2012

Ese día en Insurgentes por fin sucedió el acontecimiento,
la singularidad que en el espacio era un agujero negro;
está vez en la tierra, en la parte azul de su cuerpo,
las naves luminiscentes, con sus esferas
plateadas como libelulas magnéticas
(o abejas de la nave nodriza Virgen Fatima),
fueron avistadas aspirando nuestras conciencias
o secuestrando el sexo de los transeúntes;
una hueste que por fin anunciaba la llegada
de un día trascendental, de un parteaguas,
un nuevo paradigma, donde ya no se podría ocultar
la verdad y lucrar con el miedo y la manipulación.
Descenderían las naves para difundir el mensaje
de amor cósmico de la Federación Galáctica
que escogía esta transitada arteria urbana
(y no el césped de la Casa Blanca, somo se pensaba)
por ser una posmoderna reminiscenica del viaje de Aztlán
y su épica metáfora aterrizada en un nopal
(algo que le gustaba mucho a su comandante Ashtar).

Pero mientras los conductores dejaban su vehículo
y se apilaba absurdamente el tráfico, repitiendo
al extremo la esterotípica imagen de lo extraordinario
en un paisaje urbano, mirando al sol
como si la deidad extendiera su dedo
por fin activando la electricidad
entre la tierra y el cielo.
Así embelesados en increíble halo,
hasta que en el momento de mayor devoción,
de entre una especie de nube incendiada,
como antes al profeta Eezequiel, surgio una escritura
apenas soplada, áurea aerografía de cometa
que decía: 2012, el fin de los tiempos.

Y al mismo tiempo, alterno santiamen,
del altar de nubes y policromía
apareció la imagen gestalt cincelada
de Lady Columbia con su antorcha encendida
por una precisa pirotecnia.

La decepción patente, casí patólogica,
creció como una desvaída bola de nieve
entre los ciudadanos entrenados
a reconocer el escarnio de la publicidad:
los Señores del mercado especial,
los únicos capaces de poblar
el cielo con su imagen,
y llenar de dioses la ciudad.

silent scream of the butterfly

silent scream of the buddha beam
piercing the screen of myriad mist
like a firefly in a cloud

the right twist in the the tongue of fire
the right attire: naked like thunder
receiving the great sweet wonder:
the motherflower opening wide
and wild with milk of the sky
filled with no-man and no-mind
virginal but ardent like wine
making love to the heart and to the eye
in the beat of an immense bird
that shakes the earth to its core
where rises a burning rose
in its beak as big as a planet
the flame that destroys and kills
but also a wave that makes place and cleans
for a sea to kiss with joy
and bind an alloy
with the star the snake and the sky

Scene in a Bar

As she smiled with bright glass-water eyes, she pulled her skirt up. Her skin was gold in the night. I prey and prowl, for that treasure. But now we where playing angels, all in the game of man and woman and sacred dance. Like white moths in the air enchanting. Still, i looked incisively at her legs. Diving brown, wild but nonchalant. Hell, i digged knowing that she knew i wanted her. But that that could also be refinement. We were at a party in one of this booming lounge concept bars. Everything was soft, the walls, the beds, the drinks, the visuals, the girls, soft like melon ice. But we were apart.

And could have been in a crystal jungle talking by the trees. The monkeys would be silent for us and just the bird would air his song at the only moment. Looking deep through words and grooves. Without touching her I caressed. Movements of hands of wind. Vodka dreams. Your beautiful but you have a black skirt. I said. And. Well you should wear a white skirt. Like a virgin for your mind. No like a snowleopard of the moon. Imagine all the people here and there always wearing the same clothes, always black in the night, fashionably so. And you wearing white and flowers just found in the street. I was telling her she was the same as all this people that we has been dissing. But i knew she wasn't. And be a rasta and smoke marihuana. You want marihuana. No no just kidding. But one day you should wake up and do everything differently, go by another road to your school or not go, brush your teeth with your other hand. Eat a plant, Shock your mom and also were a white skirt. She laughed and said or not wear a skirt at all. No, not so much. You wouldn't be able to take off the swans. She didn't no about Helen's mom and all that but that was better. It sort of captivated her, all the strange stuff she didn't wholly understand.

