.the English pronounce the Cornish town's name as: nookie... the **** is it, a Green Day album name, or a Limp Bizkit song? perhaps i'm too French in my pronunciation... quail... eggs... quay... qua-a... if i were Welsh i'd write you the name like so... newyddquaa... but no... but no, has to be nookie... like buggering a ******* chimp... quail eggs... see how language becomes mutated? nothing is apparently, certainly, stable... always the permutation of a flux... i must have ingested a little of the French concept of: je ne sais quoi when learning English... come one... nouveaucarrière: new quarry... nouveauquai... nookie?! seriously?! Q, Q... Quail eggs... quay... new... quay... maybe the usage of hyphenating words into compounds needs to be revised in the english sprechen... ******* mutation... nookie... ****** ******, + a ******* wookie, walking carpet ride worth the name Chew-a-Buck-back-up! i'd settle for: new-key... some sort of variant of a maritime honing device for locating ships sending distress signals during storms... but... no... but hey... it's authentically Welsh territory... Cornwall is, after all... a pre modern extension of Wales... nookie this: shotgun my *** while is spew rhetoric concerning the health benefits of applying feces instead of ****** cream for the benefits of: no one.

over 20 years spent living on these isles,
and i never made the connection -
Welsh nationalism could only work
if you included Cornwall -
   given that Cornish is very much:
a southern dialect of Çymru -

    i guess... i'm not sure...
    let's put it to the etymological filter...
beginning with primary words:

black
           du   (Cornish)
      du   (Çymru)

    red
       rudh (Cornish)
      coch (Çymru)

    white
          gwydn (Cornish)
gwyn (Çymru)
      
        i guess that's how etymology works,
a shared origins story...
etymology is best
  examined with primary words,
basic nouns / adjectives...

that was the adjective test...
now for the noun test:

sun
          howl (Cornish)
  haul (Çymru)
      
  moon
   loor (Cornish)
    lloer (Çymru)...

    sky
               ebron (Cornish)
   awyr (Çymru) -
   ah...
      now we see what becomes from
etymological deviation...
the sky has to have more
inherent connotations
of a religiosity as the resting place
of sort...

i'm sure that sea, earth, water,
and fire, are very much akin
or mountain...
but i could be wrong...

sea
    mor (Cornish)
  môr (Çymru)
        
earth
    dor (Cornish)
   ddaear (Çymru)

   water
         dowr (Cornish)
      *dŵr (Çymru)

fire
          tan (Cornish)
    tân (Çymru)

mountain
   menedh (Cornish)
         mynydd (Çymru) -

ah... well then...
that explains the separatist movement
of Cornwall akin
to the Spanish Basque or
the Catalonia...

  white cross on a black flag...
they're ******* Welsh down
in Cornwall!
   i was eating a Welsh pasty
all along!
           oh... i see...
  
  that's why they're separatists
down there...
but there's one word that's
crucial in all of this,
given the emblem is
on the Welsh flag...

  dragon...
**** me!
       there's an etymological source
for the word in English...
and, it comes from?
Cornish!

   draig (Çymru)
  dragon... in ******* Cornish!
**** me...

what's... snake?
   serpont (Cornish)
    neidr (Çymru)...

   there are similarities though...
blatant ones...
which explains the separatist
sentiment of the Cornish people...
they are like
the Hindu corp
of the Urdu speaking Welsh...
high Welsh and low Welsh...

nice to know...
thank god i didn't make the brash
etymological decision to
find the long lost cousins
of a shared source
akin to "abstract" words,
like...

        gallos-power-gallu...

****!

          g­od?
       DUW | WUD

well... god is a universal word,
and it matches...
  duw is god in Cornish,
and in Çymru...
   as it is also Allah on Malta...
funny as the fact that Malta
and it's Knights Hospitaller
cross of St. John of
                                 1567.

