The Man with Broken Limbs

Running out to endless horizons to achieve nothing but a looping return to damned ideas and vicious circles. Tired, destroyed, reduced to a meaningless something that will never overcome empty thoughts and void opportunities. Running out but staying put while the warm breeze blows over us, ephemeral, passive, uninterested to what we say or mean. Burnt out, let down, blinded by the rage that crippled me into breadcrumbs, into paper waste, into the rejected ideas never considered. If I believed in tomorrow, would I be mistaken to skip an overpromised present which holds nothing dear, nothing beautiful? Would I be broken to the core, worn out to anonymous shreds by the fake and superficial forces of today simply because they omit, they ignore, the blissful that we could create?

It is funny to aim for a vision through self-interest, only to achieve perfect worlds with enslaved minds and hearts. Narrow-minded concepts proagate in the ether and simply stifle my running. Still here, probably, not seeing beyond it all, beyond the plastic stage, beyond the fake reassurances. Hey, the impression of moving forward can be riveting if only it were true. I am running out. Running out against the grain, against the idiotic laughs, against the me-too personalities, running out against the cheapness of it all. Until I have broken limbs and from then on no more.

The Man Who Fell in the Wishing Well

I fell awkwardly. I looked above the beautiful sky and night exchange a dance in a narrower and narrower circle. I saw the particles and the waves of light bouncing off each other. The walls making me fell unique in my descent, towards the darkness of invention, the darkness of creation. I fear you will not be there to join me despite the sky above reminding me of the beautiful things I could have had, I could have seen. Seek me not as I disappear into a world of attempts, failures and bursts of joy. Seek my ideas and what I stand for because I will hear those cries from afar, breaching through the walls of particles and waves, rippling like magma down the tunnel of dreams. Those dreams we have at night, in the dark, in the pitch black of our sense.

I fell down to the infinite, almost close to be the only one there. A singular individual in his infinite being. It is blissful in the solitude of this descent who nobody knows where it will lead to, nobody cares where it exists through space and time. I could see you or miss you forever because in the act of falling I feel the speed increasing, the air brushing my face, the risks multiplying, the ideas blossoming, all in an instant and all forever. Time slips away, out of my body, and flows down this narrow drain of wasted life. Escape is what I look for. For me, for you, for others. A leap away from the world stuck in time, frozen into a linear fashion where the horizon gloomily stares at you, as it devours the sun of all its life, as it waits for you to slow down and stop in pain. Pain to have missed you once and forever. Pain to have missed the chance to jump off. Down the path of faded moons. Down the path of reflected ideas. Down the wishing well. To the bottomless cup of an ocean of dream where nothing stands, nothing lives, nothing dies.

It is blissful to get there, take the journey through infinity, never to leave, never to arrive. For if leaving is dying, why our departures would have to be painful? Why time would bind us on this linear trajectory full of disdain and bitterness. I want to come out of the wishing well at the bottom of it, where I heard the flowers smell of happiness, where the breeze is as light as love, where you and me are one and the same. Where you and my dreams are one and the same. Where I could live and die forever. In one singular moment. In one perfect moment. Down the narrow tunnel of particles and waves. Down the essence of being. Wishing for the stars in the sky to light the way where the dark awaits and the brightness of life whispers words of encouragement.

The Doubles in Search For Answers

If you open a door that is closed, you will find answers that do not give reasons or hope. They will double and multiple the doors on which hold onto. Scared maybe they will open all at once sucking life through them, our dreams, our desires, our fears. And we will search once more keen eyes to remind us of why we open in the first place. And nobody will be there to tell us, to remind us, to comfort us for the choice we made and we will make. There may be people around us but blindness suddenly pervades and deafness too isolates into our world of doors opening and closing, opening and closing...

The little light shines on out of the window or through the keyhole. Our strong belief that an answer is out there mocks us day and night but we keep looking, we fight for the key that never existed, the map that does not take anywhere, seeking mystical treasures that would not enrich us a single bit. For you I do this as you would do for me. Hence, do I make my choice alone or is this an ensemble of fortuitous combined decision? Is the answer the one test to prove myself or the joint pride of a group I cannot really distinguish?

