1.

Nice to hear your voice through the void between us, the sea of nets, hauling me towards the real island, a coffin, in your coughing lungs.

2.
Nice to hear your voice through the void between us, your voice, a fish caught in this net.

3.
Nice to hear your voice through the thought embellished between us.

4.
the only science is curiosity.
the truth is a state of mind like the perceptive abilities of a nocturnal animal, only obtainable in certain light or the absence of it.
There's regal destiny which is an adress,
the logic prevails, and presupposes and supposes on top of it.

5.
I am indifferent, because I have an idea of myself.
as an exterminating angel.
knowledge isn't kind
but the motif of death is,
after each reclaim I risk my return
but I will risk my return,
knowingly, unaware.
overnight,
I will write this book,
the tale about the ill-irony of man will inscribe itself.
the transformation of this book to a song, me to liberty,
let me just release you and myself from
the legends distressing the sworn sword of expression,
and the eternal duties while meditating for gold
all the races to race with each other to an ace ending
although, the balance of the world depends elsewhere,
hence, a result must be initiated.
this force is the witness,
I am still numb from the first fist of awakening.

"I am the last century
all of that didn't happen
past instances of life
between fact and fiction"

I woke up from the bottom of deep wells and slipping hands,
inanimate where I am stuck,
Once, I circulate the electricity of my skin
and light up coruscating
with a message to the world,
that I am within, I am thereafter, I am the poet, i found you;
miracle in skin
destined...
folded in range, apostatle of danger,
I pity you for objects you worship,
which like eyes are used to being filmed.
there is no metaphor here, but the negative connotation of the spirit.
that's living.

Let me find objects that would obey me;
A woman who can judge me
dice me and ask me
who sees the deceased?
a drunken phantom has enticed me
to go and revel with the little stones at the bottom of black sea,
every rally I attend quickly dissolves in the sand.
Forget ages went by
shuttered with wrought iron bells
my sight smells
intricate maps
pointing to the east, you are untold until new languages arrive
the poet's gust in the wind
is his spittle in telepathic words
gunned down instead of his head
what could he say
to change the fact, or make it stay by his side as a mistress?
He sees the seizure and he speaks the leasure
and for getting rewarded as a traitor
and for finding wardens to the springs
his mirror is his desire
what by nature won't desire him, .. . .. . . .
adventure made ancient
restless countless sighs
it is the snowing sand of light
what blinds our souls.
I declared myself a poet
bargained for nothing less than the conspicious
than the truth
I would shimmer next to you
occassionally forgotten in the kick in the knee
my vocation is to expose the structure
that holds a certain truth.
mirror.

dangling in the arms of deep cliffs
dropped on the side of your own
psychology,

premiscious wanderer ends up in tattered sheets
fictional.
piddling cup for great sorrow.
dripping in the volcanoes of your grin.

i heigthen your depths.

exit to automatic writing:>>

a simple idea. venitian blinds. trifles are sorority. keep looking in the drawers,
your fetish has been kept reclusively safe from life.
the pen stylises thoughts in the vault. an arpeggio over my memories in the act
of reminiscence becomes the music you love to shag to.
the shape of an empty cup of coffee. i resume and you are in each simultaneously smitten plan without participating.
Carefully sculpted objects. arbitrary moods, satin flesh.
Even the death of my friends in my letters, warfare in idea, misrepresented like a chimera because of eloquence.
I sleep under a dislocated wagon of hope.
you barely risk your existence I can recognise over and over as a pleasant screeching, in slow motion.
to die with a body
looking for a reason
(hypnotic poems)
you are the jungle in the heart of the pig atomised silence great verdant snake that carries villians.
anyone who interrupts spectacle
entails me and my gang following the gangs in history
what's going on inside me?
i have sensory skills to perceive the country of (history/)hypnosis.
as long as nature widened
hurt from ignorance
can't fill up morals
with personality
revolting banality
poetry isn't aphorism
but aphorism is poetry
this unnerving statement
is my relevance to the truth
can I get some skin please?

i pierce through other people's illusions
and my kneeding caps in the solemn din
is only my heart.
unfinished business
always attend me while being troubled ----

go back to surrealist forces