Oswaldo Pérez Cabrera
Vancouver is glass. Building colour Glass. Glass building colour. Vancouver is water, lots of water. Vancouver is mountain and endless forests. But it is also marihuana and solitude. Mainly solitude. And it is humid, a humid solitude that repossesses the city that lives under the shadow of a doubt. A humid metropolis, as if we were living between the legs of a nymphomaniac. The water comes, almost every time from above, in the shape of little cold caresses. A thousand slivers from a broken mirror that fall reflecting the nostalgia of the lost cities, exiles and abandoned lands or picture the dreams of future places. A thousand little pains. The alleys are filled with callous puddles that are stepped on without mercy. Vancouver is the freedom that balances the sense of distance. Freedom to smoke THC on the streets and freedom to legalize unions of same sex couples. The sex is multicultural; coitus in different languages and obtuse combinations. Freedom to be extravagant. Vancouver is the city that awaits destruction from its tectonic plates.
Drugs get stuck in the port city and are distributed on the abrupt corners of the east side of town where the shadows drip down the back doors between used preservatives and infected syringes with mortal diseases. Poverty peeps between social programs and political promises, but the sun enters tiny through the crevices of the sidewalk where the imaginary crack hides. Paranoia in D Minor. Schizophrenia in shrieking tones. Sometimes the inner voices mingle with the voices of the repressive authorities. Contradictions of freedom. Vancouver is the native land full of winds intoxicated with beers and moonshine; the opium of the ancestors; the land stolen from nature.
The last feminine smile is always accompanied by salty water. We are accumulating kilometers and stories, unfinished chapters, circles that are not perfect, lights that would not turn off, televisions that turn themselves on, fragments of life captured in mate paper, waves that circulate through the solitudes of Vancouver, my voice in an unknown speaker, el taste of the feminine vulva that leaves along with Mount Venus, grey with my drunken sperm; hotlines and psychics, the weed that always flows, hungry and thirsty in the waiting room of the apocalypse, the print letter that revolutionizes, the web that will unite us against the empire of evil. More or less that is how life is here. Live from the air. With the women of Vancouver that lick the wounds of solitude and the incapacity of forming an everlasting relationship with the stubborn men of the cold regions. And we are so dysfunctional. But I am still here, in my white cave with glossy illustrations, bars between the alley and the smoke from the joint until wine replaces blood. Until wine replaces blood. Until wine replaces blood
sábado, 28 de abril de 2007
viernes, 20 de abril de 2007
SuperSonic
Like that day that I boarded the supersonic jet 623 towards the spirals of dust from a splintered star and ended up in a brown-thick-wooden colour grotto with magic mushrooms everywhere; the good thing is that there was beer flowing from the moss in walls that were painting rust of iron virgins with faded colours.
I was being watched by winged beings whose only true thing was their condition of ethereal flyers; their wings were made of ectoplasmic feathers and their figures were almost indecipherable, due to the escapable condition inherent in the fantastic or supernatural beings. The problem was that, for my eyes their subatomic particles moved too fast and in long distances, so that they can appear and disappear whenever they want to and in blurred spectrums. Hertz waves of continental proportions were filtering through the pores of the washed and humid walls. Surrealism created on the walls by random and time.
The inducement was to feel the air breaking, literally slip through the aerial pores, between those plaits that exist between the molecule H and the molecule O and to throw a glimpse into the dimension that functions parallel to us, protected from all the pollution of the material worlds.
I wanted to climb grasping the black cracks of the universe attached firmly to some equipment of light constitution, almost imperceptibly to the scales that could serve me as a cane-radar through the invisible labyrinths of the macro spaces.
Something went wrong and I ended up in this dirty cave of schizo hues where animals that produce phobias become my principal food in this micro ecosystem where it seems that I am on top of the nourishing chain (unless the spiritual quasi-beings think of demonstrating their condition of destiny-changers and squash me like I squash the cockroaches and take me as an appetizer like I do with the insects in here or use me to satisfy their thirst of blood like I do with the rats).The religious stains sometimes are tri-dimensionalized mocking my eyes and deceiving my beliefs that are far away from being normal.
