Hell in a Bordello.

he stepped onto the wet, rained on pavement of bangkok city streets at half past midnight. closely following his comrades. the night was young, was fresh, the scent of virginity boiling over with the brightness of a yellowed, pale moon. he was ensured that this night was the seal of a deal. for the entirety of the day he had sat in an office with his partners negotiating fertilizer sales. the thai had a strong air about them, he could see that very well the way the people he passed looked at him. in the populated, non space encompassing aura of the city. unlike new york, they walked without being in a hurry, and their eyes suggested some sort of tranquility that could never be had in an american state.

"the red light district of the asian contries are some of the best that i have been to." so goes the dialogue of a business associate of his.

"to think, we are working, selling our fertilizer, increasing our companies profit, while at the same time, getting a bit of fun to be had for us, increasing our body size, what we do for a profit, i'm sure i'll see myself in hell the minute after i die, yet i have no worry of sin."

so the second dialogue of said business associate, showing no care of actions, only to do whatever is possible to increase a sale and gain the commodity to the business. perhaps, is why the theory of walking to red light districts on business trips had no conflicting viewpoints to them. as is practiced in this area of business, the women are treated as things that can be bought or sold for the acquisition of a dollar or any form of currency. that a woman can be violated was of no concern, for the woman herself was only making a business deal, increasing her sales, making new counterparts to increase the satisfaction of her boss.

however, this being the first encounter for him to turn a woman, perhaps not even a woman, but a very young girl, into a sale. this was his first journey into a brothel, thailand no less, where women and the sex trade are common practice in developing countries.

stepping into the room, smelled of a veneral disease; dim, low lights and a red, chipped away, painted wall. his associates had made themselves comfortable in other rooms on the same floor, situating themselves in blissful comfort. the bed lay strewn with green sheets, and housing the again washed stains of semen.

there would be no way that he could find himself in a state of comfort, queasiness approaching his legs and shooting straight through his veins like heroin.

the preteen walked into the room with a red velvet dress on, her face plastered in cosmetics. the dimness made her seem a bit older than she was, but the fact could not be escaped that she was obviously underage.

her face show no emotion, and she did not understand english, the only words she could only seem to mutter were from what she had learned working in the brothel..."Would you like to lay with me?"

he did not answer her, and unwillingly the man found himself on top of the piss stained sheets with our young innocent thai. she seemed to him like a child, and he could not contain that the people of his company did this with no guilt in their eyes.

he could feel her placid skin, and the whiteness of her body absorbed him. her entire bottom and front lay bare to him, and he was so hesitantly inserted inside of her. not that she wanted, but that it was her obligation to make him feel that he was getting a good lay, a ready piece of ass; because it was in her job description to make him feel pleasured, that he was a man, and that in the twisted occupation of Bangkok red light districts, it was the whores job to make their customers feel that they had some masculine dominance over them...



she was only 15, but had no way of escape; her parents being dead, and this the only source of her money. it could have been a first time for her, but she was unaware, and every time she had been penetrated could not matter, for she learned to not feel pain when 10, perhaps 20 or 30 new man would enter their way inside of her.



that he had came into her place of business, because it was the duty that he must fulfill to his work compatriates; to his corporate bigwigs that had so happily sucked him; he being a miniscule particle, and the company corporation he was working for the giant vacuole that would continue to pump their right wing and corrupt business practices into each newly arrived associate. that yes, this was company policy as part of the traveling branch; you were part of a corporation, and your mind, above all, was superior to others; victimizing underage women was part of the trade of these traveling businessmen, especially in lower developing countries such as Thailand, where our victimized average joe had found himself in; as part of the pigs that had been led to the slaughterhouse.



so it was in his very new nature, that he must impress his work bretheren, in so doing, he must victimize this little girl...



the bed they lie on was one of white piss coloured sheets; a small room, with a dimly lit red lamp. when he penetrated inside of her opening, it did not matter, for she had learned not to feel pain, and her breasts did not grow erect, for it was not a matter of arousal for her, and while he squirm inside of her, no emotion was shown on her face; only a dead and weightless emptiness, for she did not stare at her american partner, but only at the ceiling that lay above her, and the white paint smeared on the walls of the room. while he lie there glued to her body, he was stunned at the way how her eyes appear dead to him. yet while he was violating her, she only stare at the ceiling and curl her hands in a praying motion, uttering a prayer in thai. perhaps she could also be crying, but he was unaware. he also could not look at her while he was pushing himself inside of her, he only thought about his slowly diminishing mindset, and the fact that all his life he had been average and had lacked the self esteem to see himself grow to potential in a terrible and frightening world. yes, he only thought to himself while he was with an innocent girl, that he must do this for his company. one fuck up and he could lose his job, and thus his newly acquired mode of living and existence.



she lay under him, and he knew the time when he was about to come, slowly approaching itself, it had taken him much longer than most times; perhaps because of the fact that his tension was at a heightened sense, and his nervousness and the pace of his heart had seemed to increase during this time. the fact that he was encouraged to lay with a girl of 15 years old, in a different country was part of the plan he had to follow; the consequences of morality and immorality were not part of his brain as of yet. the time for him to come had arrived, and when it happened, again; the girl show no emotion in her eyes, only the blank stares away from her partner, and directed towards the ceiling....



he quickly engulfed his seed inside of her, and then threw on his clothes to escape the dimly lit poverty stricken room he had found himself in...

The Mountain: 2

for her, the eyes of the mountain, the very possibility of its existence, seemed to astound her. and in the moutain, she found some source of wonderment that perhaps, could awaken her from the mystery that she had so often pondered to herself; of what life itself was, and why her life had happened so far as such? the well was her resting place, where she had time to think, but the mountain solidified her curiosities, furthering her intellect and the planes of her mind. she appeared to be searching for some type of answer, and she had supposed that nature could provide her with a way to understand the environment that she was born in, and the extent of what happened around her, and in fact, why it happened. she had not the time to ponder on any other occasion, only when was to gather water from the well for her mother. living in a squalid house, a shanty on the outskirts of the village, she was to provide water for the daily intake of breakfast, lunch and dinner, and so that her mother could wash clothes. herself, she was with a certain closeness to her mother, while at the same time, a distance herself from the woman that she had sprouted from. she was unaware of the existence of her father, and had no idea who he was, or where he was. she assumed that he had perished long ago, but her mother had never mentioned the idea of a father to her, and since, had learned to keep it out of her mind. but, there was an emptiness there in the girl, the beautiful girl that felt she could see souls all around her, not only in people, but in everything that surrounded her. her loneliness would draw closer to her each night that she lay to sleep in her dark room with the windows opened, and no blinds to keep the wind out. she would stare expressionless at the deep ceiling, as if trying to communicate to it with her eyes. she would stare and stare, as if waiting for some form of communication to begin. one could assume that this irregularity of staring at the ceiling and walls each night, was in her own way, a unique calling to find the possibility, that love could breathe, and in fact, was an entire seperate entity from life itself. she was a girl of transcendence, her brown, dirt colored eyes, the tanned skin covering her body, and her twilight covered hair. a poor girl in a squalid home, with only chores to occupy her. but moreso, the well and the mountain to guide her hopes, that one day, she may trek over the naturally constructed monument and she may reach the top of the snow peaks and see what could lie over her; over her body, outside of her mind, outside of the space that she occupied, and perhaps, she could find love or some idea of what love was. yes, that would be the answer to her life, to journey to the mountain, to look out amongst its overpass, standing atop the white sprinkles and reaching out her hands to somehow latch onto what she was missing. the mountain that was both a physical barrier and a mental barrier that guarded her village from threat, and that also hindered her from seeing what lie on the outside world from her. that the village was not a world, but a tiny space where she had not chosen to live, that she was born into. something that she did not choose. perhaps, she thought, that if she saw over the mountainscape, she could pinpoint the direction that she wanted her life to take, and thus, her idea of love could sprout roots, and allow itself to grow...

