their hair

We are so busy embodiying all these concatenation of ideas
that we pass the present to the past longing for a confy future,
we poison any possible spontaneity of loving
so to have a false sense of belonging between us.

The mistery of the unknowable needs space to breathe
and live through our ever ongoing rotening

And, to me, the saddest is to just have the past to share,
memories cemented too heavy to be lifted, too easy and comfortable
to adventure our souls into new mysteries


It has rained all week
the streets are full of mud
I feel like puking
but is not ’cause of the mud
it’s ’cause of the coffee
I’ve been drinking way too much coffee.

Hey but someone
has to keep company with solitude
and the ducks seem too busy
rehearsing strange laughs.

The light has turned golden and green
so blondes are more blonde
still and grass
and foliage is way overdubbed

I called a friend
but didn’t answer
so here I am wondering
the streets with nothing
to do and nowhere to go

I’m pretty lucky
by not answering my friend made possible
for me to check the revolution birds do
when they go to sleep.

Wish I had a favourite coffee place or bar
where to go in the lonely afternoons
like this one and call the waiters by their name.

But I am unshamely too unrooted,
maybe loving chaos too much.
Maybe detached,
maybe scared,
probably too lost
to turn back the ship…

…a girl in red has sat nearby,
I wonder what’s her story.

Maybe she’s listening to songs
(I cannot tell) and living her own music video.
I know I’m living mine just
with these crazy birds

WHILE I loose count of my beard’s new white sprouts – descending curve to the left,
next to recycling bin skuba love, lost & found random memory failure department…

A girl in the bus with the hair all wet,
short coverall pants and big ass… so sexy.
A phosphorous hair young fellow’s
sitting and chatting with a wannabe blonde.

Russians enter and she sits next to me,
smells like candy, I smell like a dog, a wet horny dog from hell…
but don’t worry she’s too busy consulting with her mobile phone.

Sexy girl prepares to leave… what the fuck!!!
I’ve been all my life repairing to arrive

A gray hair, thick glasses middle aged cro-magnon woman
tries to make a circle on the window and so – with such a
simple gesture – art was borned

This bus looks and feels more like a sauna
of human humidity, wet hair and slippery motion.

The girl next to me has now the chance
either to stop playing with her hair and
talk to me or to go sit next to her very attractive
russian girlfriend

Now in the tube and a girl sits next to me
— I start to sound like a dirty old man, good!!—
it feels I put my head in a garden
full of blossoming flowers. She’s busy
with her mobile phone and listening to somethin’

Just in time the accordionist arrive with his
micro dog. He must be, what, 19, 20 now?
I remember when he was a very small kid
with a very small dog. He’s playing well today.
Time to leave

Clouds are having fun on top of the mountain.
Plenty rain for cereal crops,
for bone structure not so good.

I wear the clown’s invisible make-up,
pink is a great colour…
I wonder if I’ll have something pink inside.

What a nice spot to witness this awful weather.

Two chicks leave,
they bought milk
and condoms.

Fine rain,
thin grain
give a hug,
rig-me with love
or pretend I’m dead.

Very visual burdeos mercedes
driven by a man, a man like I am,
just my pink mercedes’ on the mechanic
right now, this, here,
this old guy driving very very slowly his

The monstrosity of present’s stain…
why even bother to get rid of it?

Embrace the stain,
dress pink in the rain
be those clouds
having fun on top of the mountain,
tall, steady but unsexy,
faraway yet present….
unembraceable grey matter of the universe
take me now though I might not be pink enough,
I’m ready



1 coisa a mais  July 2014


Sou 1 coisa a mais
a olhar pela janela
do peito do prédio que me alberga.

Sou 1 coisa a mais
assim tão fácil,
não me tenho que preocupar
pois já como coisa definido estou;

como coisa, mas não sozinha,
há outras, eu só sou mais uma
no acumulo de coisas
que se geram e se juntam,
que se amam, se ignoram ou desprezam,
que se encontram ou se perdem…

E o saber que sou a mais
dá-me a liberdade efémera
de pensar que poderei também eu partir…
mas partir p’ra onde?
p’ra fazer parte do que?

Se calhar p’ra ser uma coisa a menos
ou quem sabe, ate coisa deixar de ser.