The worst punishment for a soul is to be trapped in a decrepit body and to be able to catch a glimpse of the disincarnate scopes that happen on the other side of the wind; however, mine would be happy to just walk your city streets and alleys.
OSWALDO PÉREZ CABRERA
I was being watched by winged beings whose only true thing was their condition of ethereal flyers; their wings were made of ectoplasmic feathers and their figures were almost indecipherable, due to the escapable condition inherent in the fantastic or supernatural beings. The problem was that, for my eyes their subatomic particles moved too fast and in long distances, so that they can appear and disappear whenever they want to and in blurred spectrums. Hertz waves of continental proportions were filtering through the pores of the washed and humid walls. Surrealism created on the walls by random and time.
The inducement was to feel the air breaking, literally slip through the aerial pores, between those plaits that exist between the molecule H and the molecule O and to throw a glimpse into the dimension that functions parallel to us, protected from all the pollution of the material worlds.
I wanted to climb grasping the black cracks of the universe attached firmly to some equipment of light constitution, almost imperceptibly to the scales that could serve me as a cane-radar through the invisible labyrinths of the macro spaces.
Something went wrong and I ended up in this dirty cave of schizo hues where animals that produce phobias become my principal food in this micro ecosystem where it seems that I am on top of the nourishing chain (unless the spiritual quasi-beings think of demonstrating their condition of destiny-changers and squash me like I squash the cockroaches and take me as an appetizer like I do with the insects in here or use me to satisfy their thirst of blood like I do with the rats).The religious stains sometimes are tri-dimensionalized mocking my eyes and deceiving my beliefs that are far away from being normal.
The worst punishment for a soul is to be trapped in a decrepit body and to be able to catch a glimpse of the disincarnate scopes that happen on the other side of the wind; however, mine would be happy to just walk your city streets and alleys.
OSWALDO PÉREZ CABRERA
SEX AND STATIC
YOU USED TO LIKE MY SMILE
YOU USED TO CALL ME AT NIGHT
YOU USED TO TAKE ME FOR A FLIGHT
YOU USED TO MAKE EVERYTHING ALRIGHT,ALRIGHT,RIGHT AL...