The Mountain: I

her lungs tightened, the careful seeds of respiration pushing air in and out of her body. with the wind she breathed; with the wind swaying into her mouth and splashing her face like a great wave. lowering the bucket to the well, her eyes met the dark bottomed abyss where she could see nothing but the continuation of nightfall never ending. the nothingness that would only further, hindering her from seeing inside. the well, where everyday, she would gather water for her mother; it was her daily chore. that well was the source of her wonder, of her curiosity; for it was the well that made her ponder. the well, surrounded by green and brown grasses, blue flowers, and cherry trees. the birds would come near her, and would pluck the cherries and plant themselves onto the ground, beside the flowers, and would croon their soulful tunes, as if life itself was the song that they were breathing. at the alive ground they would peck with their beaks, enriching themselves into the colorful orange soil. the birds themselves were a thing of color; purple, red, spotted or pure white; a purity of snow, it were the white birds that would fascinate our nameless character as she gathered her daily water for her mother. for white was the color of snow, and the color of the behemoth mountain that rested itself five miles from her home. the mountain, surrounded by a wood of apple trees, and perhaps a pond of clear, crystal like water that one could always find a reflection in. the mountain, snow capped on top, as big as the sun; the mountain that became a source of mystery, a sun and a moon turning night into day, day into night, and dawn to dusk. the source of her questions were from the mountain...did it rain on the other side? was there soil there that nourished the cooing birds, as perhaps they were plucking fruit from the trees? the lonely mountain, nameless, like our character; a source of life, or perhaps an isolated desert with no footprints of no pecking birds to sustain itself. she reveled in mystery at the cloudless mountain with snowcapped peaks...

4

the wind blew so hurridly; a rapidness of air, the stifling smell of burning tar and pollutant gas. but glancing again at the middle of the road, i observed a median, a middle way between two opposing roads; one ascending to my left, and one descending to my right. i make note about the median, the concrete had begun to fade in colour, and i could see cracks and fragments of rocks. but on the dying colour, the textures of green, the brittleness of the browned dirt mixed with the white and grey of the pavement. on this artificial island sat a plastic bag with nothing but the rhythm of the wind pulling it to-and-fro. but me eyes noticed, no matter the eagerness of the wind nor the passing of cars; the bag stayed in its place, as if something was holding it there in a magnetic, and spellbinding trance. and yet, how i imagine the landscapes and the dreams of this stable plastic. how long had it ventured to the concrete median, and where had it been before?



swaing past the dirty streets of a downtown, perhaps in nighttime hours, the gritty voices of the drunks as they loiter about outside of the bars smoking cigarettes and mumbling half understood slurs.



or, frolicking on an empty field; the stagnant grasses, the alive and lush grasses. the song of birds and the trod trod paces of fawns and their mothers searching for any morsel of leaves to feed on. perhaps the bag stayed the night there, and lay still on it s back during a calming rain, and for a moment, was not itself in an artificial atmosphere, but in an atmosphere that had existed before the opening, birthing eyes of man. but where would this wandering nomad of a wind blown bag be without the creation of man's hands? for that night, the bag was in a desolate, peaceful, and lushful world, and it slept quietly, perhaps dreaming of being a natural being, a part of the Earth, or as the seeds of a sunflower waiting to be watered; to grow as the the beautiful colour of yellow that provides sunlight when there is no sun. a sun without a sun.

No Sesso

Male-2697’s Thought Log

I am male-2697, inhabitant of the fifty-third compound in the blue-light district. There are 150 other male numbers who live in the same place. All of the other males are divided amongst the other compounds in the blue-light district. We have a schedule that our government provides us with. It tells us how we shall live our lives. At 6:30 A.M. we awake from slumber and proceed to the cafeteria to receive our daily breakfast, which consists of corn-flakes and a small scrap of wheat bread. At 7:00 we all report to our places of duty. I am the clone inspector. I trace all of the clones that are brought to life each day in the blue-light science compound. I do not know how the science compound brings us to life. All I know is to count the number of new existences each day. All of the other male numbers have different jobs. Some are assigned to do regular manual labor, such as adding more living quarters, “pods,” we like to call them, for the new-born male numbers. We all work until 3:00 P.M. then we report back to the exercise lab and engage in vigorously trained exercise instruction. This lasts about an hour, and then at 4:00 P.M. we eat dinner. Our meal, which consists of a bowl of vegetable soup with a cup of rice, with water to drink, is very bland tasting, even the rice tasting of nothing. Eating this nightly meal at the same time every day is an acquired taste that we have grown accustomed the whole of our calculated existence. AT 5 P.M. we all report to the Gathering Room. There, we; all of us males, are to give our daily praises to our government, more specifically Male Service-001. We are required to praise our government, as it controls everything we do. We are a clean environment and we are always healthy. The slogan that we are to live by is as follows; “A healthy body is a healthy mind.” The whole of our existence is counted on being one of cleanliness. We are to eat exercise, sleep exercise, and wake exercise. We are on a never ending route to preserve and instill the concept of productivity and health to each one of the male clones that are born here.
Our government is our God, the omniscient eyes of everything that we do. All of our numbers are kept in place in the Building of Admissions. Here, each new existence is recorded and given a tracking device that allows Male Service-001 to see everything that we do. We are required to praise our Male Service, because it is a fact, that without him, we would not be living as we are alive now.
Our district encompasses a space of about 30 miles. While in the exercise area, I have heard myths of a place called the red light district. In this red light district are these supposed creatures called “females.” We have asked questions to our government operators and they tell us to reject these myths. “There are no such districts or creatures.” They say. There was one incident however. It is looked at is a myth among the entire compass of the blue light districts. The number that lived in the pod next to me, Male-2573, he took these myths too seriously, and planned an escape of the blue-light district. He wanted to see these “females.” His escape proved weak less, for after getting a mile away from our compound, the movement sensors picked up his frequency and he was soon captured by the Male-Safety Crew and sentenced to 50 years of solitary confinement. That was the first and only incident. Now, all of us ignore those engaging lies of talk of more districts and strange creatures. But I do wonder. Often times I stand in my pod by the mirror, with uniform removed from my body. I grope and feel my chest. The one thing that puzzles me and the one part of my body I am never allowed to touch; my upper body is perfectly free. It is free to be touched and exposed. But my lower body is plastered with these technological shorts that are placed on all Male-Clones at birth. They can never be removed. And such a small accident as touching the slightest part, is picked up by sensors, and you are called upon to see the Male-Number Psychiatrist-002.
I have been sent here more than once. These myths, though to be ignored, I cannot get out of my head. How dearly I secretly wish there were creatures that were opposite from us, who have opposite bodies and opposite voices. My psychiatrist has listened to me tell him these thoughts and he says that I must reject these myths. “There are no such things as opposites to males. Our duty is to the government. And we must preserve and keep our bodies healthy.” I cannot live with this feeling of loneliness inside of me. That while we are the most perfect and healthiest of creatures, that there could be someone or another world outside of where I am now, that is unlike me. I do wish that I could be a different being, for here where I am, it is routine; the same cycle everyday. We have no hope and we are lost in the fabrications of our government. I am writing this only knowing that someday soon, I will be obliterated. But if I am obliterated, I will be considered “irrational.” I have no understanding for the words “irrational” and “rational,” for I am only a number, but I do see myself as someone that wishes to live in something more than the reality I am in now. I wish to embrace or to find the idea of an opposite.