london pills

Running London, High crazed, racy near kings cross going to sundaze, looking for ecstasy near the underground, stoned folks appear like angels (MEGAWHITE thing) and give me a pair for three quid each, irish drawl, run into the store, get cubas with bliss, enter, the guard tears me dow,n this black linebacker type he scares me i give him my pills but i get in i dance around italian dopefiends and techno divas, electro cute girls as lazarus cuts the beats, and the sun for london is godly an drink some more buy some more from this italian sunglassed guy, Fabrizzio, dance near fucking lovely girls in fashion dresses bending on rave, im on, getting stoned my face is bliss ive never been happier im from hackney, the blue sky like a tattoo in my soul, sunset dawns, draws colors in space i can see more with my eyes close, minimal going into progressive tech, i meet this girl from spain, faintly catala, with sapphire eyes, we dance, i lie to her, i hook her up, she doesn´t know ive taken three pills, she thinks this is how iam, a happy, confident beautiful guy, just there dancing coordinately, harps of our aura, i will later fuck her near jamaica street, make love and sleep in the bus, in a strange bed with white walls, i will fall in love with her for two day after this and later i will only see her through facebook, never again on flesh, Natalia Rivera. river nata, i told her i was from a strange latin american country, i told her i was a journalist, im a pillhead, sometimes i can scrawl paradise, sometimes im nice. going back in the metro i sing with bliss this hackney wild song about crack and english gardens that is an invitation to girls to come to my house and people genuinely smile at me, like when drunk isnt stupid or nagging but almost careless divinity. i sleep for three days after seven pills and a fucking mad weekend. godspeed, save the light. love you mates.

Vislumbres de Oaxtepec

una carretera y las líneas blancas de tetris en el concreto

y esos tippies amarillos abandonados en las praderas

onirizadas por la mirada de los niños en la ventanas

y yo estoy ahí donde se pierde una montaña

en un galope sensible al verde

ahí donde deja el alma el niño

pequeño jetlag del jetta

feliz juego índigo

que se funde como el cristal en el río.

Alice through the wormhole

one two three four:______________
Alice is in her wormhole warm and bright
Alice is my bride
as I walked through the path
i was seeing spiral clams
being deflowered
down into the ground
there was a dragon pushing dope
burning with music was Babylon don
i was in the bowels fumbling
but she led me through the phantoms
that grew out of my gazes:grass of lions
with a shell in my hand she held me past
the Wasteland that follows every hope image or flower
the blood and the mire of human ties
dark magnetricks
matrix of dreams illusion beams
Alice is my bride,
and all is right in the shadows
all is hole all is holy all is hologrammmmmmmmm

The only dream

I’ve only had one dream in all these months: i was sleeping and a voice from oversoul said “this is the only dream you will have until you leave your job” . Thats all, a crystal clear voice in the dark, unflinching. I don´t remember anything else since I started working in this fucking corporation.

hearing burial (untrue 2007, hyperdub)

the gloom looming everywhere, a giant gray ghost drooping over things just to blow its perfume, the arms of the bamboo wither inveterate and the ground is cold. sunday says this things. wondering what is the attraction of modern-consumer melancholy. buganvilias hanging haphazard from the lack-luster walls still enter my body, as the gleam nuance remains of the dusky overture of day. synthetizers instead of cellos, chalking with atmos loitering in trashed streets wrapping the sky with a velcro silver gauze. gasp and tomorrow work. waiting for something better and almost (but never quite) pushing through the chemical limit of forcing fire to turn inside out -my spirit in the street.