SO, THE GIRL CAME UP TO MY ROOM, SWEAT AND JEANS, DARK HAIR AND LIQUOR BREATH. ALCOHOLIC KISS, SIZZLING TONGUE, BIZARRE FEELING OF JUST BEING WOKEN UP WITH BOOZE AND WEED FLUSHING IN MY BRAINS. YES I DO MISS HER. BUT SHE WAS OFFERING A PRESENT; NOT THE LUST LOST PAST THAT NOW IS IN MY MEMORY. MY WICKED MEMORY. HAPINESS IS THE SEED OF NOSTALGIA. SOME MORE DRINKS BEFORE THE CORPORAL FLUIDS COLLAPSE. DESIRE FOR FLESH, DESIRE TO GET LOST IN A RIVER OF FORGETNESS. SIMPLY CONCORDANCE, DANGEROUS DANCE. TONIGHT, TOTALLY NIGHT, LABERYNTIC DARKNESS IN MY BRAIN. MUDDY KISSES, SCARY MINDSCAPES. THE SKY HAS A HOLE. THE GIRL APPROCHES HER HAND TO MY PLEASURE-CENTER. I CORRESPOND WITH MY FINGERS. DIZZY AUTOMATS CARESSING THEIR WET BODIES FOR THE SAKE OF BEING. HALLUCINATE. I CAN'T STOP. IMAGES PARADING THROUGH THE NEURONS, WHILE ALL THE STORIES HAD BEEN TOLD AND RELIVING OVER AND OVER AGAIN. MY CONSCIENCE DRIVES A LIMO IN THE HIGHWAY OF PSHYCHEDELIA RUNNING OVER A MILITARY CONVOY. MANDELA STARTS THINKING OF MARRYING THE TOP MODEL OF THE MOMENT. BUSH PISSES ON A STREET CALLED REVOLUTION WITH A JOINT IN HIS MOUTH STANDING ON A GAS TANK. MALDOROR RISES FROM FANTASYLAND TO HORRORLAND CLAIMING FOR HIS BARENAKED CHILDREN. HUSSEIN PLAYS MONOPOLY WITH A HUNDRED SHADOWS OF HIMSELF WAITING TO BE EXECUTED; THE SOLDIERS WONDER WHICH IS THE RIGHT ONE. A BESTIAL PRESIDENT FINISHES WITH THE CATTLE OF HIS COUNTRY, THE BIGGEST COCAINE DEALER JOINS THE CHOROUS OF HIS LOCAL CHURCH, FIDEL CASTRO'S LATEST FASHION IS TO DYE HIS BEARD WITH THE COLOURS OF THE RAINBOW. THERE IS NOT A PLACE WHERE IT DOESN'T EXIST A PRISIONER. PRISIONER OF YOUR OWN HEAD. LEAVE THE DRUGS READER. THE POPE IS A TRANVESTITE DRESSED IN A BRILLIANT MONOCHROMATIC NIGHTGOWN. THE MOON IS MADE OF LATEX AND THE SUN OF PROPANE. ZEUS IS STILL ORGANIZATING ORGIES WITH OTHER GODS FROM DIFFERENT BOOKS. YOUR GOD IS REALLY A WOMAN. HER SON WAS THE FIRST HIPPIE. BAKUNIN IS TELLING THE ANARCHISTS TO WEAR DAFFODILS IN THEIR HAIR. THE RIVER RUNS UPSIDE DOWN. I FEEL THE HUMIDITY OF HER BODY, MOANING AND WHISPHERING IN MY EAR. MORE MORE!, MORE!, TELL ME I'M A WHORE, TREAT ME LIKE A STUPID BITCH. A BLACK HOLE IS SWALLOWING THE WORLD'S ARMY. YOU HAVE BEEN PROGRAMMED. AN ARTIFICIAL VIRUS SINS WITH GLOTONY. Humankind DESTROYING MANKIND. THE DEAD PEOPLE ARE FORMING A LIBERAL PARTY. DAMNATION. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THE DEVIL DANCING IN A FANCY SUIT? SELL, SELL, SELL, MONEY, MONEY. KEEP ON WALKING ON THE RIGHT SIDE. STOP BEING A REBEL. EVEN YOUR PREACHER WAS A REBEL, NOW HE FUCKS EXPENSIVE WOMAN WITH YOUR MONEY. JUST GET THE BEAT UP AND DOWN, IN AND OUT. SADE WAS A NUN MASTURBATING OTHER NUNS WITH HIS CRUCIFIX. UNDER THE GROUND, THERE'S A CITY WHERE WRITERS LIKE POE, LOVECRAFT, DUNSANY, MACHEN AND WELLS LIVE WAITING FOR THEIR MAGGOT SALAD. WRITERS ARE IN DANGER. INMORTALITY IN WORDS