Female 2983’s Thought Log
I am Female 2983, I live in the one-hundred and first compound of the Red Light District. I have a roommate, her identity being Female 2980. All of the female numbers are assigned roommates. Inhabiting the one-hundred and first compound are 300 other female numbers. Our day is as follows. At 6 A.M. we arise from our sleep and proceed to the Eating Quarters. There, we eat our breakfast, milk and a bowl of strawberries. At 6:30 we report to our Health Inspector. For eight hours, we are given physical engagers which engage and stimulate our bodies to peaceful bliss. We are taught to use our bodies, as they provide us with pleasure and physical enjoyment. We do this everyday for eight hours. The least I have to say is that by the end of the day, we are tired. At 2:30 we report to the Eating Quarters to eat our lunch. Our lunch consists of a plate of vegetables and a huge slice of warm bread. After lunch, we go back to our living quarters. There, again, all of the Female Numbers, with their roommates, unleash the physical engagers. We use these engagers on each other. We play with our bodies and we feel pleasure. We become very aroused with each other. After an hour of doing this we go to sleep. It is encouraged that we use our bodies, and that we love the bodies of our roommates. We are created as clones to be beautiful and to act beautiful with each other. Our bodies have breasts and vaginas, which are very easy to excite and to stimulate. I only sleep at night knowing that my partner’s bosom has been at the highest point of feeling, and that she is left feeling very moistened all over her body. It is this exact feeling of being “moistened,” that excites me so. It is unlike any other feeling, in that it produces loud cries from my mouth and ripe fragrances and nectarines from the lower half of my body. When I open my mouth in the engagement process, I sing praises to my roommate, as she is exciting me, and making me feel so very female. I do the same to my roommate, for nothing is as wonderful as taking part in the “partner engagement process.”
Our government, more precise, Female Enjoyment-001, provides that we follow the schedule of pleasure each day, first with ourselves for eight hours, then with our roommates for an hour. Every other day at 5:00 P.M. we report to the Informative Room. There, Female government officials tell us of other districts, one being the blue-light district. There, we are told are opposite creatures that identify themselves as “males.”
Our officials tell us of the journey we will make to the blue-light district to find these “males” and engage them with our physical engagers. These briefings all make us cheerful, that one day we will meet our opposite creatures and give them pleasures, rather than giving it to ourselves.
We, all of us Females, crave to have our opposites. For when we meet them, our arousal will increase dramatically and we will be very happy. Our plan of this journey will be on the first briefing day of next year, which will be 3039. We do not know where the blue-light district is located, but we will soon find it, thanks to our Female Scout Numbers who leave the Red Light Districts each day, in search of the blue. If all goes according as scheduled, we will set out and find our perfect opposites by the start of next year.
I have no understanding of what an opposite of us could look like. For we have the most beautiful bodies, for our government tells us so. During the briefings, we are told by Female-Enjoyment that female numbers have the capacity to bring life. This is true I suppose, for we are clones, and would like to make our own life. The main purpose of the briefings is to explain to us that our bodies our useful for giving and growing new life, that it is key for us to have an understanding of our own bodies first, and then to be in preparation for when we are met in physical trances with the opposites of us. I can recount to you each day of the excitement and passion I feel when I am pleasuring the vagina and breasts of my body to the thought of I, a female number some day producing life with our opposites. It gives me a feeling of transcendence and an image that a beautiful and new world could be created out of this.









Male-2697’s Thought Log
Today, more exact, February 23, 3038, I reported to the psychiatrist. I had tried to touch that again. That forbidden place, where I know something exists, yet I can never reach. The red light district has become an obsession to me. No matter how many times I am told by our leaders that there is no such place, I must find the opposite of myself. I have told the psychiatrist that I want to leave the Blue-Light District. “You must never leave.” He says. I ask him and he provides an answer; “You will not survive alone, no one can. Without our government Male Service-001, no one can live. Your duty is to everyone. For you cannot leave, you would only serve to betray.
As I write this, my mind is devoid of anything that the psychologist told me. I have heard his words, I have heard everyone’s words, far too many times. I believe that there are opposites, “females” if you will. Males cannot be the only ones. I want to escape. I fear I will, at precisely an hour after our bed time, tomorrow, February 24, 3038. Being a male number, I feel incomplete. I feel like there is something more that is just waiting for me, right around the corner.







Female 2983’s Thought Log
During our eight hours of peaceful bliss, I again imagined myself with those “males.” I tried to imagine them and what they might look like. They are said to be our opposites, therefore, I visualized them as such. I used the physical engagers with the thought of them in mind. I had felt more stimulated and engaged then I had ever felt, putting my imagination at play. When I had my time with my roommate, Female 2980, I told her of the experiment I had tampered with earlier. She seemed very aroused when I told her this, and I thought she might want to engage me with one of the physical engagers.

“No, I like the idea of your experiment. Tonight why don’t we pleasure ourselves, each one at a time. We will watch each other, as we both put our imaginations with our opposites.”
It was a magic night……..