Search for answers, my dear double. Search them for you or for me. We all need to cut back, restrain ourselves, bring it all to down those snappy images, those little speckles of time we peer through to grasp the whole meaning of life, of an emotion. And in the end I will not know you, dear double, when my questions will be answered and my decision made for me by someone else other than us two. You will be nothing, an unknown never understood, a misplaced variable in a cosmos too big to handle, with too many doors, too many windows.

Perhaps those out there, the answers, the decisions, will look back at us in commiseration, or will laugh at us in mockery. It is sad to know, sad to hear, but we may never know and never hear for we are nothing you and me. We are a double zero. We are a double nothing. Figures ticking along without a trace, without pace, without time, without ourselves.

The Man Who Is Too Far Ahead

In the end our hopes are just specks of dust flung around by that wind of change we never wanted and we never asked for. My eyes always ahead, my mind always that step ahead. The step never made, never completed, never slammed on the shaky ground. It never happened and maybe never will. My eyes forgot to look back and sit with the many who suffer in their present. Am I escaping? Am I rushing to find out the different I or we want to make? Will my head spin and turn backwards like Tiresias? The doom of the future I want to avoid is the doom of a past I cannot escape. Running, rushing, making that last attempt to hide. Somewhere. Even if it is shouting the last promise of hope, the last offer of redemption from an unopened box, from cryptic speculation, from things that may and probably don't exist.
Should I stop hoping? Do I need to slow down with the pack and hum the blue notes of surrender? I know their path will lead me off the cliff. And what do I offer instead? Flying away perhaps. Or the illusion of flying by slowing down my steps, pretending to walk forward, and never step backwards, a perpetual moonwalk where I would be stuck in an oblivious lull. Oblivious to the care I can give or I will receive, when old, when crazy, when what mattered to you no longer exists, just like those specks of dust, blown away by a wind that is strong and pungent. It hits my face hard under a clear sunny sky. The subliminal message of a life shorter than the message you want to tell. Shorter than the change you and I will see. But I may warn you and scare for no reason. You don't look at the tomorrow I want to live in. It does not exist. It is a dream. And when morning comes I will be gone like dreams melting in the light of day...

The Men and Women who wait for the Dreamer and the Learner

Have you seen the man who dreams? Was it always there? Or did he move past the real cars and the concrete walls, worn out by fatigue? He learnt it the hard way. He paid his dues and was long forgotten. Under duress. Under hatred. Somewhere he did not belong. Many before him walked by, either suffering or forgetting what they believed in. Does this mean our faith shakes under the slightest tremble of the ground? Do our ideals vanish into a thin air until they can no longer be felt, heard or even tasted? And still I see the man who dreams stopping by windows onto a world he cannot face or recognise. His face is contorted into a twisted smile, a content grin, a stoic laughter at his destiny now obscured by forces he cannot grasp. He may stand there forever, maybe until all walls crumble down, maybe until all cars are gone, him alone with the fine dust that surrounds us all.

Have you seen the man who learns? Did you see his head open like a chest, his brains reassemble? Or did we imagine it all behind the comfortable barriers of our mind, our habits, our views and principle that hope a day the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow. Waiting here, killing time, for changes never to occur until the pressure is too much even for the fragile cosmos we live in. And we learn change will hit us in a blink of an eye, blind us with all its mighty force, and ultimate dry up the thoughts we so desperately held onto. For they are not ever lasting, nothing is, but we live forever in our multiple facets, our fragmented personalities, our unframed behaviours. The ones we hardly cope with and constantly distance ourselves from. The ones that make us human with all the irrationality and absurdity they bring to us. Acceptance will deliver us from evil.

Have you seen me at all? I think I miss you in the fog thickening by the minute. Is that shadow you or is the light tricking me? It haunts me day and night that I will never truly see it all. Just a game of shadows and kaleidoscopian colours.

