You lie still like a Serpent. Then you crawl around slithering all the way and then you seize your prey.
More than anything on this earth: I value my name being written in the book of life. Write it boldly and with capital fonts. Oh God, make it a pleasant writing.
Borges is my all time favorite writer. In a dream I saw him writing a book. To my surprise: the pen was a claw and all the letters in the book were fangs. In the dream, Borges was gently squeezing my neck with his claws.
An old man in my village passed away. All his sons and daughters in the US came to attend the funeral. In the obituary column: they put their credentials and their residence: thus we have: Sarah Seattle, Johnny Texas: Ruben California. I smiled in comic irony.
This is what happened in my life. I used to read horoscopes. One day they would say: things are not going in your favor and on other days they would proudly proclaim: this is your lucky day: you are going to get a windfall. To my ironic fate nothing of the things they said was true. Today I read the Bible and prayed sincerely to my Lord Christ. I got a small windfall as a starter. Yes, taste and see that the Lord is good.
Isolated, marooned, despondent, me a piece of shit. The world and its wishes smile bitterly at me. I sink in my wretched abyss disappointed. Am I schmuck of disaster, noble of countless mishaps? Forge my soul in the shit of hell. I feel like committing suicide. I see Camus waving at me and saying things will be alright. Is it my delusion or is it real? Sex is a dead prison. When can I have the poetry of lyrical intimacy? When will sex become a poem of lyrical beauty? When will a woman become warm hearted and tender to me? When will she make me open to her orifices? Angst plagues my soul like a psychopath.My ego is so deflated. I am locked up in the asylum of defeatism.Why did you die for my sins? I need to taste the relish of Epicureanism. Why do you close all doors for me? I am carrying the cross of a wretched life. Sometimes I wish to be shed of life and be a still-life statue. Devil, you are a mocking penis. Why can’t covetousness be a virtue? The world of values is a carnival. When will the rites of ecstasy shed her lady luck on me? Me a being? Amazing! Metaphysics is a pile of muddy water. Transcendence is a hyperbolic cunt. Dissolve the consciousness that is in my body. Sodomize it with a poem of beauty. Bitch wife, I have so much love to give and yet you don’t want an iota of it. Bitch wife, you have made me sick in the mind. My soul is a whimsical butterfly. Eros is tranquilized death. Bitch wife, all I want is a caress, a kiss, a hug and you fucking bitch you deny it. I have stopped reading astrology. Karma is warped in the neurons of an angstual plague. You fucker be kind to yourself. Give your heart the freedom to love. Don’t blow your soul to smithereens of existential shit. Nirvana, I have found you perched on wings. When the present is bleak, how can I anticipate a bright future? What a joy can sex bring? I long for you darling. Yet you are so far away. When can we make love like the old times? Passion is the ocean of ecstasy. When can I resurrect my body with sex? If I was in your place, I would have been tempted by the devil. My wife is a slut of boredom. Every day the bitch kneels and cries before you. God you have denied me so much in life.
The demented astrologer says this is a period of trials and tribulations. Why cast your shit on me, you poltroon. Venus shits in Mars and Neptune urinates in Leo. Fortune smiles with a fart. Tarot you are anal agonies. Why the fuck can’t you draw luck to me? Why blaspheme my soul with shroud of obscenities that make me withdrawn from the world. Astrologers are fucking shit holes. Psychics are assholes. Tarot readers are motherfuckers. Yes the moon is on the ascendant with a big bum. Sun is a shitting ball of white in the commode of Jupiter. Woe to you, I hate you all motherfuckers.