Male-2980’s Thought Log
I haven’t much time to write this, I am escaping in approximately 29 minutes and 36 seconds. All I can say is that I am writing this thought log for someone. In the future, or maybe to a past that has been disintegrated. I hope someone will find this. I am placing it in a compartment next to our technological shorts. As soon as I am free of the blue-light compound, I will use all of the force I can to break these shorts and destroy all sensors. I will then bury these shorts in the ground, and hopefully, a thousand years from now, when there are golden creatures, my artifacts will be found. I hope never again to see the blue-light district. I hope to see our opposites. I may die, for I am risking my life, for something that is said to be false. But, I am lost. I am alone. And to hell with Male-Service 001, I will run to the “red light” district without protection on my body. I will fondle all over myself. I will be free. Even if I am killed on my escape, I will die knowing that there soon will be more numbers who will have my impulse buried deep in their heads. The impulse that………
There is something more………







Female 2980’s Thought Log
I have not written for the past month. All of my days have been filled with passionate, enchanting pleasuring. My imagination is running wild. I have exhilarated myself. Using our imaginations, our attractions are with those “males,” if they exist. I have not engaged the physical engagers on my roommate in a long while. We will just watch each other, our imaginations on foot like wild horses. Our bodies seem to be on fire. Not a painful fire, but a pleasing one. A fire whose flames will never run out. A fire that cannot be extinguished. Our want of these creatures from the “blue-light” district runs all over our bodies.
Their imagined bodies are engraved in us. We have a hunger. An insatiable hunger that will always starve us. Our hunger will be satisfied next year. When we find our “males” and use our bodies for each other to create the ultimate pleasure seeking experience.
We will find our opposites.
Our bodies will become one.

3

pulsating veins, expansion of body, coarseness of hands, sweated palms and heightening hairs on my arms and feet. my fingers extend, i point with my index finger to the horizon, i tread on familiar and unfamiliar paths with each awkward and fervent step that i take. while the skies at this night may be cloudy, i opened my eyes to the visions, to the images of gulls that flapped their wings by the river, they flew in a group together, as if migrating south for the winter. yet they were flying towards something familiar, something that they had seen before. and i became a gull, quickly moving my mouth to the tongue of birdsong. the clouds parted, and in the river, colours of green and murkiness, appeared clear, precise spots of water; as if opening to an abyss where the continuation could go forever. i took each step, each frightening step step, as if i was indeed a gull that night, but i was flapping my wings towards unfamiliar expansion of sky, i would like myself to fly at the pitch black of night, for my nostrils will be able to absorb the clarity and pureness of open atmosphere. i will have no stars and the night will be my guide, and i hope for it to rain onto me, as if my body being in complete transcendence with the environment that surrounds me. i will be a lost gull, a lost bird, looking for his place to go, looking for his sun. but i would wish to arrive at dusk time, so that i can open my eyes once again to the slowly descending sunrise as it makes way for the moon to appear and glow over every stretch of land, every imprint of humanity, and every fabric of industrialization...

or i flash another image where i am completely naked in a jungle and everything is still, save for the quiet sounds of frogs or insects. but i am there in a jungle, surrounded by green tinged leaves and the highest trees that extend so far, they could get lost in the heavens. i would like to follow a natural path, a dirt path, and i would like to find a clearing with a great waterfall, water falling so quickly, breathing so freely, an oasis of purity. approaching this waterfall, i would step inside to the falling water cloud and i would let my body soak every inch of my being, the coldness of wet would be inside me, and it would chill myself down to the core, to the heart of me. i would hear the water droplets grace my ears and i would be in the natural symphony of stream and flow, i would feel myself as if being on some road where i have a plan, or an idea of where i am going and who is going there with me. i walked along the river front this night, and for a brief minute, i put my mind into the eyes of the gulls, and the destiny to find my sun, or, perhaps my open clearing ripe with vegetation, and ininhabitated with clear, and soothing water.

2

when i raise my hands, the graceful movement of my pale and chapped fingers, it's as if i am reaching for something, like my muted palms can have something to grasp for, another being, or an opposite existence, but i know not what it is, that i am so glady, so triumphantly reaching for, a perfect sunset, a dead sunset, a wide open moon, no closed pupils....
that shines throughout the whole of the atmosphere, every ocean, whether full of moss, or seaweed, and the sandiest of beaches, the monument carving rocks and the cracks of the pavement on rainy city streets across the continents, it's as if my finger is communicating me to reach for something, perhaps it's an extension of my soul, or an outer image of my mind, like an out of body experience, communicating to myself, to tell me, to let me know, that i am reaching for something, something that i'm still waiting to grasp, i wrote it all with my chapped hands....

Entry: Open Field

my car driving past, the hum of the motor, and the rotation of spinning wheels. the air flowing inside, both windows opened, pass the field, growing cornstalks, the sky half vieled in clouds, half expansive, in dark, storm setting colours. clouds mixing with the clearness of non-existant churning, that tells us, soon the rains must come, must water the Earth. virgined cornstalks surrounded by trees, a silent whisper of wind, no birds moving, not flying, no wings spreading. a stop, a rest. further moving. i approached the landscapes of mini-city, but how i begin to notice, the discovery of my living place; of my breathing. and the space in which i live, or inhabit, it is the heart; i feel its lungs respirate, as i felt or still feel somewhat small. but how my mini-cityscape further enlarges my opinion of what i am... i was lost between the calm serenity of the open field, and so quickly, not even several minutes later, how i became lost in the dizzying array of cars that sped by me, and the large amounts of businesses i had never fully discovered until then. and how the cars that sped by me, created an artificial wind, and how they sped by me. i was in the middle of the lane, feelings of all continents converging. and all the time, the mechanical beings were breathing by me. it was a kind of refreshment, where my eyes were frozen; they could not move, and the sounds of the accompaniment of the music i was hearing put me in a state of transcendence. i was experiencing the median, the heart of where i was living, and i felt as small; a parcel of the entire picture. it was a lonely happiness, being frozen there in the middle of suburbia. if a god was alive, he was inside of me that very moment, for where i had lived, was living, am living, and will live, i suppose i will further discover myself again when i age, and i again embark over all the empty fields and landscapes i dream and plan to tread upon. perhaps finding out that if god didn't exist, i suppose i would not do anything, i would go about the normalcy. but i will answer the question of what is god, but something that spins around in my soul and makes itself known to me with mental states of transcendence....
it was the half hour of field, of continuous road, of mini suburbia that i will always strive for; when the god of my soul will arise to feel in bliss with the environment that surrounds him and the state of absorption of feeling the winds of the world on him; and the breath of the planet, at times, a reek of shit, at other times, a smell of crystal clear rain, or of sparkling sun, of dried desert, and of flavoured grass, never dull, always enlightening...
today i had embraced myself, and i let the environment embrace me. this is my discovery, i will not let go with a single movement. my hands are intact around the globe of my fears, hopes, and frustrations. the loss of the world is mine, the gain is mine, and i now am hopeful, and in tune. my gaze has been transfixed. i am in equilibrium, thanks to a silent field, with more of a song than heard by any human or animal ear...the field that had sparked equilibrium.

