Leaningonstrident

Usually I get out of bed without any thoughts at all. I just get out of bed and that second, I’m not thinking. At anything. At all. Today I engulfed about thirty thoughts per second, on that second and now they seem as if hanging under the sun, getting ready to dry and start walking on their own. The thought of a film noir, of a black cat, of a starry night, of a teacher, of a cup of cafe au lait, of a child, of piles of books, of a river, of a concert in the open air, of an open grave, of a redundant question, of a stupid memory, of a fucked-up remark, of my unfinished book, of my unsubmitted essays, of unwritten applications, of lost trains, of astute paintings, of Vienna, of butterscotch, of Cocorosie, of ashy rail-ways, of coaled pencil lines, of blank paper-notes,of Schopenhauer, of a black mill, of how all the songs now seem to fit, of Brod and her a hundred or so types of sadness, of my long-lost confidence in everything, of my dying dog. And they queued.

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Temples topple faster than the caterpillars that circle poisonous mushrooms. Whether it aches, whether it sounds melodramatic or whether it’s painted in polichromatics, it doesn’t stop the flesh from monochroming. No ‘it’ breaks such boundary. It’s dark.

As human eyes turn to tetrachromacy, cross roads break in synesthesia. Left goes right and right goes left and there comes the third path that circles the first two. It’s made of ashes and broken dolls and uses Eco’s six walks to follow the narrative to set the disillusion. Soon, left will meet a piece of a broken doll and eliminate itself, for once meeting the path that circles the cross roads, any other path becomes irrelevant.

Right lingers for a while behind trees and lakes, staring at the mushrooms as big as Carol depicted them. But soon it intersects the ouroboros and dies in illogical, breaks the algorithm and the symbolic mathematics. All the rights will fade and so will all the lefts. No cross roads, no crossing paths, no intersections, no drawing lines, no cognitions. Just the snake. And the snake lingers itself behind trees and lakes, eating the big mushrooms without a blink of the eyelidsless eyes.

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Arms leak, needing to hold spheres, like a human Ouroboros, biting its tail where the fingers of the left hand meet the right. Dichotomy between the human skin and the overlapping scales of the snake. Androgynous in caressing, in meeting the opposite watching from above how the skull and the neck and the entire body, except for the arms, melt away, turn into the flavorous clouds the Dark Horse recreates itself from. Shines on recklessly. And the once-human hits his seventh journey, as the metempsychosis closes upon itself, like a self-controlled wooden locker, with deep roots embedded in the Ground, like a red, flashing wound concluding inside itself, covered with thin epithelium, underneath which the volcano will sleep. The Dark Horse climbs up and reaches its place and the man starts resting under a greater placenta, breathing through the limbs of the horse and the snake that’s now dying in the arms that once transcended into Ouroborous.

Original post here: http://leaningonstrident.wordpress.com/2012/01/11/075-ophiuchus-palingenesis/

Haikus are writing themselves, hang on trees and slide on the back of dragonflies, endangering themselves. Words turn promiscuous as the spring dawn moves forward and unveils their bodies almost completely. Without any resentment and an eclipsed shame they dance in the scalded milk like air, breathing slowly through vocals and puns. At noon they occasionally hide beneath the leafs of plants growing in the dungeons of shores, just to rest for a while. At three o’clock they’re back, lingering around with the same promiscuity, leaving a ghost aftertaste. Some would think specters walk around foolishly, in heavy daylight, compromising the lights they’re made of, when in fact such poltergeists are the bits of haikus striking in the heat, the haikus which were given too much credit. They fall apart like illnesses, at the sunset, these worries-provoking creatures now looking like nothing but broken light bulbs with dim-lights covering their fragile bodies and vanish at midnight, returning to the humble who operated himself, who cut his throat to let the words out and create the haiku he was unable to write. Dark-blue ink tiptoed on the wooden floor.

Original post here: http://leaningonstrident.wordpress.com/2012/01/04/073-le-sacre-du-printemps/

Fictional but humdrum, the princess seeks to jump out of narcolepsy. She ossifies the world she sees on the window of her drawer, then puts it to rest, shaped into the shape of a lizard, on her bookshelf. Another perspective, mundane in its fiction for the invokes fiction every hour, another lizard. Such phantasmagorias take place under the eyes of owls, the seven white owls guarding the room, with threatening, philippic beaks. Under such dictatorship she would normally fear giving birth to the lizards, as the owls watch their pale, greenish bodies curling into this air from her small palms. But the wardrobe would grow and overflow, releasing those maliciously creative nemesis of what she couldn’t see on the real window of her room. She needed to lock them in fetid lizards, lugubrious, with intolerant orange eyes spinning in orbits. Her knuckles whitened every time another lizard came to existence, as if holding the heaviest gun with both her hands and clenching to hold her body straight. Soon there will be too many of them in her room. The owls would refuse to eat them, so they would refuge in the back of the princess’ eyes, in her wrists and joints. And continue to paradoxically grow out of fear and hunger.

Original post here: http://leaningonstrident.wordpress.com/2011/12/22/068-le-temps-elastique/

Mornings now look like grass on fire. Underneath the fire, the grass still breathes. Lacks any consonance, lacks colour and weight, stares at the sky and waits for the plea of whatever may come and give the void a sense. Dreams upon dystopias that fail to appear, fail to break into pieces of what is real. And it struggles to keep content and lucid, to keep alive the possibilities that now tend to paradoxes, but of course, imminent and forseen, the fires cools and the grass decomposes in ashes.

And now mornings smell like burned faces. Flesh and skin and plastic and the wood underneath the plastic, the ground with the mud and the soil and the creatures that live there, in the odour of people call air. And this is what it’s left to be seen on an empty surface, of no people and no knowing and no buildings and no remorse, just as the words remain catatonic under leftovers, no prophetic skies and eschatologic clocks running counterclockwise, with subtle grins on the faces of the clocks. 

Original post here: http://leaningonstrident.wordpress.com/2011/12/16/067-as-the-seas-are-emptying/