The Invisible Friends Lifting the Circles and Waiting

I don't see it all and there all around it bursts into flames. Something tells me the regret will never fold, will never let go, and so we build our hopes, our dreams, to fix us one more drink, one more merry go round in a sad world. I hear you near me, I hear the sounds of clouds melting, I can smell that autumn air so close to me, why wouldn't you stay, why would everything have to die and whither away, lifting away as it moves to higher ground, pushed by invisible friends who waited all our lives, never lending their hand, never speaking in favour, never planting the seed of an idea for the love of those who eagerly expected.

And so we spin around, almost feeling invincible, powerful, void of anything I could lose, nothing in my pocket, nothing in my mind, for my heart is lighter, climbing higher. And you all let me spin faster, colours turning white, sounds blowing into a perpetual wind. The sky is clear, the breeze is cool on my skin. Where I go is where you will all be with me. Invisible but friends. Lifting but down somewhere. And while you wait, I shall sing. Sing that song that never dies, that never makes me feel alone, that always takes me to many places. And while you wait, she shall play those notes of calm and serenity. Needing to stop, to rephrase, is no judge to the beauty I feel, sense, touch. It is a flow that will accompany the spinning circles, climbing now beyond the stratosphere.

A tear shed on earth will melt everything away. A moment with nothing to believe in. Nothing to worry for as the ground fades, as the ground returns, as the moments you always wanted to learn, know, remember, rejoice. And it is as time goes by, you will feel fulfilled for the circles will keep spinning as the invisible friends lift you higher, waiting, waiting...waiting for the sun to bursts once more. Once more. And again. Trust me I can see you now, and I will see you forever, until I return. Some day. Some time. As we slow it down again, to make peace, to make amends, to see the world again as it really is. Forgive me, I am still here. And you are all there. There is nothing to compromise, nothing to return to.

Lift me up. Pull me down. Lift me up. I fall in your arms, lulled by the music and the caresses of a love that will never cease to exist. Lifting. Waiting.

The Women Crying in the Eternity Pool

Deep. Sinking. Holding off the drops. The shimmering reflection. How twisted and sweet it could be, gently evolving and down turning in that same old motion. Streams pouring down in hot hurtful water, vapourising away my thoughts and feelings. Listening only to the cries above, as the streams pour down bringing the pain of who is devastated, the debris of a life broken into pieces, whether big or small, whether insignificant or mind-wrecking. All stand around the eternity pool, waiting to be replaced, waiting to be called, to leave space for another crying soul called to face their reflection. But that reflection is only a multitude of silver and glassy streaks melting into a whirlpool through which only my soul will exit, soaked with the sorrows of thousands, the layered debris of millennia. And nobody hears me beyond that constant sobbing, that inconstant dissatisfaction, that nothing that will ever be or ever was. And I stand here in the eternity pool waiting for nothing, or for nothing to finally make me nothing. Here days, months, years, crack under the burden of lives wasted for that other, for that something that never was and perhaps never will be. Drum drum pluck the drops on my face, against the wall, across your burning cheeks. Stream down, stream through this eternity pool, hear the water crashing down for every beaten woman standing at the edge. hear carefully for each crash is a beat gone, I am gone, you are gone, drowning into nothing ever more for we are missed and ignore. Superfluous. Blissful. But hurt, slashed, by that silver, glassy streak.

The People split into 2 Universes

Time flows in an unsynchronised direction. Split perpetuously towards blind alleys. Luck wishes us the best. Love may hold our hands. Going through an unbeaten path never moved me or you or them. Is this what we expected from our ephimeral lives? Do we go beyond and stretch like time? Leaving, breathing, living and flowing...still choosing opposite directions. Did we split and forgot as we lived parallel lives behind mirrors we can't see, behind walls we don't believe? Taking one step after the other, we drift further away until the force of attraction is dissipated in a hazy dust from tearful constellations, until the space between is infinitely full of dark void. May I go further and behold, longing where I have been only from a far distance. A distance no longer felt or touched. A distance now killing us as time stretches until it tears us apart into fragments. Time flows but it is suddenly gone. It was there slipping through our hands, mine and yours. Different places, different occasions. Two universes, one heart.

