Nothing new will happen,
we only try to chew ourselves, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, thus, in different ways, perhaps the death bite disappears from the taste of every day’s last bite.
As long as life is a masquerade free of entry, why are we ashamed to wear our real faces during it,
those thrown in the cells, with things that were the holes of light in our lives one day, before we throw them between the damaged furniture and the putrescence of yesterday.
An illusion is all of this: our permanent long speak about what we were once, our exposed obituary for our several victims, for us once upon a time”, our dusty accumulation on the surface of an office table, discusses the window about the “ontological” impact of air on the smallest components of this universe.
As we remember, we do not remember what happened, rather we tell what stirred up inside us of emotions at the moment of remembrance.
I do not know a thing, a real confident incident, I do not know anything at all, except perhaps a ridiculous belief, that we were hunters, and we became a deadly poultry.
No difference between us and them, poultry,
the body shape, perhaps, and our conscious that we entered the barns with a voluntary decision: family, religion, state, homeland, parties, banners, ethical values, etc.
we live chained, so to be free, means not to be, not to exist, not even to utter, a slight, salty effect, perhaps we are, on the collar of a ripped shirt
Hearts are evergreen trees, or so we are all born with such, but the fear of death, forced them to enter the game of nature, so they became wither in autumn, our hearts.
Imagination, in one of its many aspects, a full release of emotion from the nozzle of sense, not characterizing it, talking about it, telling it.
Blowing light from our hearts’ gaps, towards faces whom sky plays behind them, the hideaway game.
O death of distance, O heart,
O a victim of time!
Does whenever the oppression gets one’s way to your cavities, comes out, wetted by thirst!
or, of oppression, you grow up,
the first prisoner, arbitrarily, in our chest cages
bleeding with tap dancing, your all drops of blood, through our bones: a fountain, that sprinkles your Haemoglobin in the yellowing of fear in us, till death releases you one day.
We were grieving, often we were grieving.
learning how to bite on the lips until they bleed, gore the wall until we see the “stars of noon”, we shout, we cry a little, we calm down, and then we return the cycle of grief, non-stoppable, mercilessly.
What does loneliness do?
Does nothing, does everything,
A fertile cause of birth, it is, to all that we fabricate of relationships and details,
the morsel we always choke because of, with each meal,
the sorrow of the first paper lulled by the autumn into its cradle until it sleeps alone on the ground
the mixture of scents stuck as a tattoo on the shirt you were wearing when they all emptied their tears, fragrances, and smells, and tighten the hug, while you were holding your departure as if it’s a dog pulls you forcibly and barks.
The complete boredom that we try to forget it, through the great growing noise in this world, day after day, while the heap accumulates on top of silence, and silence has no voice no emotion or movements or anything appears, to tell us that it suffocates, utters its last breath, silently.
SparksFriendship, the friend, the faithful buddy,
is just another cruel search, for immortalising us in the memory of someone, in his stories about his life, about us, what we love, our foolishness, our grief, our brightness, our weakness, our essence, our effects on him.
Is that we are alone, all of us, some of us become friends to extinguish its flames, the loneliness, without consciousness of it, and others, aware it, live it, eroded by its teeth,
and if an encounter happens for two of them, something deep between the two of them sparks, as deep as their conscious and feeling of it.
This thing may become a little close, to what we love to call it friendship.
We come to it, life, as a result of a simple misunderstanding with death, ends with our conviction with it.
Perhaps, writing is the most difficult way to pronounce sense, but it is not the least truthful, as rumoured, it is either an unconscious artificiality or a murderer truth.
Silence is not the no-sound, it is the inner sound of the beings, perhaps.
is removing the rubble of stones from above its mouth, to let it speaks, raising the calm when it comes out of the lap of your self, a child, for the first time discovering life.
Does not get tired, time, does not stop, does not exist,
dissolves in beings, wears them until gets bored of them, then throws them to his partner, death, in the best deal that can be held between illusion and truth.
Rain and road do not forget each other, the relationship between them as old as the wail.
And we are still here, stuck,
a thrombosis in a Goat’s udder.
the grass chokes with us, at the beginning of graze, the Bedouin’s mysterious songs, which only the mandolin and grandmothers understand, and some of the evening’s bleating.
– Can I have a kiss!
– Kiss the sun, your lips will never forget it as long as you live.
– Can I have a hug!
– Hug a dog
memorizes your smell more than the smell of its urine.
– Can I have a death!
– Since you born you have been given it, and this final one is nothing but emancipation.
– Can I have a moon!
– As a baby, you got it: your mother’s breast.
When her face, if you realized then, was the sky.
– Can I have a dream!
– You have a lot, but you, seeking the serenity, called them nightmares
– Can I have a sea!
– Two oceans in your eyes, just if you leave the rudder of the ship to your heart.
– Can I have a loneliness!
– Open your eyes close your ears, and sit with others.