Mas a verdade é que eu não quero
de todo deixar de ser coisa,
porque curto a cenografia que as coisas temos
e os rituais de que fazemos parte
durante a nossa vida na Terra.

Eu gostava sim,
que em recompensa pelo árduo trabalho
que tenho em quanto coisa,
pudesse desfrutar dum estatuto mais digno,
algo assim como vir a ser
A coisa a mais…

Mas se calhar também é demais,
imagino-me a ficar com o peso do olhar reprovador
d’alguma outra coisa invejosa e
lidar com o crescimento insustentável do
e g O
não há nada pior
que uma coisa com ego em demasia.

Em fim,
vendo melhor a coisa,
acho que estou bem assim
sendo simplesmente
1 coisa a mais… a
olhar pela janela.




Unfinished letter to a dead friend  May 2014


My dear FRIEND:

You’d like to know
the stone man is comming
he’s gonna fullfill I’ve been told
meanwhile the rehab’s going well.
The intro countdown’s random enough,
the seagulls seem loudly happy,
the ocean engulfs my soul beyond
any possible safety measure
and everything’s turning into everything
through unfamilliar patterns that
I make my best to embrace…
picture a bear embracing nail cutting, je je.

It’s overwhelming to let yourself be overwhelmed
by the tiniest inconspicuous little things
like the death of a bee
or the slow rocking dance of a standard pine tree.

The threshold of what makes me happy got so low
that now even the threat of a precariously insipid breeze blow
or a wild flower painted with the most common unrefined colours
can draw me a smile which echoes and echoes and echoes
in turtle dreams =)

Amidst all this “stuff”
I often think of you, not to keep me company
but as a way of preserving a bunch of nice memories
and further nurture the light of your spirit.

You were a good friend,
how’s that measured anyway?
You were my friend,
through many adventures,
y         o         u
taught me important lessons
never hidden the mud behind poetry
and for that I’ll honour our relationship
every single day of my life;

The sea darker blue
the sky pale skin or celest blue
and the clouds, the motherfucking neverending
sheep, I’ll swear someday now they’re going to start
meeee meeeee meeeee

Wait a sec, the sun is bursting
I’ll go and catch some for us

Do you remember those songs
that lasted several days
and the nights just a few seconds?
I remember mushrooms growing everywhere
and walls painted with smilles
mirrors and crazy gazing
drunken chicks wanting
more and more.

Do you RememberS all those friends
that vanished in the mourning
and the discombulated talk
about… well, anything really?
Just skeletons trying to scape
the mussel hustle.

I remember your drawings,
spiralling, always spiralling.

I remember that neverending love
made of precise molecules
and the chaos of trying to
deal with it
having to get through it

I remember your face
coming out of the shadows
of the strangest fairy tale story
and that constant mantra of yours:
good vibe, good vibe,
everything’s allright
everything’s allright
I have control
I have control

Well, that was just a belt
attached to thin air,
wasn’t it?
We were too young
too dum and full of cum
we didn’t know fear
and that
no freedom,
‘cause wasn’t an option
just a master ticket
to all heavens and hells
skipping purgatories and meals
and all boring things in between.
We had a lot of fun though,
we burnt bright, piercing the night
while dancing and dancing and dancing
blindly, passionately, unconsciously




The horny inverted bunny  Feb/March 2014


The horny inverted bunny

fucking everything upside down

while days drift

like a song you haven’t heard


The sea atop the trees

keeps merging onto IP7

just for downscaling purposes,

powering ghost moans,

discussing products…

doesn’t go persons


I love you – says the flea

then bites and dies, big smiles only

Have you backed up today?

Have your self back again, sir!

Thank you


Wind blows so strong

I might forget to backup

I might even forget

to forget the path

amidst a trail of smoke

and a thousand and one nights

of silently talking to the walls of the universe


no tight nots

no sunshine at midnight

no wet pussy for breakfast, ohhhh


It’s okay, it’s okay, it is okay

keep saying till sun arises

it’s okay it’s okay it is okay

it is okay

it   is   okay

it     is     okay

it         is         okay

it                 is                 okay

it                                 is                                 okay




the little mirror  November 2013


The little mirror outside the hall
between the bouncing rays of light
left by a hurry someone told
lubricated and snorting constantly
consonants made of pure truth
ja ja já


“Kiss me
   my arm”




Then you came, you;
unexpected crawling from within
the hall itself bended
and extended my arm too much
too much too much too much
too much too


              my throat”


That was not
what I was
anywhere lost anyway child.
Now the thought of the memory
blinking inside a jar
beside the semi-darken hallway
makes me want
not to go back


“Gain butt harder!”