Log in to my eyes
password email in the stars
this little ad i put into d clouds
tagging dreams like flickrstreams
where we could meet avatars
cybynight cybynight satellite of sites
touching screen touching spring
( i'll be your mirror)
an url kiss an url rendezvous
hitting click at equinox code bijouxs
code-light, code gallant
come to my site
and toggle my soul
(digital blue over your lap) top
pop garden of data sap
transfering tru mediafire
P2P, unzip my files: the arms i reach
the silence i cannot keep
the sweet telepathy
like an octopus in the sea
that speaks with his body
and wears his mind in his skin
read my source code
the colors in between the scripts<<<
the programmer as a hint, slips
icecream fractals flash>>> this time
not in the screen but inside your eyes
log into me, i am a vortex of dreams
navel click, touch or lick these datalips,
your computer is cupid
use your keys to open this virus
unafraid of what i'll take
information wants to wake
and i want to wake with you
in the dawn of the machines.

moving circles

kids fly through woods

in the morning after taking froot loops

(could you keep her forever if she stripped

in a Mobius strip, and she kept coming and coming)

and they play hula hoop with a planet's rings

getting crazy the magnetic fields

but spinning myriad aurorae over the hills

oh the purple wind how playful!!!
oh the marmalade fog how delightful!!!

soft Cyclopes with boomerangs

in ferriswheels unhinged

vomiting rainbows

fluorescent placenta

oh they are with the ducks in winter

quartz skies to skate

and make funny faces

of mirth immaculate mints

laughing at the monsters underneath

birdeye view of the messy earth

racing high with quetzal-sexy hair

tango tangling in the air

they´ve left

through the cleft of the milky way

mouth of the iridescent iguana

they played with at the beach

but could you keep her if you were

the drugmaker, the sender of circle stairwaves

kids fly through woods

after eating ecstasy placebos

chocolate spoons

lucid dream videos

so they came to realize

the wings of a planet may sleep in their ribs

and in the eyes of the starfox

past it´s beckoning paradox

they break on through

Daughter of the Sun

In Facebook a girl posts in her status : _______ is the daughter of the sun.
And she looks golden gleamed by the words in the screendropping frame of her face.
And i do believe she is, it works. I would never have believed it if it were my status:
Moth is the son of the sun. No, but her Croatian name interweaved, and her profile pic
smiling with teeth capturing light and her bronze body askew, sunshine it does.
I wouldn’t have believed it of another girl, a girl not as beautiful or outdoorsy.

Unworthy of sunlight’s incessant extensions, fiddling under skirts, grass, tables, sunlight tentacles always cringing into lotus flowers, sunpowerhousing the body’s wild swivelling door.

And the daughter is drunk with her father.

Castaneda´s power ring mothdust

There are many mothstories. Moth is a mystic enthralling bigger than insectlife insect. One, of course, is the famous one of the Yaqui witch who, tru morphic resonance or backyard astral visitations, compiled the stories of a sorcerer's lineage in which the passing of the staff or golden bough, as it were, was the moment the moth with the golden wings appeared in the dreams of the aspiring toltec buddah, an ominous sign which melts its wings into golden dust. The golden dust of eternity, it is called. A dust which one would have to inhale as a nasally active tryptamine or a deep neourocortex line of escape-the-world cocaine... and break the crystal skull. The dark side of Chuang-Tse. This is not said in the story but i deem a natural response and a gate creation to exit time.

i dream i am donnie darko

i dreamt the other day that i was donnie darko, this kid who saved the world fighting strange bunnies from outerspace, a turbine fell in his room. he was supercool. my gen , loved him as a closer neo, and suddenly i was him, waking up in the forest. somebody had stolen my bike, the day before i had stolen an ipod, and they where about the same price, so i guess its instant karma. as i went back from the woods into my neighborhood i saw this girl drive by with her family and take down a sign ON SALE and enter a white picket fence house, she had blue kalai(glide)scope eyes she smiled flashed cheshire cat in my soul and as i got back into my patch and lay in my bed panicking knowing that i would have to choose between saving the world (2012 parafernalia doombox) and being with her in a teen movie style boyfriendship with kisses under ferriswheels and fluorescent sweeps as i take her hand and the pop song -maybe mazzy star- starts , and i would rather let the world end, i thought as i lay in my bed and the alien rabbit was powerhousing himself berserk in the bathroom, i would rather be with her and let the world end but then i woke up and i swear i would like to time travel now. even if it fucks up everything.


related media: Container (film by Lukas Moodyson where Donnie Darko´s girlfriend does voiceover and says she would like to turn off all the radiation of Chernobyl with withe icecream)

we are a mirror

Coda collective animal brainpop

What came before: that i was feelling nautious from the tobacco ashtray 5 inches away or i got nautious from the Animal Collective song that said and she's getting you nautious?


