Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Talked to my friend from Iceland today, set to have Beijing KaoYa tomorrow night. Send an email to my friend from Portland who is now in Hawaii told him he is missing the best weather in Beijing, called my baby told her I miss her, flick on the flick flack and turned my head to the umbillical chord that connects me with the center of the universe and set my dreams to kiss the night space chaos sky... Oh... am liking the events, maybe the events are not liking me, but sometimes you just have to give a fuck. I miss my bottle of baby milk vodka and puffing on my green cigarrettes. Dull isn't it? Life pleasures are the malicious little things that torture you in the future. For all I care, at this moment, is to lay down in 朝阳门公园 listenning to good old floyd in plain afternoon and at sundown listen to Reflection by Tool , I would then want to head out to the Bed and Tapas Bar and get stoned drunk on wiskies and 雪花 arrive home and sleep on her arms till the next day. It would be great if no hangover would come from this, but lets be realistic in this unrealistic dream.

I went to 吉林市for the May holidays and got to meet my woman's family. I also had the opportunity to visit, see and touch (myself, am kidding!) the meteor that fell there in 1976 when Mao died. Peculiarly enough it happen the same night of his death. Have you ever touched (yourself?Just kidding again!) something from outter space? The only thing I could describe when I touched it its the coldness. I will try to post the pictures soon, just have to get time to do so!

Next a poem:



Like a mother to a son. The first glance, the look of God, when upon his first breath the pain of a world that he will hate to live but be scared to leave. And the mother, excited, her heart explodes into millions questions and hope and suffering and concern and what did you she call that? Pure altruistic love. Sudenly time and space collides and in a magnitude unexplainable in human language existence desist to exist, for death and life are the same thing and to be born and to die is the beginning and the end at the same time, and you know where am going, its all the same shit different day as one great poet used to say.

Poet Tree

And it grew from a seed fertilized by all the shit our society eats then defecates and most poets they seem not to grow out of that quantity of manure but some of them remember that real poetry cannot be written if first it is not felt, if you can write from the pit of your guts and transform those emotions into words it doesn’t matter how much fucks cunts and cocks you use in it, it will always be


I was in a taxi a few months ago and I saw them, two kids, ages, maybe 6 and ten, outside on a corner of a street, their clothes talk of no money, their bodies of no food, but their faces,

Happiness of the poor is the truest of them all a smile for no reason than the reason we should all be happy for, for beign alive and being loved, God caressed their existence while merrily playing with the cups to beg money, dirty face, dirty eyes and all the dirty that their life might be full off, no worries but a smile, and shame and a tear felt from my eyes, who am I to complain, about life when I can say I pefectly have it all…

Poet and Poetry

I see the nigth sky turn to day as lightning bewildered my eyes, day turn to night as the moon encountered the sun and they started making love, and I seen in a bar two midgets drinking a pint happily drunk after the third round, and I have seen unicorns and dragons and giants and dwarf when Im happily stoned, I have seen tenderness, evil and spoke to too many people and am convince that in every art, in every song, in every sky, in every star, in every sport, in every job, there might not be poets or they may not be a poet but alas there is always



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