The Man who Seeks the Joyful Face

Moan into patrol. Expecting. Addressing. A plan you must follow with no ball. For you can't say. For you can't express. As we walk into rooms with no life or colour. As we read lips of known sync and unpredictability sinks at the bottom the sea, we cannot meet ourselves or see others as they were. The seeker will run to find those who playfully smile. For they have nothing to lose in the big scheme of things and a game of play will not detract to the success and happiness we are keen to know. And understand. And read and see no evil beyond what is non-grey and bending the rules of a nurtured state of mind. For we are here to make you laugh, make you tired, make you reconsider. Laugh, pagliaccio. Make me laugh. Make me move forward where we are beyond this stagnant pool. Beyond the hills, beyond the steeping obstacles, that wind us down.

The People on the Learning Circles

Paths already crossed. Steps repeated. If we are told, what makes it new? Different? Could we still change this eternal return of the same? Dealt hands with no card to change or swap. Perhaps fears driving our thoughts and decisions, and the overshadow tiredness to go overboard. Outside that comfort zone.

Then comes the guilt for the opportunities we do not seize. For the dryness of our comments and principles. For the shortcuts we seek to steer away from this long, winded curves, radiating off course. Orphan orbits outside this eternal return of the same.

Then boredom sets in. The sneaky habit. The recurring cliché, oppressing, stabilising, nurturing. Perhaps that sameness is what we need to learn. Or we look for a skip button of some sort. Is it us losing the patience? Is it us not seeing the mountains crumbling, the atmosphere changing, the plaques forming.

Am I accepting the circle for what it is or what it could be? Are you waiting for the next present in line? The next best thing? The green garden luxuriating in some other circle next door. For all this hopping circle to circle will tire my limbs, tire my mind and soul. We shall all settle somewhere. In the distance or close by enough to love and adore this eternal return of the same. Just the same. Simply the same. For we can be no different. For we can be our better selves one day or the other.

The People with Scrolling Thumbs

It is easy to navigate. It is easy to move down. See what happened...or what happens. For past and present no longer makes sense. I can navigate with a smooth flow, flashing images, videos, words, cries, emotions, appeals, taking it all in, taking it all out. Missing the things I care, and only seeing what hurts. Indifference to it all can only hurt in the banality of life. Simpleton you are and simpletons we will stay. The harder steps fade, the reach of the hand, the twist of the tongue, the clinch of my brain...all too much to bear. And run along smoothly through that list of people, friends, acquaintances, one-night-stands, inmates, colleagues, ridiculous links to a life that does not exist, a life we do not belong to.

It is easy to get the multitudes. There is more out there than you. There will always be. There is always more and it will flow, flow through me and past, in a forever present. Evergreen. Ever plastic. Up and down blown by the winds of change. Scrolling will make me forget to forget. Forget to forgive. Forget to heal the wounds of time. Perennial rage and narcissism will prevail through mind and bones. Those eyes staring at you will become a symbol of revenge, of disdainful hopelessness. And we shall all become thumbs not good enough to ok what we really like, to ok what we really mean, to ok what we love and what we've forsaken.

Scrolling down you won't find anything. It is easy to look for it aimlessly but you won't find it. It is not there and it will never be because it never was...

The Man in Returning Circles

Everybody seeks space junk with loveless life, with packaged goods. From here to Cuba to Kansas. Meaningless attrition of a fifth unknown force will not leap us forward, or perhaps it will push and pull, seek and throw back what we love at all costs, what we lose the most.

My life in rows will run parallel to yours, in health, in love, in mortgage, in numbers, never-ending and never-meeting as we are destined to stop and start on our own, unaware of the walls alongside our desperate run. The dust in our eyes, the blindness we once foretold, will be nothing compared to the rows of runners in a constant race to return where they once were, where they once spoke of good-natured things, of love, of smile.

An the circle will swirl even further, as we become more and more proud of how each stunt in our life is an ambitious prize of recognition, of self-recognition, displayed to the invisible crowd, the mannequins, the homeless perhaps lost, immersed. Circle the ring of fire. Circle the ring of death. Circle no more, return once again and repeat to yourself what you promised. New words spoken to you in a circular memory you keep forgetting day after day, year after year, life after life.