WRITEN IN A WHITE PAPER, I'LL LIVE AS LONG AS SOMEONE READS ME. WE WERE NOTHING BUT BODIES FOR EACH OTHER, HEDONISTIC BEINGS IN SEARCH OF WELLNESS. BLOOD PUMPING. FRICTION AND HOT. SALTY FLAVOUR. THE SOUND OF STARS. BUKOWSKI THINKS I AM COOL CAUSE I HAVE MADE PEACE WITH ALCOHOL, HE'S STILL THREE FEET UNDER. YOU WOULD DRINK PISS IF I TELL YOU IS THE LATEST DRUG. IN A FAR ISLAND THE CORRUPT PRESIDENTS SWIM IN A MONEY POOL TOUCHING THEMSELVES WITH THIER GREEDY HANDS. THE OCEAN AGLOWS WITH NOISES. THE FISH CRY THEIR PAIN. FADING OUT. EVEN IN YOUR HAPPY PLACE THERE’S A WAR GOING ON. THINK OF A HAPPY PLACE, YOU CAN'T EVERYTHING IS GONE. AN INCREDIBLE SPRINKLE LIGHTS UP THE SKY. SET THE AIR ON FIRE, EXHAUST YOUR JAIL BODY WITH DESIRE, BABY SET THE EARTH ON FIRE. SO, THE GIRL LEFT AFTER A LOUD ORGASM SERVED WITH ANIMAL SCENT AND A SEMEN COCKTAIL. THE SUN WAS GOING UP. MAYBE ANOTHER BEER WILL CALM MY BODY. LYING IN BED STARING AT THE ENDLESS FIGURES IN THE CEILING. NOT ANOTHER PARADE. RELAXATION WILL ALWAYS COME TO LEND A HAND. TORMENTOUS NIGHT, MY EX-GIRL...YES, YOU USED TO LIKE MY SMILE.IS IT ANYTHING SIMPLER THAN THAT?THAN LIFE?
OSWALDO PEREZ CABRERA
Mexico Distrito Federal
YOU USED TO CALL ME AT NIGHT
YOU USED TO TAKE ME FOR A FLIGHT
YOU USED TO MAKE EVERYTHING ALRIGHT,ALRIGHT,RIGHT AL...
SO, THE GIRL CAME UP TO MY ROOM, SWEAT AND JEANS, DARK HAIR AND LIQUOR BREATH. ALCOHOLIC KISS, SIZZLING TONGUE, BIZARRE FEELING OF JUST BEING WOKEN UP WITH BOOZE AND WEED FLUSHING IN MY BRAINS. YES I DO MISS HER. BUT SHE WAS OFFERING A PRESENT; NOT THE LUST LOST PAST THAT NOW IS IN MY MEMORY. MY WICKED MEMORY. HAPINESS IS THE SEED OF NOSTALGIA. SOME MORE DRINKS BEFORE THE CORPORAL FLUIDS COLLAPSE. DESIRE FOR FLESH, DESIRE TO GET LOST IN A RIVER OF FORGETNESS. SIMPLY CONCORDANCE, DANGEROUS DANCE. TONIGHT, TOTALLY NIGHT, LABERYNTIC DARKNESS IN MY BRAIN. MUDDY KISSES, SCARY MINDSCAPES. THE SKY HAS A HOLE. THE GIRL APPROCHES HER HAND TO MY PLEASURE-CENTER. I CORRESPOND WITH MY FINGERS. DIZZY AUTOMATS CARESSING THEIR WET BODIES FOR THE SAKE OF BEING. HALLUCINATE. I CAN'T STOP. IMAGES PARADING THROUGH THE NEURONS, WHILE ALL THE STORIES HAD BEEN TOLD AND RELIVING OVER AND OVER AGAIN. MY CONSCIENCE DRIVES A LIMO IN THE HIGHWAY OF PSHYCHEDELIA RUNNING OVER A MILITARY CONVOY. MANDELA STARTS THINKING OF MARRYING THE TOP MODEL OF THE MOMENT. BUSH PISSES ON A STREET CALLED REVOLUTION WITH A JOINT IN HIS MOUTH STANDING ON A GAS TANK. MALDOROR RISES FROM FANTASYLAND TO HORRORLAND CLAIMING FOR HIS BARENAKED CHILDREN. HUSSEIN PLAYS MONOPOLY WITH A HUNDRED SHADOWS OF HIMSELF WAITING TO BE EXECUTED; THE SOLDIERS WONDER WHICH IS THE RIGHT ONE. A BESTIAL