love

Style is the answer to everything. Fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous day. To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without style. To do a dangerous thing with style, is what I call art. Bullfighting can be an art. Boxing can be an art. Loving can be an art. Opening a can of sardines can be an art. Not many have style. Not many can keep style. I have seen dogs with more style than men. Although not many dogs have style. Cats have it with abundance. When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun, that was style. For sometimes people give you style. Joan of Arc had style. John the Baptist. Jesus. Socrates. Caesar. García Lorca. I have met men in jail with style. I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail. Style is a difference, a way of doing, a way of being done. Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water, or you, walking out of the bathroom without seeing me Lyrics from eLyrics.net

Gluttony

Visibly Troubled. Toughened. Rings, one after another, cyclic routine. Yelling. Destructive nature. Bewilderment filling almost every aspect of life. We work, to give poison, feed and indulge minds that don´t appreciate the product. Its just expected to earn, consume, earn, consume, earn, consume, consume, consume. No focus. No memory. Cackles and over zealos smiles line the ranks. Terminal illness that lasts a healthy life time. Minds that don´t dream but watch and repeat, thoughts that are the creation of coorperations, speech hollow, irellavent and vulgar. A lack of mannors. Directly causing lung cancer to the individuals acting. Void of the arts filled with oil. A copy of a copy. Suppressing children with misguided dicipline. Utterly lazy. Ghastly shells evoking evolution of nothing. Narrowing the gene pool. Over crowded with a lack of guard. A fickle dead future like making a house out of toothpicks while katabatic winds line the mountain tops with only their plaque holding it together. This is not future. This is meek existance. I observe cancer spread while blanc on blanc cells struggle. Speechless. Faint comedy and excessive consumption lubricates my joints for another day. I watch my companions slowly cease to function. Fingernails clawing into the rings as the angle increases, the water rises, putrid gasses impregnate the atmosphere. I smile with angst, withdrawral and anxiety and serve one more. I am slave.This is service.

New Beginnings

Good evening Winston, all of the silence that fills the spaces in between us. It will always be there. Who´s looking? Where? The Conveyor Belt. Cogs. One after another. Bag. Bag. Bag. My Bag. Time hangs, motionless as my eyes graze the crop. A field of souls, so numb, so empty, consumption their only purpose. How do they conclude their days? What accomplishment satisfies? Is there satisfaction? Ignorance and enlightenment go hand in hand, so close but never enough . Loading machines, pushing buttons, viewing a fraudulent reality through a rectangle on the wall. Nausea again. Just get the bag off the fucking belt. Slowly. You know its heavy. Twelve kilos excluding glass. Brace, tense, no eye contact, your on the verge of discovery. Sense of purpose overwhelms, doubt is lifted, effortlessly I grab the tattered handle, Swinging on gold plated hinges, courage, destiny, love, terror, actualisation of the self all just ten centimetres away.