My mouse is feeling sad
my house is made of sand
my nose is full of crap
my words not mine


Mind exploding blooded confetti
orgasm coperativism quarter inch
whole flavoured death wishes
refucking inside a moths’ brain


“That’s how you feel?”


what an awesome weep cream
passage to hell you’re delivering man!!!
I could use your skin to wrap me up at night
then for sure, no doubt,
I’d dream about all these worlds
making sense pass the hall
to the right, skip the shards
drink the light, then straight
reaaaallly straight forward
then free, then die
the come back
the die
then free
the coma back
then you kiss me
the kiss you
then we die
then we’re free
to come back
and start
everything again
without knowing each other






  November 2013




We do, we do we do we do, redo
We do not choose the things that touch us
We do not choose the things that touch us
They just do

I walk through the empty city
I walk the city through, like a ghost
All the friends that I meet want somethin’
What could they want from a ghost?
Walk through the empty city
Walk the city through, like a ghost
In the desert

There is like a caress
Like a rain caress
Descending from the sky
There is like a caress of rain
Descending from the sky
And I’m so shy
I can’t stop walking
If I stop I’m dead





world senday (uninstall)   August 2013


It’s like the world has come to an end

like if uninstalling itself

The day retreats leaving a burning trail…
a goldy warmy caress of peed light, and yes
August’s best to wander the cities

streets are empty


so many images

that need to let go

so many thoughts to abandon

to the flexy plexy destiny of ants
this is of no consequence
but sharing is loving
sometimes’ not enough.

How the fuck, yes the FUCK
I am gonna uninstalling love of me,
of inside me, of burning of motherfucking
burning me alive slowly, relentlessly,
passionately … and … finally

How to share without sharing
international happiness
yoghurt weavers
sky fridays
    sad music with           (avaliable) friends
    available — 1 and fatal,      hole, lazy … unfinishable





  June 2013

     What’s that smell, said the head of the plastic bags’ division management, just orange letters everfescenting everywhere.
A foreigner’s blurping, a young female (called that when fuckable but unsure of age) getting red, so many bags and they all look empty… oh well, I thought I was going somewhere. Took out the black sweatshirt, now I’m too red. Emerald shoes hugging flowers, a giant on the doorstep of this underground carriage. Brought the internet in my head, guess I’ll have to dump it somewhere next.
2 days latter, here we are, same underground, same carriage. Still in red, but now more african. Hangover of happiness… beautiful girl a body distance, fingernails paint also also also shinny red.2



drawings words  June 2013


Comin’ down from crystal palace to an earth strange,
feeling the feelings of the wind mingle with dry hair
and stealing the pores of the ground, asphalt everywhere.
No footsteps I can trace back,
 only squeletons
unable to breath, unable to laugh, skin is so tight.
Symbols need empty space ’cause they’re shy,
we rob them the power of their beauty singing
turning everything into context, all meaning.
What is important? I have had no focus in days
Who am I? Only in dreams I have lived
What am I doing here, writing on the back of torn books… ?
I’m truly sick and conversations have started,
If I could just chew the bones of silence – but machines,
machines and their deceiving decent words
have become my sirens, insect guides
of a short scattered melody
to the and the an in fucked up
– and here – fucked up – also here.
The hands on the chest the nail through the wall, through the hand, into the chest, through the heart, into the wall…
that ricochet is the brain






The sun’s setting
roll a cigarette
watch the leaves
in the tallest trees
say à demain

The swallows
surfing the sky
some big buildings, some small
the pale river
blurry other shore

Faraway mountains lying around
doing their thing
commercial planes
comin’ down, literally,
to the city

A car, a motorbike
and a guest brother gazing
we share
while we’re alive
these blood gradients
an apologetical skin
and the thrive
*to be in this world
without being of this world*

The soul almost set
time to change the eyes
fit the hoodie
take a lust breath of light
disengage the brain
put the hands
out of the pockets

Cold colours
drinking from roof ponds
the wind, always comes
a plain, drawing a line
time to roll a cigarette
and welcome the night