PRESIDENT FINISHES WITH THE CATTLE OF HIS COUNTRY, THE BIGGEST COCAINE DEALER JOINS THE CHOROUS OF HIS LOCAL CHURCH, FIDEL CASTRO'S LATEST FASHION IS TO DYE HIS BEARD WITH THE COLOURS OF THE RAINBOW. THERE IS NOT A PLACE WHERE IT DOESN'T EXIST A PRISIONER. PRISIONER OF YOUR OWN HEAD. LEAVE THE DRUGS READER. THE POPE IS A TRANVESTITE DRESSED IN A BRILLIANT MONOCHROMATIC NIGHTGOWN. THE MOON IS MADE OF LATEX AND THE SUN OF PROPANE. ZEUS IS STILL ORGANIZATING ORGIES WITH OTHER GODS FROM DIFFERENT BOOKS. YOUR GOD IS REALLY A WOMAN. HER SON WAS THE FIRST HIPPIE. BAKUNIN IS TELLING THE ANARCHISTS TO WEAR DAFFODILS IN THEIR HAIR. THE RIVER RUNS UPSIDE DOWN. I FEEL THE HUMIDITY OF HER BODY, MOANING AND WHISPHERING IN MY EAR. MORE MORE!, MORE!, TELL ME I'M A WHORE, TREAT ME LIKE A STUPID BITCH. A BLACK HOLE IS SWALLOWING THE WORLD'S ARMY. YOU HAVE BEEN PROGRAMMED. AN ARTIFICIAL VIRUS SINS WITH GLOTONY. Humankind DESTROYING MANKIND. THE DEAD PEOPLE ARE FORMING A LIBERAL PARTY. DAMNATION. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THE DEVIL DANCING IN A FANCY SUIT? SELL, SELL, SELL, MONEY, MONEY. KEEP ON WALKING ON THE RIGHT SIDE. STOP BEING A REBEL. EVEN YOUR PREACHER WAS A REBEL, NOW HE FUCKS EXPENSIVE WOMAN WITH YOUR MONEY. JUST GET THE BEAT UP AND DOWN, IN AND OUT. SADE WAS A NUN MASTURBATING OTHER NUNS WITH HIS CRUCIFIX. UNDER THE GROUND, THERE'S A CITY WHERE WRITERS LIKE POE, LOVECRAFT, DUNSANY, MACHEN AND WELLS LIVE WAITING FOR THEIR MAGGOT SALAD. WRITERS ARE IN DANGER. INMORTALITY IN WORDS WRITEN IN A WHITE PAPER, I'LL LIVE AS LONG AS SOMEONE READS ME. WE WERE NOTHING BUT BODIES FOR EACH OTHER, HEDONISTIC BEINGS IN SEARCH OF WELLNESS. BLOOD PUMPING. FRICTION AND HOT. SALTY FLAVOUR. THE SOUND OF STARS. BUKOWSKI THINKS I AM COOL CAUSE I HAVE MADE PEACE WITH ALCOHOL, HE'S STILL THREE FEET UNDER. YOU WOULD DRINK PISS IF I TELL YOU IS THE LATEST DRUG. IN A FAR ISLAND THE CORRUPT PRESIDENTS SWIM IN A MONEY POOL TOUCHING THEMSELVES WITH THIER GREEDY HANDS. THE OCEAN AGLOWS WITH NOISES. THE FISH CRY THEIR PAIN. FADING OUT. EVEN IN YOUR HAPPY PLACE THERE’S A WAR GOING ON. THINK OF A HAPPY PLACE, YOU CAN'T EVERYTHING IS GONE. AN INCREDIBLE SPRINKLE LIGHTS UP THE SKY. SET THE AIR ON FIRE, EXHAUST YOUR JAIL BODY WITH DESIRE, BABY SET THE EARTH ON FIRE. SO, THE GIRL LEFT AFTER A LOUD ORGASM SERVED WITH ANIMAL SCENT AND A SEMEN COCKTAIL. THE SUN WAS GOING UP. MAYBE ANOTHER BEER WILL CALM MY BODY. LYING IN BED STARING AT THE ENDLESS FIGURES IN THE CEILING. NOT ANOTHER PARADE. RELAXATION WILL ALWAYS COME TO LEND A HAND. TORMENTOUS NIGHT, MY EX-GIRL...YES, YOU USED TO LIKE MY SMILE.IS IT ANYTHING SIMPLER THAN THAT?THAN LIFE?
