cumbia

night goes, what night? cumbia, dong deng dong deng

circles with the hips, open hands on someone's back

center, forward, back, deeper

is it supposed to be nine in the morning?

we're still dancing, hey

just come around after, give us some more time

who's tired?

a seed of hell, a spell, of a dieing dream, i loved you my love

the time is approaching fast, time to say good by to this place, that i always have to leave just when it gets awake and stuffed with feelings.

just when it gets a nice place to be in, i have to get out.

smoke a cigarette outside the department, the guy of the greenhouse, red in the face, perennial smile, "time for the balaclava again", says to me and to the last wind of the season. the guy of the storehouse, straight on his back, gentle smile, wide open mouth in saying "hi, yannez". mr. wild-cock, in his sixties that i'd like to reach as fit as he is, but lees gay, incredible wise and chikey smile, "hi, yannez", "hi chris, how's going". C came to visit me, i just could feel it was not right, a humanist there, bad vibes, bad sync, no sync at all. you must be in sync with this department, and just feel it.

i've been part of it, i've been it, i mean, we have been it.

click click click, 50 years run on the model, and so for 2000 years. it's hot looking at you my dear, i wonder if we'll never speak at all, or just remember we use to look at each other in between clicks and clicks.

i broke an heart, heavily, most completely. my madness vanishes, dropping a seed of hell. but was i fool to love you? i was fool, but not to love you. i had a fever, my angel, you knew that, you've been better fool to care for my sickness. we messed it up, ah? there's plenty of dreams dying fat in your mind, ah? you can feel their bodies agonizing and shaking, their voices moaning, moaning to death. can, can you my love? i enjoy nostalgy and plan to get away from stress, plan reflexive time for myself between the coast and other eyes to look in caring, a bit. well those bodies dieing are not quite moaning, listen carefully, as i can hear, i can hear the spell my love. how many spells between me and you, ah? are those gonna be the last? so, you're planning to make a tomb of your head, for all your dreams. have i nourished them? yes i did. there's no way out of a crime. i'm sorry my love, i loved you so much, in my shit, crazy head. my bacterial love, i might have got it from rats, from lices, from a nerve not feeling too well. was a bell rang holding a rope in the collapse. it was a bit like this. i hope you live my love, i hope live. and if you live, i hope you don't want to kill me. drunk of insanity we've been good together.
mad as the children we could feel our love was true.

fast, understanding and forgetting, getting nervous for the light, like smoking, my love, as you say, as dreaming, de-knotting the brain, unfolding the sight on the plain ocean, and there ride, pretty old and idealistic, horse stepping on grass on the sea water, talking slow, thinking fast, forgetting, understanding, there's the light
and there you see us, quichotte, the skeleton and the guy who did the ancient map,
you spy us silent like a flying camera, we wonder but don't ask, and on our way to emptiness of stars, we get you on the steps, many times, for long.

airborne love

i tell you a secret: i like to smell.

when the sun is all around you, and the body responds; you see, the sun can't get anything wrong out of me, he takes out the best of me, i guess, in my total respect for our star.

when someone else likes your smell, that's love, easy. for example, in a sunny day with a little breeze, i couldn't distinguish flowers from laura's hair.

and we call for love all around, airborne calling which reaches distances far away, so that someone is falling in love with us, but doesn't now. and me... oh, i love this one...

to go, to stay, to love a woman, to keep looking for her. then time will stop you where you haven't chose, where you had to go but couldn't leave again. i guess it's gonna be like this. point is, too many plans will kill you.

Machine of Mass Destruction

could not produce an holy fuck... after spending a couple of hours on the net, and even tried the rich experience of chatting with myself, i then picked up the phone with boredom and a point of desperation. when it's like that my voice is just painful to spit out, it just makes me sick, as vomiting the juice of cosmic laziness i have inside.

anyway, my young bro, little wise boy, just suggested i don't have to think of me as a man. no. he just said: "yannez, you're not a man. no. you're a MACHINE OF MASS DESTRUCTION."

i didn't let the magic of the moment fly away and i wrote this innocent sentence on my arm with a marker pen. so here me again on the computer, getting this fucking report out of the fucking way, NO EMOTIONS, NO THOUGTHS.

30s

i noticed that approachig the 30s you become much more uneasy and egocentric, you could talk about yourself for ages, until they stop you, until they get nauseated and pissed off, but you would still continue and in fact you do. things get messed up in your mind, and you feel always desperate for a recap, for making a point of your experiences, to share them, talk about you for ever. you can even set up a blog... and start talking to nobody without worrying being understood, but still it's something.

there's something magic when then young girls are happy to listen to you, to your stories and to what you think; to feel grateful for that is the only thing that can make you decide to stop it and ask questions about OTHER people, and despite the fact you're not genuinely interested but just grateful, eventually you manage to get out of yourself and listen and get facinated by other people lives, minds, emotions, experiences. and that yes, it's not a big deal to be yourslef, you're just a sick egocentric but those shiny eyes listening are a sweet medicine.

http://uncyclopedia.org/wiki/Egocentrism