true story, recorded 'live', sitting in a bar stool, near the piano player, w/all the voices and chatter and smoke-.

this young lady asks me something and then before being able to answer buddy holly takes a deck of cards and says ‘wanna play some cards?’ to which i answer ‘not now, for christ sake’ but then sartre interrupts ‘aujourd’hui maman est morte, ou peut être hier, je ne sais pas’ and I say ‘jean paul this is the first line of camus l’etranger, it is not yours, you stole it’ and he says ‘shit, you got me’ & camus suddenly appears behind the counter and says ‘you crazy old son of a bitch, why the fuck are you stealing my work, go fuck yourself and simone’ and then they start a fight sartre shouting ‘don’t you fucking dare to involve simone in this, you asshole’ and camus just broke JP glasses and I go in between the two ‘easy guys, easy’ while mick jagger dances just beside us w/his usual moves singing -voluptuous-  ‘i cant get no, na na naaaaaaaaa,   satis/fac/tion,  na na naaaaaa’ and I say ‘ok guys that’s fucking enough’, then william blake just jumps in and says ‘hey guys take a look at this madafaca drawing I just drew’... and I feel like, ok, this is nonsense now, and I shout ‘would you please SHUT THE FUCK UP, I’M TRYING TO TALK TO THIS LADY’, and the lady hears me out, shouting to the void, and she leaves w/ a smile like saying this guy is fucking nuts, and now the lady is long gone and I’m desperate and I say ‘I fucking hate you guys’ and buddy says ‘what? (...) two aces, what d’you got?’.

Two Aces

para simone.
para sartre.

-assis au deux magots- un café noir, le monde, l'age de raison a mon coté, j'ecris et je pense a vous. simone, jean paul, je pense a vous. 5 septembre, ennui. la banque centrale européenne s'inquiète pour la croissance de l'europe. les initiatives citoyennes se multiplient pour accueillir des réfugiés. super mario draghi de nouveau au chevet de la zone euro. et moi, j'écris ma cronique d'une mort tant attendue. mon futur me saisis par le bras... "donne-moi quelque chose, patron, j'ai faim". aahhhh mais tais-toi putain. un garçon joue avec son truque et je pense, "je suis vieux".

5/set, les deux magots, j'ecris et je pense a vous, amoureux, distants.

Les Deux Magots

(PR-3) BARCELONA. OCT,2.- (B/02).      on ‘the unattainable’.
written because i need i need and i don’t know what.

picasso once said ‘if i don’t have red, I use blue’, and that is indeed the true essence of art, contraint, freedom & the dictatorship of what I want. holding the horses, then letting go the horses, beginning w/one idea that immediately becomes something else. taste is useless, taste the ultimate enemy of art, art is politics, art is an instrument of deceit, a weapon of seduction. art never chaste, why sex inside why. if i paint if i write a horny woman, i don’t want to see you the woman, i want you to see horny. that, only a few understand, you know. bless the few, i love them all.
art an impossible-to-grip intensity
like breath of a fucked one
like Walküres riding naked naked in Der Ring des Nibelungen
like beat beasts in love.

The Unattainable

 “lo q puedo alcanzar con una escalera no me interesa.” 
― Wittgenstein (1930).

6, Oct,2015, LP, JJ

dear Ludwig,

how much truth is necessary?

i’m haunted w/this question, truth taliban, probably ruined my life because of it. bourgeoisie invented ‘double-lives’. nobility couldn’t care less, they needed no justification, they did at all times whatever they fucking wanted, you know. hacian lo q les daba la puta gana. whatever you want to call it, ius primae noctis, droit du seigneur, droit de jambage*, they fucked the bride, and no secret was necessary, if you know what i mean. in maps, north is always up and south down. north drew the maps. I finally realised people end up in double lives playing double-or-nothing. that’s a fact. sometimes you double. some other times you end up w/nothing, rien, niente, nada. it’s just a bet and it’s ok. it’s fair. respect.

dear ludwig, rituals, feeling like shit, moments where instinct tells me to stop and go back. there. there. none of these places is at the end of a ladder. the best things in my life I found them there. never in fairness, never in correctness. always when behaving like a broken hippie, pursuing anything that had no future. being a part of the cliff. there.

reaching reaching. despite existential failure, reaching. at least, i always gave myself that.

best,

* refers to a supposed legal right in medieval Europe, and elsewhere, allowing feudal lords to have sexual relations with subordinate women on their wedding night. 

dear ludwig

my dear, 

(angst, malaise, is like static noise, like hum, like a microphone feedback when i write this)
(. . .) being understood -when i write when i fuck- is not precisely my goal. it scares me when i think happiness is usually achieved causing profound unhappiness in those around you, how come. i feel there’s an eternal punishment in my happiness. I already told you, wasted people usually fuck and love and laugh harder, that’s a fact. hence my quest for the damaged ones. the wrecked, tattooed, dispossessed, carrying the soul of the world. don’t you see? the damaged are better, more intense. think this, no matter what you do, after every precious moment comes vulgarity. no exceptions to that rule. so, intensity if nothing else, make it worth remembering at least. . . you know, there are moments when the ones surrounding me are happy, enjoying, while deep inside me i know there’s something wrong. in my head i think ‘this is not working this is bullshit’. but the ones i love are smiling, cheerful. who’s wrong. them or me. what is the truth, what they see or what i see?my truth is definitely uglier. can’t help it.
you’re right, maybe i should try more ‘i love you_s’, even if those words don’t say really what they should say. become an emotional perv. dame mamita. i’ve been one in the past. i know how to. but i don’t want to. 

