joystick trance

he slithered in and proceeded to skillfully steer his joystick-controlled wheelchair into a suitable space. the bus was far from being crammed and the author couldn't help but focus on the middle-aged man's hands. some CPU disorder had fucked his hard-drive. the aftermath was focalized on his hands.. they now boasted a queer sort of nonchallance that could not be entirely accounted for by the involuntary rhythmic spasms whimsically seizing them now and again...

a woman whose slight palsy  would have otherwise gone unnoticed started to seemingly shake her head to the beat that the joystick hand had set. a trance induced by the oddest of unisons seemed to follow. life can be unpredictably implausible and a darkly comically riotous cunt.

heavy jewel

heavy jewel magnet-like, her heavy stride made me turn to glare intently at her. i hardly recognized her. she didn't blink and went about her trash can rummaging business as usual like she had just unsuccessfully made an attempt to slap a tiny fly with the back of her left hand.

heavy jewel last time i saw her it didn't really register with me; the transformation had been well under way by then, of course, but it hadn't been as blatantly brutal. her flesh had bloated under her skin. true, even now she was by no means obese, just chubby, a seedily ugly shade of chubby, though. and her face...and her soul...

heavy jewel a skinny romanian princess of the city underworld. she had been an unlikely goddess.

heavy jewel her eyes were dead now. no light lurked in those anymore. the streets are ruthless cunts.

still life still born

drop of  flesh
black dew
planted in Paris's womb
your steel stillborn

jinxed up genie bottle capital
city of love, city of worms
dear princess of lies

mouldy autumn!
Wash away
Rainy truth
make the worms writhe!
make them die


winters stubbornly come round
every time the city whines and moans
and mourns the bloody worms.
autumns will wash away the rain.
who weathered your storms?

pale, black

during those hot early summer weeks, Jori spent most of her time by her granny's bed in claustrophobic room 418. ward corridors were empty most of the time. only an old grumpy nurse shuffled her weary feet along past their door. loneliness, tugged at by gravity's childish hand, billowed downwards permeating every inch of the place.


in the late afternoon, the heat was intense, sticky. the nurse came over to change the old woman's diaper. Jori was always asked to leave the room when the nurse aided by a caretaker went through the  fastidious motions. Not today though. either through neglect or, rather, more probably, maliciousness, they allowed her to stay. Jori knew the moment she saw it that the nurse had instinctively been aware of the effect the nipple would have on her. it was just that, though, the centre of a sick woman's breast but it looked like a greyish tumourous dummy. once a sexual trophy and a chunky nourishing hose. the woman's life socket had turned into a black hole.

Jory's vision playfully deconstructed her grandmother's tainted whitish-pink bosom, successively blurring the woman's blackened spiral by bringing the whole thing into focus, then sharpening the black nipple, bringing the whitish-pink bosom out of focus... out-of-focus white, sharp black. sharp  white, out of focus black. she played this blurry-clear-clear-blurry game and her mind went blank. time warped. the heavy rythmic clash of those two colours shook her very core.

phases we go through, they say. life looks you straight in the eye and waves goodbye.

just selfishness?

For more than a year i tried to bury my pride with her. I m not sure pride s the right word. It might have been self defence, survival instinct. I think some kind of mental health alarm went off without me being aware of it. Whatever it was, it summoned an  undercurrent of rage. An ever-simmering concoction only brimming on rare occasions.

A few more than 365 had already paraded by. The blues got me off guard. After being buried for more than a year I was suddenly feeling the ground shake under my feet.

Has there been any mistake? Has she been buried alive? She was dead, alright! She came back to live by gorging on the emotions i hid in her coffin and now she s back. Now that I think about it, she did look a little bit like an undead. All that natural darkness under the eyes...but i digress

I went for the straight forward approach: elliciting the information by asking simple questions. What role do you think selfishness played in you breaking up with C C? My answer could have been 'none'. It wasn't though.

i just hesitated for several minutes and my mind seemed to then switch off. What was the question again? After going through the same motions and staring into my confused eyes for a further indefinite number of minutes the interviewer started to get on his nerves so i tried my best to answer the question. How could I? selfishness...? ehhhm

i guess i must ve been selfish but i can t see exactly how. This is the extent of my self knowledge. A ludicrous self-awareness muffled by fear and selfishness.

Once I gave up hope of finding a fairly simple answer it seemed to naturally come to me. our struggle didn't make sense, not anymore, not after...so selfishness took over. This roadless connections. These sudden thought pop-ups. they always strike me as utterly miraculous; one's not on thinking mode and then the idea becomes as  tangible as a suicidal razorblade wound.

Another digression! What was the question again? Selfishness

i'm the one whose heart's just missing
try to stab me dead , you won't kill me
you'll stab thin air, nothing.

our false prophets

you spread shit on everybody's toasts
you are fate's dreadful boasts

today you just woke up. wanted to be saints
redeem your dirty selves. november rains
won't drain your filth won't wipe off your blame
storms ll strike back carrying black pains
wet naked leather coat agonies


you stink of purity
ancient parching affluence
and cloying whiteness
couldvebeen deities
you re coiled up barreness...
instead

across the room

i still can hear the thumping and rattling of business-as-usual in the world next to me. there s a thick sound wall keeping it all away from me, though. a flat local character is gesticulating and waving a fan. the music on my headphones's blaring out and some of the liquid tune's pouring into the room. nothing of the silliness outside seems to have sneaked into my skull. the silence between songs keeps me informed of the conversation polluting the air, though. not that i couldn't guess just by seeing her grimaces and her ugly theatrical features parching her face.

-donde se va a celebrar la boda?
-noooo el otro dia se celebraron elecciones en el mercantil. 
-si? y quien ganó?
- como se llama?
-se llama ...............
- si, la mujer me atiende cada vez que voy al mercantil...

seville.. wasteland world summit 2012!

of course

of course. what did you expect? you behave like a fucking cunt and 5 years down the road mr nice guy behaves like mr nice guy again. possible but you don't believe that, now, do you?

my reptile self's cold hugs=her reptile's self's iciness

i broke the little blue jar we kept on the living room table. the one our cuddly female snake would continuously coil around.  the poor ignoble reptile.  loneliness was essential to her automatic embraces. innate aloofness masked by eternal icy contact with surfaces. they can smell the possibility of commitment in others like border customs n border detector dogs. sniffer cunts.  they ve fooled millions. it's not commitment they re after. they re merely killers out for blood in life's ramdom ocean. 

lust enslaved the subjects. even inside her egg she had plotted her unstoppable rise to power. always hungry. always on preying mode. down there in the dumping ground sniffing for prospective weaklings she had already turned millions of serpentes into an army she commanded at will.  corn snakes had concocted mutinies orchestrated together with more imposing peers in the end they were all as docile as the indonesian aquatic informants. the likes of her no longer posing a challenge , she decided to move up in the food chain: proxima estación: presa facil, unslaveable earthlings.