20 ******* years on these isles -
and only now i realize
why the Cornish are separatists...
they're Welsh...
   in disguise,
under the guise of a tourist
hot spot that's "nookie":
                       i.e. Newquay...

come to think of it...
    even though i'm living in England...
i interacted more with
the Welsh, the Irish and the Scots...
than i have with the English...
    i'm starting to think that...
if i don't make my way to
Yorkshire...
  or Newcastle...
then i lived in a country...
where the supposed countrymen
of said name... never existed!
ha!

well, in english you'd never really know
that Cornwall was once part of Wales,
given that Wales, isn't in the name
Cornwall: but that's in English...

in Polonaise?
        well... Wales / Walia (that double-u
  or rather, the double-v,
   since... erm: ωμέγα?)
         ergo?
      Cornwall / Kornwalia...
      probably the most beautiful part of
England you can begin to imagine...

aside...
   the current debate over "the pond" in
h'america... tuition fees, student debt...
as much as the h'americans love to gloat
and boast this that and the other...

i'm looking at myself...
    i went to university, studied chemistry,
and history...
   3rd year? 12 hours per week in
the laboratories...
three tiers of chemistry:
a.  physical - i hated physical chemistry,
it's so un-chemical...
   too much physics / mathematical
*******, so obviously i was weak at it...
b. inorganic chemistry...
    something that mingles with
   geology / metallurgy...
   eh... so so... it was o.k. and finally
c. organic chemistry...
   my strongest route, my faustian dream...
and so much like cooking,
so much so that... well: heston blumenthal...
maybe that's why i love cooking
so much, since it reminds me of
organic chemistry...
   anyways, i digress...
      back when i studied...
  and labour was in power with their:
education, education, education mantra?
that's what was still great
                  about britain...
the last stand as it were,
   ****, i still remember tha handing over
of hong kong...
    fee, per year? 1,250 quid...
                      that's it...
student loan, 3,000 quid per year...
   i actually did manage to live
             on the 3,000 with enough money
spare to do weekend away trips to paris,
stockholm, barcelona etc. - and god:
how i loved to travel alone,
bumping into strangers in hostels...
and the best part?
    i don't have to repay my loan until
i earn over 15,000 quid per year...
and since i'm not earning that...
                  the loan will be annuled after
30 years...
   mind you... a really **** year to go
to university and become a british citizen...
since... in scotland... e.u. citizens didn't
pay tuition fees!
      hence the massive surge of the polans
circa 2005...
                                 so: america, **** yeah!

but on a night like this,
esp. in the evening prior to the night itself,
there's that surge in electricity in the air...
you're walking to the supermarket
and the most mediocre magic happens...
sonny rollins' blues in your ears
you pass a street lamp and it gets switched
on by the grid...

                   it's only special because
your're listening to jazz and when you listen
to jazz and promenade...
you might as well be as content as if
walking a yorkshire terrier...
    
   while on the way back, instead of your
usual beer... you buy yourself...
a rowntrees ice lolly...
    and you eat that... smirking, feeling
                                                 like a badass.

p.s. the best thing i received from
the university wasn't even the degree...
a chance to play squash, mountain climbing
(glen coe was a beau)...
         a t-shirt...
since, once i left: a self-teaching discipline.

Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la nieve
y llegar a la nieve
es pacer durante veinte siglos las hierbas de los cementerios.

Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la mujer,
la mujer que no teme la luz,
la mujer que no teme a los gallos
y los gallos que no saben cantar sobre la nieve.

Pero si la nieve se equivoca de corazón
puede llegar el viento Austro
y como el aire no hace caso de los gemidos
tendremos que pacer otra vez las hierbas de los cementerios.

Yo vi dos dolorosas espigas de cera
que enterraban un paisaje de volcanes
y vi dos niños locos que empujaban llorando las pupilas de un asesino.

Pero el dos no ha sido nunca un número
porque es una angustia y su sombra,
porque es la guitarra donde el amor se desespera,
porque es la demostración de otro infinito que no es suyo
y es las murallas del muerto
y el castigo de la nueva resurrección sin finales.
Los muertos odian el número dos,
pero el número dos adormece a las mujeres
y como la mujer teme la luz
la luz tiembla delante de los gallos
y los gallos sólo saben votar sobre la nieve
tendremos que pacer sin descanso las hierbas de los cementerios.