OSWALDO PEREZ CABRERA
Mexico Distrito Federal
miércoles, 11 de abril de 2007
Pornographic Story Under the Rain
The rain presaged an ending in red and gray. The rain produced a watery mirror whose slivers were incrustrated into the skin of the city.
They have been locked in like metropolis animals in a concrete cage, prisoners by their own will, wrapped in a human knot. Brains intoxicated by artificial and natural substances.
He extended a scorching candle like those of the churches. It was looking for the warmth of an open rose. She received him unfolding her extremities open wide. The red of passion spread on the gray sheets wetted by the sweat with salty flavor like the tears of joy that were raining from her eyes.
Time, damned dictator was repressing his feelings but was exalting hers as well.
He broke the spell and went looking for another destiny under the canille rain that kept punishing the pavement. Broken glass in her heart. Hate licked the wounds on her sad chest.
The noise is still recorded in the walls. They have filtered in form of frequencies by the pores. Before the departure they were screams of joy, after they were screams of desperation.
Of him, nobody knew anything. It is believed that he crossed some borders and an ocean.
She took a warmth bath with a cocktail of multicolor pills. Then she sank the Gillette in several parts of her skin.
The rain put the gray hue to the story with her monotonous melody. She put the red trying to kick out the gray inside of her soul. She just could take the carmine of her body.
The gray remains. Here still rains.
OSWALDO PEREZ CABRERA
They have been locked in like metropolis animals in a concrete cage, prisoners by their own will, wrapped in a human knot. Brains intoxicated by artificial and natural substances.
He extended a scorching candle like those of the churches. It was looking for the warmth of an open rose. She received him unfolding her extremities open wide. The red of passion spread on the gray sheets wetted by the sweat with salty flavor like the tears of joy that were raining from her eyes.
Time, damned dictator was repressing his feelings but was exalting hers as well.
He broke the spell and went looking for another destiny under the canille rain that kept punishing the pavement. Broken glass in her heart. Hate licked the wounds on her sad chest.
The noise is still recorded in the walls. They have filtered in form of frequencies by the pores. Before the departure they were screams of joy, after they were screams of desperation.
Of him, nobody knew anything. It is believed that he crossed some borders and an ocean.
She took a warmth bath with a cocktail of multicolor pills. Then she sank the Gillette in several parts of her skin.
The rain put the gray hue to the story with her monotonous melody. She put the red trying to kick out the gray inside of her soul. She just could take the carmine of her body.
The gray remains. Here still rains.
OSWALDO PEREZ CABRERA
Wandering Souls
Wandering souls
Maybe because I missed walking through the lightless back alleys, maybe because the puddles were barely reflecting the dusk in half hues. But mostly because I was looking for the world of candles, where a procession of perishable lives is formed waiting for the eternal blow. At the end, it is all because I am an imperial vagabond, I have a broken soul and I look for redemption in some crevice of the sweated city. It is also because I miss your breath and all the times that you were breathing the same air that was being expelled by my lungs and I could sniff the traces of alcohol and tobacco that remained in your interior. Simply because I am a hunter of souls that snoops like a spectator into the particular theatres. But I don’t know until which point I can differentiate if I am a participant or just a witness in the films of life?