yours,

who's wrong

(please excuse my alcohol breath)

“The role of the artist 
is to not look away.” 
― Akira Kurosawa-.

some nights, when depression charged violently against her, splintering any last wish, she would ask some ‘benign’ question, innocent like a dormant volcano, i.e. “can poets be good friends?”. the question would be final, not subject to appeal, as she would cocoon inside herself immediately after, sometimes in absolute silence, some other times crying. he would not even try to answer, he knew better than that. silence would suffice. silence and removing all scissors and knives from her sight. some women were not to be played with. . . he knew one day he would cry for her, and she would be already making someone else cry, you know, spiralling into catastrophe. that was his only relief, his only redemption. he wouldn’t be the last one hurt. there would never be a last unharmed ‘lucky’ one. it was just a matter of time, the mighty acid. but he loved her deeply, only as a poet could love another poet, as a source, never looking away, summarily and selfishly and every fucking night, despising her at the very first ray of light.

# At The Very First Ray Of Light

my dear,
just now in whatever fit of desperation, blind self-justification, or whatever, I got into some thought re/ The Poems. . .  please, miss me each time you toast for your lovers, think of us as the frontier between a Ginsberg reader and a simple mortal, only in Love, we were meant to greatness but we stopped at the entrance (panic, maybe, or disgust for Others, or simply the presentiment of inevitable failure. . Ugg).

freefalling to sadness is something the regular 'sane' being will never experience. it feels like no one is there to talk to me while i descend. the belonging i seek is always behind me. not ahead. every good experience ends w/a question. we ended with a question indeed, don't you think.

John Keats, in letters to John Keats, once wrote  "do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?". our intelligence is a true soul, you just need yo think about all the love you carry inside, like a burden like a crux, but nevertheless real& there, itching.

unfinished sentences occur very frequently in the mind, and unexpected changes of subject, you know, and i want to write my mind, write exactly who i am, you know, like.

i just went for another whisky, i needed it but i'm so back you wouldn't believe, really back, astonishingly back, the same as sadness, every time. the dichotomy between waling away or trying harder is nonsense. I dream of a barter economy, one day, using sex as a token as well, as an asset. i heard in Amsterdam some driving schools accept to be paid in sex, no need for petty cash. interesting.

One day i will go back to my planet, and i'll send you my tears &flowers from there .

grandeur, always grandeur, whatever the outcome, at least we ran into it, we crashed into it.

Luis

Letter

in New Year's Eve we pledge allegiance to ginsberg, and we read together one of his poems-

---A SUPERMARKET IN CALIFORNIA---

What thoughts I have of you tonight Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. 
         In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! 
         What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? 

         I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. 
         I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? 
         I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. 
         We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. 

         Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? 
         (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) 
         Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. 
         Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? 
         Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out in a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe? 

in New Year's Eve we pledge allegiance to ginsberg and we read together one of his poems

“It smelled of wild animals and damp wool in 				  spite of the ‘Miss Dior’ I wore”.
				Michèle Ray


dear someone-I-loved,

         as Kundera once said -in a different context, that’s true, but who gives a shit about the context-, “je veux te dire maintenant, tant d’années après que tu m’as quittée, que j’ai compris ta mort comme un cadeau, et que j’ai fini par l’accepter, ce terrible cadeau”.  your death was a beautiful present you offered me, my death a beautiful present I offered you. pure love -true true love- is generous, and eventually walks away. if we truly love, we do not want such pain for the other.
         thank you.
         all the anxiety, the sadness of our goodbye, is now gone. the only thing that remains is an awkward feeling of treason... betrayal... you never fighting... I don’t know, it is weird...  that i could never get rid of. I think it must be the ego.
         anyway, every woman, every man, alive or dead, is pure coincidence. you too, then, but it was indeed beautiful anyway.  now and then I ask myself about the past: how long it was, how deep it was, how right it was, how much was mine to keep, you know. the answer to that question means nothing, zero, rien, niente, nein, nada, but we keep on asking, bless us. nada puto, nada. but, Love. 

best,

Ce Terrible Cadeau

I can’t understand how, nor pinpoint exactly since when, but i feel a change, a closure. it took me a two-year mourning*.  somehow,  the last vestiges of love finally vanished, and with them my need of “misanthrrrope”. my texts about Her will always be our dirty ashes, the remnants of my rendezvous with an ancient beautiful mind, the garbage of the extraordinary.  in the end, everyone leaves, and then this strange tenderness, this gratitude, and a waving of a million proud hands. may Life be with Her.

no puedo entender cómo, ni señalar exactamente cuándo ha sucedido, pero siento un cambio, un cierre. me ha llevado dos años de duelo. los últimos vestigios del amor han desaparecido y con ellos mi necesidad de misanthrrrope. mis textos serán siempre nuestras sucias cenizas, remanentes de un encuentro con una mente maravillosa y anciana, desechos de los extraordinario. al final, todo el mundo se marcha, y entonces, esta extraña ternura, este agradecimiento, y un millón de manos satisfechas diciendo adiós. que la Vida la acompañe.

*nunca antes tanto tiempo, joder, amando sin amar.


misanthrrrope

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