Creo a veces que estás a mi lado tendida,
sobre mi brazo izquierdo la cabeza dormida.
Realidad me parece mi amorosa locura,
me sonrío a mí mismo con inmensa dulzura
y silenciosamente para no despertarte
me inclino hacia tu rostro quieto para besarte
pero mis labios juntos se pierden en la nada
y mi beso se hiela sobre la fría almohada,
tal como un pajarito que en una noche eleve
al abatir su vuelo se cayera en la nieve.
Pesada la cabeza de sueño y de lectura,
y el corazón henchido de infinita ternura,
cierro el libro que leo, mato la rubia llama,
subo el mar del embozo y me abrigo en la cama.
Y, la ardiente mejilla sobre la fresca almohada,
digo tu claro nombre, casi sin hacer ruido:
Creo que está a mi lado tu orejita rosada
y el túnel de juguete de tu oído.
Esta noche hay tormenta pero aun late lejana,
el relámpago pinta de verde mi persiana,
entra un aire cargado de humedad y de rosas,
en las sombras se tuercen mis manos voluptuosas
y una fiebre dulcísima cosquillea mi pecho:
estoy como una cruz de carne sobre el lecho.
Ha empezado a caer la lluvia lentamente.
Pero mi almohada tiene un hueco solamente.
Redondos de vigilia tengo abiertos los ojos,
los brazos como remos, los dedos casi flojos.
Hay un montón de ropa negra sobre una silla
y la luz de una vela da su coma amarilla.
He aquí que una lágrima ha caído en la almohada
y ha sonado en la funda de hilo almidonada.
Si lloro alguna noche, cuando estés a mi lado,
a la aurora tendrás el cabello mojado.
No me puedo dormir de soledad y tristeza,
yo pondría en tu hombro la cansada cabeza,
y lloraría un poco, y lloraría apenas...
Pero hay una distancia de juncos y de arenas.
Y tú estarás dormida, con tu tierra y tu cielo,
rodeada de la noche cerrada de tu pelo.
Dentro de un par de horas, o más, cuando me acueste,
el zafiro nocturno será una flor celeste,
yo una red de rocío, y una cinta de grana:
ya perdida la noche, perderé la mañana.
Sobre mi techo aun varias estrellas quedan.
Dime si te despiertan las lágrimas que ruedan.
La noche para mí es fantasmagoría,
más excitante que la misma poesía.
En el postigo albar hay una luz rosada,
primero fue violeta, luego será dorada.
¡Cómo cantan los gallos! se ve que están contentos.
No cantarían con mis pensamientos.
Siempre a la madrugada hace un poco de frío,
estrecharé a estas horas tu cuerpo con el mío.
Ahora cruza los campos un gran carro sonoro.
El día entra en mi cuarto como un labriego de oro.

No estoy seguro qué es lo que comienza.

Los gallos avivan al cosmos
lo alientan a latir, a expresarse
como el fuego avivado alienta al corazón
a agitar su latido.

                               (marea de circunstancias
                   heme aquí, postrado en el oleaje
                                muriéndome por nadar)

El vacío deja caer sus moldes de reloj
para que la vastedad suceda:
comienza, sí, la aventura
el juego circular
la alta-experiencia fallida
la confusión de nombrar
         sin decir lo correcto.

Nombrar y mal|decir, maldefinir, malvivir.

Se entona un habla sin provecho
un habla sin adagio.

La expresión se desgaja: sus trozos se evaporan con la neblina
parecen esferas sufriendo de aplanamiento.

La claridad se enrarece: mueren los magos creadores
se colman de caídas sin conciencia
                      y paracaídas sin usar.

Sobrevivo aquí, en la marea del error
                   a u s e n t e d e s e n t i d o
laberinto lúdico laberinto
del que olvido su carácter de juego.

Malnombro mi estado: me pierdo.

Volver ¿a dónde?

¿Ayudaría la luz
                 a nombrar de nuevo?

Volver a la luz
perder la palabra
desposeer
                 comenzar.

¿Comenzar por la luz, terminar restituidos
en la más seglar de las gnosis?

¿Terminar
como estrella que alumbra el signo
como estrella que devela el sentido oscuro?