1

a desk of solitude. where i sit obliquely and rant chatter of boredom. i want not to remain in quiet, remain in stillness. i want to open my mouth, feeling the slober drip from my lips, and my sweat pouring out its seams. poring out of its seams. i want my eyelids to open widely and my pupils to spin in circles. for once, i would like to have no regard for time, and pay no attention to what i am doing, and to let accomplishments and surprises find myself. i suppose i would like to stand alone in a darkened corner of the street, and reach my hands upwards, past my head, and with the invisible sketched lines of my paled hands, i would like to trace the outline of the buildings. and i would like it, moreso, i would enjoy it to be very gloomy outside, as on a day that it has just rained, and the only light i would like to see would be the streetlight, that would encapsulate the contours of my body and would glow onto me. i would be there on a darkened street corner, but the entire whole of me would light up, and i suppose someone i would not know would gaze down at me from atop a window, unexepectedly, and perhaps my illuminated body would be like gazing into another window. a window into my being...
my body being lit up for someone. i accept this as a motive for understanding or discerning reality from non-reality. i can have these visions that speak profoundly to me and command me to record, as to gather a sense of hope or optimism as to what i really am. i am only writing for that unexpected illumination of my interior self, one that outweighs, much heavier, than the exterior of I...

Freedom; Two Visions

"Your freedom begins where the other ends buddy" The word freedom brings with it many discussions and certainly is loaded with meanings - ambiguous, varied on ... What is your definition of freedom? Perhaps you mean freedom to have time to leave again. Or would only be free to believe what you want without being discriminated for it. Multitude of concepts - and all are packed by the same unique feeling: Freedom. Do you want to be free? I want to be free the world of men who oppress the next. I want freedom to make all the choices that are relevant to me. Self-manage and only then win at the end.
if it's free, than it is available to me.
free for me to reach out my hands, pick it up, and embrace it.
the textures will rub against my chewed nails, and i may stick my nose to it, and refresh in the odor of it.
i know not what i am refferring too, but freedom allows me to do it, to do as i please.
how often do you hear that you are living in a free society?
if it's so, than i must have the freedom to walk in the nude, ashamed not of my body.
only ashamed that i am a person, that seems to live in an animal house.
if i must be free, then i must be able to walk with my lover hand in hand, under a night sky,
perhaps the moon is out, perhaps it is full, the twinkling yellow, for i can see the outline of its craters
as i walk in a free world with the one i call my dear.
if i am free, it will allow me to grab my lover by the hand, it will allow me to be in a passionate, intimate setting with her.
it is the freedom that will allow me to lay under stars with her, of course she had the freedom to tell me of our moment when we
would lie under stars together, and count them one by one. the freedom that will allow us to contemplate that the world is a big sphere,
in so doing, making us feel small, somewhat insignificant. but how we refuse to see the scope of the world, and how we refuse to let it
alter our lives. freedom gave me the intimacy to look into my lovers eyes and to contemplate how many stars there were in those pupils.
the eyes of her were so dark, i could see a night sky in them, with a full moon, and also, the sphere of the world.
it was freedom that led me to kiss her and to tell her that i was lost in a plastic world,
one that was not free, one that makes people feel alienation and boredom.
a plastic and depressed world.
the world of freedom in which we so speak of could never be fully available to us, for we are as animals in a facility of cages.
but how we revel in the idea of freedom.
and how i revel in the idea of counting stars under a free sky with my lover, torso to torso, heads pointed upwards, and palms locked
in unified sweat...

(cooperation of Ryan Hill and Lais Lima-http://produzavocemesmo.blogspot.com/)

love this girl

to perfectly capture the environment i tread upon, i cannot find a single word. at the work, on a chair, pre-programmed songs play forth continuously; i suppose it's good writing music. oh how my veins will really be flowing! but to hear Vivaldi's; "le quattre staggione," that is truly a writing piece. hell, i could masturbate to that song, or else, fondle a sweet girl under a large cypress tree...
i will sit for more, three hours, until i am permitted to exit and retire to my home, my automobile needs gas. i must go to the station and fill her up, that sweet little vixen. i have a name for her, my car, she is Julia; her entire body is blue and she always runs, her cunt is mixed of bolts, wires, and oil semen. i owe alot to her, i've had alot of revelations inside of dear Julia, and i always steer her in the right directions.
the afternoon of yesterday, to the house of my grandmother, to watch my sister play in the swimming pool with our cousin. my uncle, presenting me with a series of questions; "do you go to church with your parents, what are you studying?" i gave him the answers, yet he tells me, he hopes i can find some ground, some basis for growing, and hopes that i can find the lord. because, as he says, "life is hard enough without him." but i do not think so. my life is fine, is peaceful, is easy. i am not religious, and i choose not to be. but it's for alot the populace that they need something they can hope for. i am at peace just simply sitting on Julia's lap and driving her past the river. oh Julia, do i love you! so what has just passed, a coworker, a woman, her name is Roma, always bitch fitting about her work, those dumbass managers, the fucked up store we occupy. i cannot hear what she says, because everytime that i see her, i always think of Roma, that city i once saw, that city park, blocks away was the colosseum, and i remember as i sat next to Darrah at the Rome park, trees abound, shade abound, and how i miss that Rome park, yet some aspects of that city can be shit, can reek of vermin, yet how i miss waiting for the bus, being allowed only two inches of space, and seeing the graffitti for lesbian liberation. and how i miss Firenze, the coffee shop, the girl who worked there, her beautiful black hair and how her eyes pierced me so. i miss you Florence, i miss you Rome. i will go back someday. i will see you someday again. now, nothing more to say, nothing more to think. i will again listen to the repetitive whispers of tired songs on the company speakers.
goodbye my home......