The last percentage will get us there where a last piece of the puzzle is maybe hidden. Another clue to remind us of our fate, our ever-returning path to a state of constant move, rush, that will never meet our future self, , that will never meet the family and friends we left behind, that will only make us spiral out of control.

The People Who Forgot the Change

We will always like the past for what it gave, for what it stood, for what it taught us to build, to respect. For we dislike the present we now so easily remember, store, collect. And we still look back because before is better. Before is younger. Before felt newer, fresher. Before everything was easy. Now we know it already. We need to travel further afield to be marvelled. To find something new. Now we are more tired and struggle to remember. Remember what made us, remember that change has come and gone, always. And our minds shrink under a strong wind of time that never flows back but always returns, on our lawns, on our newspapers, in our ears, in the food we eat, in the bright sky we see each morning. Sometimes it is not obvious how we got here, how we have grown, evolved. How did we fit as small ants in the obnoxious course of civilisation? The answer is always to accept a failed accomplishment, an undone achievement, we made no difference. Our future has worsened. That is because we can only moan for not touching with hand the change that goes through in our minds, in our society, in our faith or ideology, in what travels around us. For change is there and always, and we may change without even realising and without noticing how our eagerness is rewarded. Our mind's focus struggles to change and forget where it is, where it has been and where it could go. Our bodies like to change the looks, the environment; peer pressure to please, welcome, join, accept, the tiny section of world you live in. A man sitting on a bench in the park for ten years is seen as the man who will miss the great news, the big changes, history itself. A man travelling the world, meeting the people, may never see the light of change for he forgets what was learned, what changed inside, what made him or her. And we all blame the past and present for not giving us a future when the change that came through is hardly acknowledged as simply the products of our own hearts and minds.

The Friend Lost in a Cloud of Smoke

And a broken message. A broken buzz in the echo of one thousand blips. It will notify the people it won't need. It will slip through on the rolling credits of a life wasted away on coloured screens. It will grease your fingers, tapping away the letters and numbers of unknown acquaintances and befriended strangers. Traces of textual conscience covering the walls, the clothes, the roads, grabbing what is left of a link I hardly recognise. The face is gone. The eye might be there. No voice to be heard but the sounds of our hearts beating their drum as the computer finally switches itself off to burn plastic over flesh, leather over skin. We shall pick our spades and spears to clash in a war we misunderstood. The lies make the game worthwile, until truth leaves us naked to a blank monitor, asleep, still buzzing, still beeping, still reminding us our artificial friend never left us and never will.

The People in Disarray

In pain I won't move against winds I cannot control. And I swear it will slowly slide down, spinning into a narrow tube, coming out of nowhere. Support is then at hand, for a grasp, for an ultimate grip, for the missed swing when a jump is all I needed. Take my hand and we will run over there where the sun sets, where the clouds hide away, where sun and moon exchange glances, exchange jugs and kisses. While we all push and pull to get where we were told to go. For we are the people with no order, with no idea other than theirs. And in disarray we fall out of rank. In disarray we fall out with each other. In disarray we cry and sigh while we stomp our feet against all the injustice we fuelled in the first place. What a disgrace!

The Man Circling Around Thick Air

Heavy turbulence makes you shift, makes you turn, makes you twist...and I twirl with my eyes fixed to the thick dust watering my eyes until they are filled and overwhelmed. I cannot see further for my sight is now despicable and unreliable. But I still circle in an infinite loop until I lose all meaning, all objectives, in a vortex spinning round across the fruitless land. I circle with strength, with heat transpiring through thick tissue, through run-down veins, as the sweat suddenly freezes and stands still. My eyes still fixed. My position now static in the eye of the tornado. My life around the pillar of thick air I will form each day, inconsistent, un-built, like a presence in a town of ghosts, following the direction of the wind and then slowly dissipating as I come to a stand-still. For I circle around with no intention to move forward, move on, and change the stale air falling heavily on my shoulders, my lungs, and my being altogether.