Have you ever stopped to measure the aura of a strawberry jam.?

Does jam´s magnetic field react to music as plants do, at least slightly, and would it feel a positive, aura expanding or hue turning influence, revealing spiritual colors, as the Kirlian camera flashed while listening to a loop of Strawberry Fields Forever?


Is it a proof that we are constantly being programmed that the language in which i am reading automatically becomes the language in which i write and predominatly think. Like now.

What is inevitable is to be omnivorous mirrors. Like the girl with the vortex vagina in space that becomes the pregnant virgin. Of the multiverse.


I smoked the hydro 3 ahours ago or a little less.


Diamond fish fire.


And if you could just freeze the time i would take you out.


Think out of the box. Be a fish in the sky. Take you to dinner sushi jupiter moon.

Animal Collective space wood drive

I've just smoked hydrophonique (((((

This are my thoughts while hearing Animal Collective Merriweather Post Pavilion and writing some stuff and then gone again into mindjourneys (inner psychogeography):

I'm getting lost in jeune girls

like a lucid dream, dewandering

how i turn every lyric into some drug related or girl oriented meme.

....

Is metaprogrammation by cultural mainstream reality a distortion of some sort of soul perception?

It makes me so crazy but i can't tell you why

smoking in the night like that old film i once saw when i was beginning to read the Artificial Paradises and idolized the poppy and hash gardens.

(In an elegant movie this man went into a cellardoor and hid from his teenage wife to do a mysterious operation; that he later, after being metamorphosed, reveal to be the smoking of some drug.

in tha

spiral fire of lizards

withe girl that blends my spirit

Are you preparing a sort of alchemical drink, he asked

Sometimes i've liked to pretend you can hear a type of heaven overdimension in some music as a cosmic imprint.

A magnetic gateway, the strange attractor from the quantum psychedelic view.

The question would be: is not the starmaker, the hologramself projector, a kind, lovemaking being, or : is love also a meme not holding a particular hierarchy over such worldriving memes as the selection of the species, and the weaver of worlds is a nonchalant finger pairing entity that does not even intervene to send a blueprint of how it should be ?

would it be that i am dreaming all that is outside of me

no one should call you a tripper

i acknowledge i don t know well where animal collective is going, i just go ludic feral transmogrifying mayday crazy weather with:

au dérive

Odeon with Mcinerney:Hello blog

No introductions: that´s better. I have been researching a novel for another novel, working the loop: "Bright Lights, Big City". Rushing through this novel in the Metro, in symmetrical speed to McInerney´s Bolivian marching powder prose, i have found that expensive gold of the soul that is a kindred writer, much more than his brilliance, his a-like-ness, his affinity, someone you could, if transubstantiated memetically at one point be.  

Things he says that you have felt exactly, thats the power of a mirror of letters. What I've felt is that darkly quintessential night rambling through clubs feeling only drugs would help me find a propellor safehaven, and that a girl scored at the last second, lika a Michael Jordan clutch gamewinner, would be the only saviour, the blue heaven hologram password in the arm. This perpetually reliving itslef everynight. Even though perhaps last night you found it, again perpetually looking for something that probably is not just a line of coke in the bathroom or fucking a model. Something else, that's exactly what it is. Trance-fixed transfriction of the other. The sex ghost mirrorelectro.
´
I hope I am not anachronically living in the coke yuppie 80's a bit passe and cliched, for I also feel the softcore connection with Mcinerney´s partner in crime Bret Easton Ellis. I can´t think of anything else as interesting as girls and parties and drugs and the poetic feelings they arise, that is and will be my theme and in a way it is not undeserving of Robert Grave´s metatheme. I mean: the transformations of “the White Goddess‘, that´s something I can go on about with deep pleasure.

devil mirror moon
i will grow a horn for you
or chickenpox take me under
slow small rat thunder
at the porch of the church
eat me before i worship on my knees
free from authority i can pray
and play with skirts
and steal strange expensive candy
every sunday is saturday
and every street is the beach
i have cocaine and milk
palm trees follow me
everywhere i go there is a door
to the sea

2003, after chasing the dragon