a celebratory dinner for a birthday, night out at a somewhat debenoir restaurant, one large table, twenty odd, people sitting with each other. formally dressed, i, with a shirt on that muttered the phrase; "have you ever felt so goddamned alive?" before that, arriving to my friend's, to pick him up, so he could accompany me to this dinner. but let me backtrack to when i was at his house...he, working on a certain computer programming for his summer class, the lights in his room were off, the rain outside was pouring down, the thunder was beating down, and the humidity shone through his windows. i fell asleep while he sat there as programmer, i drifted for twenty minutes, into what seemed like hours upon hours of quiet, still rest. i cannot remember the dreams i had or the visions i saw, but when i awoke, i felt somewhat renewed, as if it was morning and that my day was just beginning....it had rained all day, it would continue for the remainder...
quesadilla at debenoir restaurant, a little overpriced, and left me feeling still on an empty stomach, i would want my arteries clogged, i would want myself to experience again, the ultimate shit, a feeling of rebirth after i had just finished mealtime, but nothing...only eight glasses of caffeine, and a two minute long piss...
stares at beautiful girls at the table, opening to conversation from one lass that was sitting across from me...indian or something, i remember her name, Sydra. well, i had nothing to say, just what i like to do, at the moment, she could have added to my interests of what i WOULD LIKE to do, my still awkwardness pumping away in my pale chest with nothing to think to say...Sydra, it was my pleasure to see you that night at the after party, and to see your eyes watching me at times, resting on the dark couch, it was my pleasure to see you there watching me, and i could have made the choice to befriend you, but it was a chance that i had come upon you in debenoir restaurant and nothing more...
i was supposed to write a poem for the young lady i was there to celebrate with, her eighteenth year of living, of not dying. i wanted to make something with a tree, about how large their branches grow as the years pass, and how bountiful they become with leaves, how ripe their bosoms are, being able to survive for hundreds of years alone in empty forests, yet ending their legacy after being cut down by the smallest blade....you are a tree, the darkest, and most beautiful in the forest, your forest stands empty with the greenest grasses, and the yellowest of sunflowers, your branches continue, ever growing, your leaves give the imprint of life as you age and age and age. yet, you could not be cut down, for you always remain as that innocence of youth that will remain with you and become as part of the atmosphere that sustains breathing and loving. there is your poem, you are a tree, and i adore you..."have you ever felt so goddamned alive," i felt at a loss of words, driving home from it all, the night sky, the passing by of city, the passing by of cars, of empty buildings, the stereo in my car, the ambient music pouring forth from all creation, from my speakers, the stars shone brightly to me, and maybe there were not any stars shining yesternight, but i felt as so, for my star is always shining, winking to me, looking to me from the darkness of horizon and swimming with the gold texture of white tinted moon. but i can not find it yet, it has found me, but i have yet to seek it, and to grab it with my hands. i have yet to reach for it, to squeeze my star, and to fuck it....
i hope this is the longest post yet, back from party, dropping off my friend back to his home, another lonely drive, yet hopeful, for i had always my star that i am ever searching for, i am wanderer, thinker, reveler, and i am human...i fuck up and i shout obscenities, and i am shy, and i make overanalyzations, and i am always full of hope, but i cannot understand why? because i always have that hope, that red heart shaped hope that i will look my star in the eyes one day, and grab it with my two hands, and take my mouth and breathe on my star, i hope it to be the coldest of nights, one where when i respirate, i can see the outline of my breathing exit from my mouth, and i will take my star and kiss it, and wrap my saliva around my star, and i may feel the wet saliva of star in my mouth....
back to my home at late hours to start a movie, and with hopes to write something, but i had not the balls to write until this hour, and now that i have writ, it seems as mumbled garbage......

I AM LOST OH STAR! YOU SOUGHT ME AND HAVE CAME FOR ME, I HAVE NOT YET COME FOR YOU, BUT ONE DAY, WHEN I AM MIDDLE AGED, OR STILL YOUNG, OR EVEN VERY OLD, I WILL FIND YOU OH STAR, AND WE WILL FUCK, AND I WILL FEEL YOUR STARLIGHT AND YOUR RAYS LIGHT MY BODY, AND YOU WILL BIRTH INSIDE ME AND WE WILL BOTH LIGHT THE SKIES....

situated in front of a theatre; my ass, struggling on a bench, feeling the awkward movements for i cannot sit still. thanks that this pen should work, should function as a correct wrting utensil. cars pass by to see the showtimes at the cinema, and i suppose, they look to the movie billboard with a certain hope as to see a way as to pass the day. i concur that i could be anywhere; in a park, at a zoo, in my own home, and i would still be unaware, as the others, as how to pass my time. some girls have passed by; wet cunts and plastic tans, oiled as the model dolls that they are. my bilingual brain splatters thoughts that allow me to have scripted mindfucks that i have played in my head before, one thousand times previously. behind me are two delicate cunts, fragile if you will...
now, my unvirginized eyes, my unvirginized mind, gives me a fictionalized and soothing lapdance, that i become erect to and cannot control, that will end only when i have received a laying or a good body massage. my words are prostitutes, are whores, for they move their wettened mouths and splatter on this paper as a lake of orgasms. my whorey words, they suck and blow, and speak to me in obscenities, gracing their tongues inside of my ears, and i cannot find myself to sleep, i a situated in the comfort of erect metaphors lying next to me at my bedside. an instructor read over my lines once and muttered potential, but saying i lacked depth or something. but i enjoy to write in metaphor, because i cannot give you the complete picture, for my thoughts twist and turn; wild vines decorate them and rain sprinkles down from the Amazon. it is my mind that has always a rainy season to it...
from the speakers of a car, pours out rap, and/or hip hop, i am unaware of the difference. i would rather hear reggae. i stare at car man as i sit, fat cheeks, yellow collar, gold watch. he pulls back in reverse as if parked in front of a brothel, waiting to find himself seduced. how long his car will sit there, i do not know; i suppose he finds himself amusing sitting there...he had just left. now, there is stillness...and wait, he returns, with a different, still shitty song pouring out from his shit speakers, pouring out from his shit automobile....a couple walks by with plans of eating a pepperoni pizza for dinner. i become tired of waiting here, i cause myself to look like a bum that has perched himself on a bench like a bird; pecking away in a notebook his thoughts to himself, because he has no one but his diary to befriend him and to tuck him in at night. i will sit a few minutes more, and if my friends do not arrive, i will leave to a house of my other friend. if ths could be a book, let this be chapter one, and let it be entitled; "cinema bench, claustrophobic ass." i had paid twelve dollars for this moleskin notebook, a bum would never do this, nor an anarchist, nor anyone of sanity. a bum would steal, an anarchist would steal, and a sane person would see this book as a waste. therefore, i conclude myself to be an insane capitalist that enjoys spending twelve dollars on moleskin journals, and rambling confused, perversed thoughts to find some sense in himself. prognosis, negative. i have finished, i have birthed chapter one. my ass has become chapped. now, i will leave...

my leg writhes, struggles, aches in pain. for i cannot tell who i am or what i have become. a pulled muscle hinders me from moving at a rapid pace. and now these words squirm out of me, as i am seated at the work this hour. i may choose to do nothing, or perhaps i could put away clothes and accessories. i am unsure of the events that will follow, but my leg screams and gnaws at me with each ferverish step; not a subtle meow as from a kitten, but a roar, a gasping cry from a dying whale. my aching muscle is a sign of my soul that longs to free itself from repetition of body, and yearns to open its gills in a clear ocean; circling the depths, but being free to surround itself, to immerse itself in liberated waters. as i struggle to clarify this meaning, grease appears on my hands, for i have taken an order for a water softener, and situated it into the work bin. i will wash my hands, but only when my mind has finished jissing this lost thought onto paper. i conversed with a dame today, a girl that i once knew, that i once fucked multiple times. but her soul was dead; only money she says can free her from depression, can buy her complete happiness; which left me scarred, and i suppose somewhat melancholy for the remainder of my day. that i had realized what a fool she was, and what kind of artificial cage she had found herself in. her soul, trapped in an artificial zoo, while mine being plagued by an existential crisis, as if i have just reached middle age and do not know whether to live or lose oxygen. my humour is dark i suppose, but i try to write honestly, for verbal languages cannot express what tears my mind or builds my thought process into gigantic towers only waiting to be crushed by the slightest blow. my hands will reek of grease vermin, i must wash them, and i suppose my tumorous leg will heal, and i suppose my thoughts. the day, full of sun, full of air, yet for me, a lurid piece of shit. i cannot express more......