The Woman in Distrust of God

I will not believe, and I will not follow, for there is no reason to raise faith up while on a downward spiral. Questioning me, perhaps, would work as she stepped aside in the empty space. Emptiness that longs to be filled in, never satisfied, never in reach of what we grasp - do I boast for more? Is this a right waiting to serve the unlawful, uncongratulated, unrecognised? And as the principle turned on its head, you are cast away in the void of what is not accepted, you are shied away from the shiny promises. And my distrust is here to destroy you...

The Man Sucking on a Lemon

Yesterday the news came. And today I am still unknown, a mystery ready to vanish in thin air. For we are real in milliseconds, disintegrating at a slow-motion speed, through time, through space, through some sort of continuum I still hang on. Perhaps there is no real fear to wait for, no real concern to attend, and from then on a spiral of indifference and unforgiveness spread through the land, through the villages, through common places I never recognise. What is there to recognise when the smallest act is just in ruins, when the smallest expectation is simply dead in principle - aren't we all giving up? I hear the music, I hear the banging cutlery, I hear the Valkyrie coming to the rescue, I hear that Yellow Lemon with no perfection gleaming through the eyes of uncertainty, through the comforts of status quo, through the perceptions of neat misunderstanding. And I quote what is not real, as we heard way too much. And I stand up on the top of the hill, on the top of your heads, and I see that Sun embracing the Moon, I see those Stars embracing the Planets... and I wish there is more to see, even when there is nothing to go through, nothing to come through, nothing to bear through these hard times we write and describe for. I know I will still be here waiting for you, for what you make of me will be greater than the Sun and the Moon, greater than the Stars and the Planets, greater than idea and buildings, and I will feel so small, so scared. Curling against this cold wind soon to calm down, I rest my case, I simply rest my case. Did I even start it in the first place? Not sure...What if I want to stay put? What would the problem be? Would I sulk too much? Would I sink too much? I prefer to say my soul, my spirit, they know best as they float in the surrealism and the absurdity we admire and breathe day in day out.

The Group on The Other Side of a Black Fence

I saw you in the pictures. Did you stare at me for no reason? Did you stare for the pleasure of challenging me to a fight to the death? I saw you in slow-motion picking up the pieces, making them swirl and shape, watching through the eyes of a never-ending present, a never-changing moment. If there is envy or jealousy in my words, then what else is left for me to live? If there is digust in what I say, then where would I need to escape? As you turned the clock hands one more time, the faces you used to see have now gone, some of them stayed with blank looks, others are perhaps still here around you, still hear to make a sense. As the cold melts and the wind blows its freezing breath on the last winter days, there is no other way to realise how the page turns even when you think the chapter is closed. I still saw you in pictures with no concern over human property, with no empathy over human connections. I guess everyone fights for their corner, and it might be blissful from your end, as well as theirs, or even mine. You, me, and everyone else, will never see how dirt and dust wrap the external surface of our fence. You, me, and everyone else, will live for what we are limited to see. And perhaps this is what it all comes down to - no escape, no hideout, a simple view to someone's reality.

The Man with Uneven Chance

I gave fifty pounds to a stranger today. Really? Yes - absurdly as it sounds. I gave to him because he asked, I gave to him because there was nothing to lose. And they say men give less than women in relationships; is that true? Or are we just trying to barter using currencies from different countries? Must be. In the end end it must be down to just a whole misunderstanding. Like that guy running away with fifty pounds, misunderstood for his actions or misgiven for his transactions. Who knows? Does it really matter? I do not feel worried, perhaps lighter but not buried with the burden of concern and regret. In less than an hour it will be tomorrow, fifty pounds are already away on the table in a cafe', on the races in a betting shop, on the several other coins in the hat I hold. Does it really matter? Just stay there and do not judge until you have given everything away; you are only free to do everything when you are free from everything. Free like there is no tomorrow, as if your day is your life and there is only one you can spend to learn. Free like birds. Free like the multiple combinations of guitar chords. Free like banknotes drifting in the wind. Free like the time that has gone already. Gone where there is no tomorrow but only today!