In some corner I find the way to become ubiquitous and I can caress this city scribbled with technology and dressed in black leather with ornaments of graffiti colour. Then all the stories seem to converge inside my psyche and I feel like a semi-god that distracts himself with borrowed tales so he can disguise the lacking of his kingdom; then I justify my god.
Inside the ghetto I can see the walls stained with sticky auras, the speed of the mind reduces velocity below the permitted limits and I take advantage to blow some flames to see the results of the cocky actions inherent to the powerful beings. As I feel the tenuous fragility of the threads of life I am scared and I retreat to a more inoffensive place.
I don’t know why I always liked the food of the hospitals, maybe because I could see some ailing souls trying to decide if they should cross the wire or remain in their corporal repression. Then I could swallow them and absorb their stories like the smoke of a cigarette. Better said, I inhale the echo of the smoke that is left from their candles when they are extinguished. That last cleft that allows me to review the letters tattooed in the plaits of time. Then I fly at extravagant speed to aspire all the holy smokes.
In the caverns of the world there inhabit beings that guard us from invisible roofs like waiting for the catharsis. I have seen them while I slide through the sepia aisles that open silently between the lightest particles. They have a sick colour that does not correspond to any of the ones in here. Generally, I slip away through the dimension of the mirrors and from this side, the mirror in the washroom is not that cruel. I watch the pores of my shut face, like a lunar map full of black trees without vegetation. Like epic spikes rising to protect the territory of the inside, the one that is beyond the flesh in the last crevice of privacy. In the meantime, I can spend some time between the normality of the masks and try to mould it in the letters of time.
After that I will have time to invade those crevices of privacy belonging to strange people.
OSWALDO PÉREZ CABRERA
Maybe because I missed walking through the lightless back alleys, maybe because the puddles were barely reflecting the dusk in half hues. But mostly because I was looking for the world of candles, where a procession of perishable lives is formed waiting for the eternal blow. At the end, it is all because I am an imperial vagabond, I have a broken soul and I look for redemption in some crevice of the sweated city. It is also because I miss your breath and all the times that you were breathing the same air that was being expelled by my lungs and I could sniff the traces of alcohol and tobacco that remained in your interior. Simply because I am a hunter of souls that snoops like a spectator into the particular theatres. But I don’t know until which point I can differentiate if I am a participant or just a witness in the films of life?
In some corner I find the way to become ubiquitous and I can caress this city scribbled with technology and dressed in black leather with ornaments of graffiti colour. Then all the stories seem to converge inside my psyche and I feel like a semi-god that distracts himself with borrowed tales so he can disguise the lacking of his kingdom; then I justify my god.
Inside the ghetto I can see the walls stained with sticky auras, the speed of the mind reduces velocity below the permitted limits and I take advantage to blow some flames to see the results of the cocky actions inherent to the powerful beings. As I feel the tenuous fragility of the threads of life I am scared and I retreat to a more inoffensive place.
I don’t know why I always liked the food of the hospitals, maybe because I could see some ailing souls trying to decide if they should cross the wire or remain in their corporal repression. Then I could swallow them and absorb their stories like the smoke of a cigarette. Better said, I inhale the echo of the smoke that is left from their candles when they are extinguished. That last cleft that allows me to review the letters tattooed in the plaits of time. Then I fly at extravagant speed to aspire all the holy smokes.
In the caverns of the world there inhabit beings that guard us from invisible roofs like waiting for the catharsis. I have seen them while I slide through the sepia aisles that open silently between the lightest particles. They have a sick colour that does not correspond to any of the ones in here. Generally, I slip away through the dimension of the mirrors and from this side, the mirror in the washroom is not that cruel. I watch the pores of my shut face, like a lunar map full of black trees without vegetation. Like epic spikes rising to protect the territory of the inside, the one that is beyond the flesh in the last crevice of privacy. In the meantime, I can spend some time between the normality of the masks and try to mould it in the letters of time.
After that I will have time to invade those crevices of privacy belonging to strange people.
OSWALDO PÉREZ CABRERA
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