often times i do sit down, and i do think. that i am alone, that i have family, that i am loved, that i have friends, and that i am aware of my alienation. sitting in a restaurant, small town, population 600, surrounded by one side of my family, celebrating birthday...i felt depressed, felt completely blank, yet so aware, and alive at the same time, that those who were surrounding me were my relations, yet at the same time, an innumerable dread fell over me....like i was surrounded by some mist, my vision was blind for a time, and i felt almost like crying, like letting my face get wettened...i went to the bathroom in the restaurant, and pissed, i wanted myself to feel something, but all i could feel was the sprinkler system of piss pouring out of me...i had a hunger, as i had not eaten almost the whole day, when i got my food, i suppose i felt a little better, yet again, some time from now, i will feel as i did...
maybe someone will travel to meet me and we will be best friends...i sat in the car and stared out the window into cloudy skies, lightning appearing, electricity of atmosphere, i breathed in and out, and in and out...
i found myself at home, to my friends for conversation, only an hour this time, back home, a shit in the toilet...
i have alot of things i could say at this point, well not say, but to merely express on electronic paper what is running through my head as of yet, but i feel like i can type no more, and i should perhaps save this for tomorrow...
ahhhhhhhhhh and 91 years is a lifetime....

da una parte e dall'altra

i must talk about this walk i went on in the afternoon. with a friend, by the riverfront, a few bums were out, old men, no one else. one interesting thing to note was the factory and situated right next to it, a volleyball court, i can't fathom why it had to be placed by such a shit stain of a factory...the trees stirred, the birds chirped, and the swaying cotton balls filled our lungs as we walked slowly beside the river and on the trails of city park. approximately an hour before that, i was seated in a Greek restaurant, my mouth wetting to the textures of pita, the spice of two dressings, with the complements of quality chicken, tomatoes, lettuce, and cheese. i feel so bad for not having a camera, or else i would have captured what i was eating with a foto. it was complete, my stomach felt whole after that meal, and for a time, i was confident that i would not use the bathroom, but not even 40 minutes later, i found myself in a bathroom in a work out center by riverfront...the mother of all shits found my ass situated on a milk coloured toilet seat...ahhhhh how i wished i could have been in a bathroom with a fireplace, dim lights, and Vivaldi playing or something. that is the shit of dreams...after, continue to walk on riverfront, already mentioning the whore of a factory, and the decrepid volleyball station...fast forward to work at later hours, coming home to a nice taco salad..end of day, one shit, two meals, 4 hours of droning work, and 9 hours of sleep....
thanks to myself for a riveting day...
it was much appreciated.....

i will repeat exactly as the last day that i wrote about repetition. myself again at the pc, sitting and hearing music. there is a window right next to where i am sitting, so i can, i must look out to see the outside world of other houses and neighbours. i can also see the mailman as he drives past the box and clutters, stuffs mail into....its funny that when you are up high, you can see things from below, and everything looks so small, like insects, or something smaller that only a microscope could trace as existing. at precisely 5pm, i will be situated at the work, maybe steadily conversing, maybe doing absolutely nothing, until then, i am in this chair, sitting on my ass, maybe i would pick up a book and read it for the second time again; is milan kundera's "the unbearable lightness of being," a good read, a must have. how one can find the psychological effects of love and fate being wrapped in a good 300 pages, is a work of a czechian genius. i sit here, with the television going in the background, so i can have noise, clogging my lobes, as i listen to dead words from dead people that are alive only on a screen...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek.
i had a stirring talk with an austrian girl yesternight, she was drunk, and i was sober. it was on the computer camera, telling me 30 times to move in with her and her friend. my mind being perverse, well, i am a man you see, so...my mind being perverse, thinking about fucking, sucking, and touching. the idea sounded genuine, sounded nice....it's certainly something to consider.
moreso, when i am not horny, hungry, or asleep, how is my personality? i am a food person, that likes to try different culinary food, combinations of succulent meats, cheeses, vegetables, and pastries. i like to have that passion. more so, i seem to find passion in sexual thinking, but i am still a virgin, although at the same time not, because my mind does not think as so. and when i am sleeping i am certainly not a virgin, for i have fucked many dames. funny how i can still feel orgasm in my dreams. funny how i can feel a real body in my head..
woooooo, it must be something to do in reality.....
something i'm still waiting to feel..
curiosity had killed the cat...
something had made its way through the pussy...

as of now, i have gotten out of bed, arriving off of my matress, i'd say 10 am or something. the majority of the day was spent sitting at the pc and listening to music. it did not agree for me to step outside, as the temperature approached 90 degrees, hotter than the ass of hell. open the windows, let the sun inside, but it's difficult when there is no wind. i would prefer not to get sunburnt on a day hot as a flame. eating fast food is always nice, but a feeling of being a fat bastard always haunts me afterwards that i have finished consuming...but i cannot blame myself, because i admit that i am a capitalist, and i cannot change anything about that. that is a problem among people, the ones that are radical, they think they can change something, but they could not live without money. it's very hypocritical, but do i know anything? no! maybe someone i know read these posts and accused me of plagiarizing, but i have not copied a single word. because it appears to him that he is smart, but the logical words for him here, is that he is a SMART ASS. i'd rather be a capitalist, then being some fucking bum, without college experience and a shitty job, making under the minimum wage. being radical is only half the fun, not the WHOLE of the experience. i have angered feelings. i have really happy feelings. and they are different every day....i worked this evening, there wasn't anything to do, but it did thunder outside, it did rain, something greater than a howl, something explosive, a thunderstorm as the tumor of the sky...but was nice to watch, and i went for a swim outside, as i had to go out and gather shopping carts, i went, i dove, and i came out of the waters with 100 pounds of sky spit on my clothes. people asked why i had been so wet, i replied simply saying that i had went scuba diving outside into a waterfall. oh great.
now, i am back in the confines of home, listening, talking, soon i will sleep, and i suppose the same repetition will occur for me that has happened today..

Looking at immensity

Pull the gate, the route was short, and especially known. Comfortably dressed in a blue shirt in star white social dating to somewhere between 1979 to sweep the sky looking for clouds allowed me a curious sensation never before experienced. More scans the sky and they had ways Balkanic, romantic, splendid. But it moved too fast! I always save to a memory that effervescent cause for happiness, but was afraid that go home and get the camera, they had changed their position and shape, changing my game lugubrious. Prefer to entrust everything to memory, and enjoy that moment. Looking at them, felt an impulse electric shouting to my legs ran as fast as he could know that, it seemed that only I could use at all, do not lose anything. Thoughts lovers are traitors, and traitors mobile! Immersed in a sea of happiness generated randomly, derrepente, invaded me a unique and devastating thought: that says it can not show you? The clouds began to harmonious blots of dark blue. Nothing like a psychological tone for each sunflower is close in ash around it.




