Flip; flip; flipping
through the cycle of
the human endeavor,
and the crying
horses.
Break down, deep down
the apparent
barriers between
the buddies; their bodies
and livings.
Run; run; run
to self-discovery;
make it a metaphor
to go high in your newly
discovered world.
Just like miniatures
provoke sentiments
of fragility, then
bend and make
them poetic.
Flip.
Again.
S
Leafing though the concrete;
the red lipstick stains on
the full lips of the man
and the blond,
both.
Then the eyes, and he says:
if they are good, then
the body is
full of
light.
Then what?
the fake nature and
the man-made connections.
Create;
collapse;
reconstruct
them.
Even if it’s
just a
symbol.
Even when there’s
only one spot
of rain.
Flip.
S
It’s ten thirteen and I’m feeling nostalgic like never before.
Going back to the days of narrow streets and wide roads… the smell of the beige leather chairs and Drive by the Cars… the foggy days and the starry nights… the big fire and the Doors’ “riders on the storm”… the wooden door and the second floor… the candy shops and the corner tulip stores… the school buses and the mountain slopes.
Now, where do I belong? I’m asking in this teary night. Where am I from? It’s bloody hard; I’m confused.
And I’m afraid; afraid of all these fading away.
S
The apples are floating and the hyacinths are dying… The poor apples in red are being killed by ten thousand cruel bites and what do they do? They only let the alcohol flow in their veins until it sucks up half of their brain and smash the rest with nonsense… Then they start to whine… Bunch of dirty naggers they are… They beat the baby’s scream in the middle of the sweetest dreams and replace it with the scariest nightmare… I question them… They bullshit me… I stop, and stare…
“Too Much Rape On Earth!”
I read on the wall, then frame it inside the scene and freeze it in my mind.
I inhale, then exhale;
again;
and again.
S
And the World Cup 2010 went to: *España*
Sweet and well deserved.
The end.
S
Oh God, it’s almost eleven; my eyes are thirsty for a good night sleep and I’m still not done. I want to write about Il Colosseo or the loveliness of Fontana di Trevi, but I’m unable to describe them in a sensational way as is their real nature. I think of the lady in pearl with her crossed elbows and her effortless posing in front of the black and white lens, but I will ruin the whole saga by dragging it long until dawn. Oh, another one just crossed my mind. Shall I write about her unreal pink hair or her baby blue shadows? Or about the creepy lost soul and the random doorbells, whose tolling was once echoing nonstop around me?
They are all indescribable tonight while my body is delayed and my mind is suffering from the worst writer’s block. I can feel a vacuum sucking out creativity from my brain. I want to break the machine into a million pieces and kill the barriers, followed by the clichés. I want those broken bits to mark the big change in my world.
My own happy world.
S
My music taste was never made for, and my mind never pursued, jazz. This was until last week, when I finally decided to hit Ville Marie to attend the annual jazz festivities for the very first time. It was a four-night road trip accompanied by a group of some jazz lovers and some, well, not so much.
Summary: listening nonstop to Scarlett and Pete to the point that their CD became the soundtrack of my and my car-mates’ trip; walking for hours stage-to-stage and on the cobblestones of the old city; live jazz and street music, hot dogs with yellow mustard; birthday cakes and candles; meeting new faces and catching up with old ones; vin rouge et fromages; smoking under the rain drops; watching the World Cup quarter finals; hugging and slapping high fives with strangers; cheering with a passion or getting upset over the unfairness.
Highlights: the two side-by-side rainbows appeared on the clearest sky en route to Montreal and the brilliant live performance by Caravan Palace fresh from Paris on the third night.
Learning Point: people are so different to others and to their own face; they all hold their own traits and inspire you one way or another; some less, some more.
Conclusion: yours truly still is and will be always a *rock* chick!
C’est tout.
S
I know it sounds lame and cliché, but on a melting hot day like today, when humidity becomes unbearable, nothing is better than sitting in front of the telly, under the breeze of the AC, watching Carrie Bradshaw and the rest of the ladies exchanging nonsense, perfect moments or facts of life, strolling in the city of coolness, showing off their most bizarre yet stylish outfits.
The other best part is when you hear the noise that the water makes while boiling (just like us!) and calls for a hot Earl Gray tea with a tiny bit of milk on top, with a welcoming blueberry After Eight chocolate, dipped in tea in the same floral mug.
After all this bliss, another new episode starts and you realize that you have yet to write more journal entries just before Zzzz comes along.
S
The bluish screen burns my eyes,
rapes my skull; the golden wings
rise and stun me not like him, not like
you; like no existence in a fantasized world.
I feel and cling to his red beating heart;
the pearl shaped bullet in the centre of his
spine does not bother, nor wakes me up;
unless it hurts and cringes his deluded mind.
I see the three nude dancers abandoning
the green hills, revolving on the blue tiles,
repeating the same motion as the Coyote Ugly,
copying the ebb and flow, running fast as the Lola girl.
I open my eyes, first the left then the right, and
see the old notes, still resting on the melting floors;
blaming me for my dreams, waiting for someone to
play them right on an honest stage, in a true scene.
I stay in bed, in desperate need of
dark roasted to flush out my
bruised night.
S