* sufi saying



fucking stones  May 2013

running over her with the car falling the nails of the stars to the earth and such a sound of despite and yet the talking still IS happening. what are you talking about? no no, what are you talking about?!!! communication must be the most beautiful of all the whores that ARE my mums, ji ji, I said that too many times in the last 10 minutes. in the last 10 minutes since I typed that I’ve been loving, yes it is measurable, yes it is contagious yes it is here aussi. some images become words, some sounds inside the words become silences which are born dead images, not tragic but necessary empty vessels for our eyes to find the confort of synchronization. I know, I know, this is all bullshit, but it is the best way to get rid of all the leeches at once…
it is also
a lie
at least if you happen to have a quantum physical heart inside.
at least the beast feasts only on stupidity
like mine, fresh, flowing honey, pure gold
so methodically radiant
everybody is.
if you do understand what I mean
good luck,
there are no belts,
there is no car,
the ground is not
you are not
only I am
repeat that now, for every single living being and
to every single living being give a kiss and
to yourself, which is like saying
to the lie
there is hope
consecrately violated
what an awful choosing of words

I can do better:
yet there is hope, yes that too is a lie. yes is such a shortcut
sure is just a seashore and so on and so forward.
what I mean is lets do the thing
love each other till we bleed
outside in
in a transplanted orgasm of light and ketchup
if not… well, then let me slip one of these images before they become
silences and die in me



when zombies are asleep – heart of suribachi #2  April 2013



when zombies are asleep
dreams are free compression artifacts gradients

when zombies are asleep
expand their dynamic range’s bite to infinity

when zombies are asleep
intro titles run as smoothly as brain’s grey matter

when zombies are asleep
all f-stops on every lens have wonderful bokeh

when zombies are asleep
gear runs on endless power

when zombies are asleep
focusing is easily accurate

when zombies are asleep
programs are real time oh yeahs!!!

when zombies are asleep
they’re one with motion blur

when zombies are asleep
they eat self-centered forum smart asses

when zombies are asleep
all is just pressing one button: now

when zombies are asleep
the chicks are nice zombies too

when zombies are asleep
politicians are fed to zombie dogs, cats and beavers

when zombies are asleep
framing is effortless… all is in perfect size

when zombies are asleep
other zombies are motherfucking compassionately helpful

when zombies are asleep
there’s no such a thing as corrupted cards or files

when zombies are asleep
they smile and have white teeth

when zombies are asleep
they see everything as for the first time

when zombies are asleep
there’s no need for keyboard, mouse… or computer

when zombies are asleep
the apocalypse is same for all

when zombies are asleep
humans are easy to talk, easy to befriend and tender to eat

when zombies are asleep
breakfasts are served with ganja butter

when zombies are asleep
they learn something on every job and are paid fairly

when zombies are asleep
when are zombies asleep?





black lineScape  Jan 2013










angrynessgone – for today  Sept 2012

Sometimes I’m angry, very angry.
   Most of those times I’m angry at myself;
     I guess that’s because I’m too hard on myself.

       It has frequently helped me to feel things through,
          trying to get resonating acquaintance with the residual murmurs
            or just a good laugh at the abyss of my endless ignorance.
                Then move forward… to the next abyss, hi hi.

There are a few occasions where I’m mad at a friend.
    This causes me much a bigger distress… specially if I know I’m right
      – here to be right is “to feel it with the heart” – or unnecessarily hurt
           (as if any hurting was “necessary”???). Maybe being a strong tempered
               person doesn’t help ( I like to say things loud and clear); maybe is just my            stupidity and pride – which I have plenty to sell, interested? – and perhaps is
      because I believe words don’t heal/illuminate always everything; which means
only time will tell.


Summer has gone and we meet again.
I see you, I hear you, I acknowledge you.    
I give myself to our space… waiting nothing in return.       
My mind’s not in past events neither in future plans but here,         
here and now


I don’t seek to be angry or happy, I just want to be in peace.


anyway… these buzzwords are a door that goes out of itself, or like ?lex
once wrote, well he wrote something in spanish which I translate my-way :


To be helpless we find healthy reasons
that give us the value of a constant suspension







some of them (ohhh ancient labirynth…)


You're on te AIR =)

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s