Partly Mechanical Hardly Human;

Beautiful Story About.

There's just the muffled crunchy sound of teeth grinding and scraping of boots on tarmac or something and a noise far away that maybe is someone crying or a cat and everything moves a bit in the wind but there isn't any noise of that sort of thing. There's a tape on of people talking about probably nothing important at a restaurant and a marching sound that's a bit like a lot of soldiers and a bit like a wheel rubbing against metal but it might not be a tape it's hard to tell. And everyone's run out of jokes because no-ones laughing at anything although they probably would if they had a sense of humour. Probably nothing important. Just a noise in the dark when youre half asleep something behind the curtains don't look its nothing don't look honestly its nothing. Maybe it's the town you live in making these noises or maybe it's you. Just a million mobiles and modems squawking and spluttering and hissing like piss on a fire like a million gallons of piss on an inferno just think of that eh?
Just think of that. Vertebrae being sawn apart sounds like this.

And when I opened the curtains they were taking the set away and packing up for the day, the cameras and lights turned off. The darkness replaced with striplights and and the grey skies the blind whirring of machinery.
I'd like to write a beautiful story about love:

(http://www.slowlydownward.com/)

Greenpeace

"Único en su especie"

Quizás porque no soy un buen poeta
puedo pedirte que te quedes quieta
hasta que yo termine estas palabras.

Quizás porque no soy un buen artista
puedo decirte "tu pintura está lista"
y darteló, orgulloso, este mamarracho.

Quizás porque no soy de la nobleza
puedo nombrarte mi reina y princesa
y darte coronas de papel de cigarrillo.

Quizás porque soy un mal negociante
no pido nada a cambio de darte
lo poco que tengo: mi vida y mis sueños.

Quizás porque no soy un buen soldado
dejo que ataques de frente y costado
cuando discutimos de nuestros proyectos.

Quizás porque no soy nada de eso
es que hoy estás aquí en mi lecho.

Quizás porque, Sui Generis.

O brave new world

"Put them down on the floor."

The infants were unloaded.

"Now turn them so that they can see the flowers and books."

Turned, the babies at once fell silent, then began to crawl towards those clusters of sleek colours, those shapes so gay and brilliant on the white pages. As they approached, the sun came out of a momentary eclipse behind a cloud. The roses flamed up as though with a sudden passion from within; a new and profound significance seemed to suffuse the shining pages of the books. From the ranks of the crawling babies came little squeals of excitement, gurgles and twitterings of pleasure.

The Director rubbed his hands. "Excellent!" he said. "It might almost have been done on purpose."

The swiftest crawlers were already at their goal. Small hands reached out uncertainly, touched, grasped, unpetaling the transfigured roses, crumpling the illuminated pages of the books. The Director waited until all were happily busy. Then, "Watch carefully," he said. And, lifting his hand, he gave the signal.

The Head Nurse, who was standing by a switchboard at the other end of the room, pressed down a little lever.

There was a violent explosion. Shriller and ever shriller, a siren shrieked. Alarm bells maddeningly sounded.

The children started, screamed; their faces were distorted with terror.

"And now," the Director shouted (for the noise was deafening), "now we proceed to rub in the lesson with a mild electric shock."

He waved his hand again, and the Head Nurse pressed a second lever. The screaming of the babies suddenly changed its tone. There was something desperate, almost insane, about the sharp spasmodic yelps to which they now gave utterance. Their little bodies twitched and stiffened; their limbs moved jerkily as if to the tug of unseen wires.

"We can electrify that whole strip of floor," bawled the Director in explanation. "But that's enough," he signalled to the nurse.

The explosions ceased, the bells stopped ringing, the shriek of the siren died down from tone to tone into silence. The stiffly twitching bodies relaxed, and what had become the sob and yelp of infant maniacs broadened out once more into a normal howl of ordinary terror.

"Offer them the flowers and the books again."

The nurses obeyed; but at the approach of the roses, at the mere sight of those gaily-coloured images of pussy and cock-a-doodle-doo and baa-baa black sheep, the infants shrank away in horror, the volume of their howling suddenly increased.

"Observe," said the Director triumphantly, "observe."

Books and loud noises, flowers and electric shocks already in the infant mind these couples were compromisingly linked; and after two hundred repetitions of the same or a similar lesson would be wedded indissolubly. What man has joined, nature is powerless to put asunder.

Brave New World, Aldous Huxley, Capítulo 2.

Justicia de la Quema

Más roña que sangre
más sangre que tumbas
más tumbas que cruces
más cruces que cristos
más cristos que fe
más fe que justicia

¿justicia de quién?
¿quién te ajusticia?
¿justicia lo qué?
¿cuál justicia?

Más de lo menos, Los Caballeros de la Quema

Mr. Mojo Risin'

Curses, Invocations
Weird bate-headed mongrels
I keep expecting one of you to rise
Large buxom obese queen
Garden hogs and cunt veterans
Quaint cabbage saints
Shit hoarders and individualists
Drag strip officials
Tight lipped losers and
Lustful fuck salesman
My militant dandies
All strange orders of monsters
Hot on the tail of the woodvine
We welcome you to our procession

Here come the Comedians
look at them smile
Watch them dance an Indian mile
Look at them gesture
How aplomb
So to gesture everyone

Words dissemble
Words be quick
Words resemble walking sticks
Plant them they will grow
Watch them waver so

I'll always be a word man
Better then a bird man

De la tristeza

Tristes guerras
si no es amor la empresa.
Tristes, tristes.

Tristes armas
si no son las palabras.
Tristes, tristes.

Tristes hombres
si no mueren de amores.
Tristes, tristes.

Cancionero y romancero de ausencias.
Miguel Hernández, poeta español (1910-1942)