stupidity under conversión

 blending silly words

to get new terms:

   words so complex

that hurt with intention:

     new expressions

      old feelings

unfuckable riots of the heart:

«heartistic» ones

former Victorian sounds

of mere self awakening:

     then I met you

      you and the world:

my own private one

and it becomes my home

 my hut up in the mountain

  my shelter on spermless windy nights:

my in

and my out:

toothpaste wasted

linked forever

to the surface of the sink:

as I am sinking

in the boring depth

of my mild thoughts

of not belonging here:

of barking at two siamese moons

which now seem to enjoy

this minute of my despair:

c’mon friend

make my day

come true:


Behave well

under these dirty sheets:

endure my sickness

the reality that mirrors

your shallow approach:

shyness is not nice:

so do not stop now

and pervert my senses

until I calmly reach

that obnoxious galaxy:

far far away

the definite teletubby land

for expert shadow puppets


Los tonos blanco y negro, ese viaje cromático en pendiente hasta los grises más profundos… ¿Por que siempre decían, cuando yo era pequeño, que los sueños eran en blanco y negro? Como me dio por trasnochar un poco, con tan sólo 14 años de nada, para poder ver cada noche Cine-Club en La 2, llegué incluso a pensar que los sueños no eran más que películas dirigidas por Ingmar Bergman, o por Kurosawa, hasta que hice una parada plano-secuencia en Berlanga. Desde ese instante, empecé a dormir a pierna suelta

Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Lala, Po… they walk in silence and don’t walk away… in silence.

Through the streets, every corner abandoned too soon… but, you know, in Benidorm there are melons, and they are called Fiesta Melons, for no reason at all, just because they are from fucking Benidorm, mates!!

Fiesta Melons by Sylvia Plath

In Benidorm there are melons,
Whole donkey-carts full

Of innumerable melons,
Ovals and balls,

Bright green and thumpable
Laced over with stripes

Of turtle-dark green.
Choose an egg-shape, a world-shape,

Bowl one homeward to taste
In the whitehot noon :

Cream-smooth honeydews,
Pink-pulped whoppers,

Bump-rinded cantaloupes
With orange cores.

Each wedge wears a studding
Of blanched seeds or black seeds

To strew like confetti
Under the feet of

This market of melon-eating

(Is this your confusion or just my illusion?


Anyway, at the end of the day, it’s a beautiful one, indeed… Absofuckinglutely!!

El cuerpo me pide aprender japonés. Viajar, ver mundo. ¿Para qué cojones sirven unas vacaciones si no? Pero no, no es a Japón precisamente. Estos chicos rusos que se parecen bastante a los que cantan más arriba, y que responden por el nombre de Motorama, os dan una pequeñísima pista.

(Budapest in your eyes, blinking through the night.)