This was written in portuguese by my friend laés, i really love this....

thank you for share!

Field.

The horizon encircled all around me. For I was not in the presence of humanity, my mind was bewildered by a transcendent beauty; the soil was hard, and out there, the wind thrashing my face, it doubled my existence, for I felt as one to the Earth. I was feeling it breathe on me, and my heart beating, resting with the heart beat of the environment that was nurturing me, shielding me from man's evils. Shielding me from the beast. I threw off my clothes and lie there in the corn field. Lying nude, with my ear to the ground, so that I may hear the Earth's heart beating; pounding away a song, a neverending drum, pounding away, alive for millions of years, sustaining the evils of man, and shielding those that had come to seek it. Shielding me. My clothes were stripped off of me now, and I let the wind and the soil caress my body. I lie there all night, watching the Sun go down, listening to the Stars, the insects, the whisper of the wind. I lie there still as a bird, hearing the world that we had so gladly turned away from. The man that was once a part of the Earth, as tall, beautiful trees; ever multiplying. But man had turned away from its mother world, and destroyed all of its trees, reduced to paper scraps. For we destroyed the world that nurtured us, and constructed our glass world, one of ugliness, one that has become like us; a beast...

Words.

The words are tired, are misused; absorption in idealized cliché. What is said has been said one thousand times over, but it is no longer being said with sincerity, with heart, with hope. The words are infertile, and I find no meaning in repetition. Even though I am repeating as such now. But a new form, new books, must be put down. We can neither alter or change history, it is already written. The cause of mankind will be the same, this world and the next. For it is us that have raped, that have pillaged, that have murdered. We are the reapers of the world. The outlying, ever wandering battle of man and soul, man and spirit. We are corrupted, and we can not, we must not blame, we have only ourselves to blame. Why the world has turned to shit, it is because we have made it that way, and we are the cause of our own alienations. We have simplified life and made a means to an end, for we have become our own God. For we have allowed ourselves to obtain absolute control, which in turn, has ceased the individual in man, and has torn him to shreds. Man once was a tree, alive and healthy, in a forest ripe with fruit, ripe with life. But Man itself has ceased his tree, reducing himself to paper scraps. For an individual is and can no longer be, under the scrutiny of man, for we have become our own God, and have turned away from the world. The mass of our thoughts, our intellect is continually growing, increasing. That itself is reducing the state, the quality of the world. The bigger, more expansive our brains, our minds have become, the smaller the world becomes, leaving nothing for exploration, for we have seen it all, have combatted it, and have killed it. The more we are, the more we are becoming, the more shit that we are in. And the words are the same, for we have already written them. Talks, scriptures, ideals of a revolution, of something that can outlast Man has already been written. For we have created it. And the utter confusion we have created for ourselves. We cannot open our mouths to speak honestly, for the reason is that we have already lied to ourselves; proclamations, decrees, advances. It can not continue, and it furthers, it justifies itself as a lie, as disaster, as cliché. We cannot change the state of things, for first, we must realize we have already destroyed ourselves. We destroyed the world, and a new pattern is not written in our character, for we cannot cheat ourselves and proclaim that revolution is possible, nor is there no starting point, for we are the reapers, the manglers of mankind, and our race has been overdone. I'm tired of cliché words, ideas, that every philosopher has already theorized. We cannot theorize more, we cannot find harmony, because we are the destructors of our race, and we have killed the self in all of us. Transformation will never reach us, for it is we that are the reapers...

il sesso naturale.

Posso sentirla, lei parla a me. I suoi pensieri che ci possiamo scopare con la passione. Io scrivo troppo, io penso troppo. Ma per scoparla, per parlare a lei; i miei occhi apre, che posso vederlo; il sole scrive sulla terra, che dopo ho la scopata, che lei è un angelo e sono il mondo che lei corre...
Come sentire dopo un orgasmo?
Come un pittore che l'ha fatta la sua pittura sull'altro corpo....

gioventu'

outside the world is crying, the wind howls, a dull humming sound that pierces lobes and leaves bitter tastes in dry, hungry mouths. i sit in a cubicle all day, on a desk, or else, in the comfort of my own home, gazing at my window, my bedroom clock....or a dead wall, but at least when i am in a so called learning environment, i can think; burgeoning, non-virginized thoughts about the fiery women that i see. because i feel dead, or immobile. as you can see, education systems where i am, even at college level, reduce the size of the brain into mere abstractions. and the youth know of this, they are depressed. the youth take drugs, get drunk, have non-passionate fucks, and next day, is the same repetition. where is the value in this education, this world that is happiness? the world, the earth, the sphere is crying and we are meaninglessly screwing, screwing our lives away. how many youths will it take to screw in a lightbulb? endless amounts, because we are all dying...
where is the world that once cried so triumphantly? not somberness, but a happy whimper, because it was birthed out of creation, and it had the will; "io posso," to want, to strive, to touch, and to taste. now, the world, the earth, the globe has lost it's will to feel. the youth must create, like the creation of worlds, must birth their passions, non-robotic. if youth finds a sense of passion in what they are doing, they will not be depressed. they will get drunk off of themselves, in each others' company, no artificial stimulation, and they will fuck, they will dance passionately. they can create and take the world back from all its rubble and make something as brilliant that brilliance will be a dead word, and a new word will find its place. out of this comes a new meaning of youth. for it is youth that we are afraid to lose, but age is meaningless. there is a youth in all of us, but we must never lose sight. but growing up in a mundane world is difficult, in so making us partially blind, or for a time, obstructed to see...a light that is not light, but a light that is blank, dark, nothingness....

Crisi D'identità

Lontano dai pensieri, i sogni che mi parlano nelle notti.
Perchè sono solo. Un'altra persona. Fra poli estremi,
voglio vedere. Voglio sentirla, abbracciarla, viverla. Così che in modo da sapere che tutta la vita è per me. Per viaggare, io vedrò che cos'è la vita...Tutta la mia vita,
lo so che c'è la mia famiglia, i miei genitori, ma la vita è banale e senza senso, tutti nella stessa direzione, questo mi tormenta....il sentimento da sempre ossessiona la mia mente come un fantasma, perchè voglio realizzare peinamente la mia vita, è il motivo per cui sto vivendo. non voglio una vita programmata, non voglio essere come gli altri..riesco a capire che o hanno qualche idea di chi o che cosa sono. questo pensiero mi ha parlato per parecchi, parrecchi giorni, che devo, ho bisogno di capire l'essenza di cio che una persona è, per essere da soli, devono capire che io sono io, e che ci sia respira, e che non vi è la morte.quando capiro' l'essenza che noi chiamiamo "la vita," potro' morire in pace.