Bifurcación múltiple
ramales pletóricos
ah, las nervaduras del árbol metafísico
ah, la oquedad de la oferta.

¿A dónde van a dar los caminos
que, sumiso, veo abrirse ante mi?

Los caballos negros son.
Las herraduras son negras.
Sobre las capas relucen
manchas de tinta y de cera.
Tienen, por eso no lloran,
de plomo las calaveras.
Con el alma de charol
vienen por la carretera.
Jorobados y nocturnos,
por donde animan ordenan
silencios de goma oscura
y miedos de fina arena.
Pasan, si quieren pasar,
y ocultan en la cabeza
una vaga astronomía
de pistolas inconcretas.

¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
En las esquinas banderas.
La luna y la calabaza
con las guindas en conserva.
¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
¿Quién te vió y no te recuerda?
Ciudad de dolor y almizcle,
con las torres de canela.

Cuando llegaba la noche,
noche que noche nochera,
los gitanos en sus fraguas
forjaban soles y flechas.
Un caballo malherido,
llamaba a todas las puertas.
Gallos de vidrio cantaban
por Jerez de la Frontera.
El viento, vuelve desnudo
la esquina de la sorpresa,
en la noche platinoche
noche, que noche nochera.

La Virgen y San José
perdieron sus castañuelas,
y buscan a los gitanos
para ver si las encuentran.
La Virgen viene vestida
con un traje de alcaldesa,
de papel de chocolate
con los collares de almendras.
San José mueve los brazos
bajo una capa de seda.
Detrás va Pedro Domecq
con tres sultanes de Persia.
La media luna, soñaba
un éxtasis de cigüeña.
Estandartes y faroles
invaden las azoteas.
Por los espejos sollozan
bailarinas sin caderas.
Agua y sombra, sombra y agua
por Jerez de la Frontera.

¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
En las esquinas banderas.
Apaga tus verdes luces
que viene la benemérita.
¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
¿Quién te vio y no te recuerda?
Dejadla lejos del mar,
sin peines para sus crenchas.

Avanzan de dos en fondo
a la ciudad de la fiesta.
Un rumor de siemprevivas
invade las cartucheras.
Avanzan de dos en fondo.
Doble nocturno de tela.
El cielo, se les antoja,
una vitrina de espuelas.

La ciudad libre de miedo,
multiplicaba sus puertas.
Cuarenta guardias civiles
entran a saco por ellas.
Los relojes se pararon,
y el coñac de las botellas
se disfrazó de noviembre
para no infundir sospechas.
Un vuelo de gritos largos
se levantó en las veletas.
Los sables cortan las brisas
que los cascos atropellan.
Por las calles de penumbra
huyen las gitanas viejas
con los caballos dormidos
y las orzas de monedas.
Por las calles empinadas
suben las capas siniestras,
dejando detrás fugaces
remolinos de tijeras.
En el portal de Belén
los gitanos se congregan.
San José, lleno de heridas,
amortaja a una doncella.
Tercos fusiles agudos
por toda la noche suenan.
La Virgen cura a los niños
con salivilla de estrella.
Pero la Guardia Civil
avanza sembrando hogueras,
donde joven y desnuda
la imaginación se quema.
Rosa la de los Camborios,
gime sentada en su puerta
con sus dos pechos cortados
puestos en una bandeja.
Y otras muchachas corrían
perseguidas por sus trenzas,
en un aire donde estallan
rosas de pólvora negra.
Cuando todos los tejados
eran surcos en la tierra,
el alba meció sus hombros
en largo perfil de piedra.

¡Oh, ciudad de los gitanos!
La Guardia Civil se aleja
por un túnel de silencio
mientras las llamas te cercan.

¡Oh, ciudad de los gitanos!
¿Quién te vio y no te recuerda?
Que te busquen en mi frente.
juego de luna y arena.

Los amorosos callan.
El amor es el silencio más fino,
el más tembloroso, el más insoportable.
Los amorosos buscan,
los amorosos son los que abandonan,
son los que cambian, los que olvidan.
Su corazón les dice que nunca han de encontrar,
no encuentran, buscan.
Los amorosos andan como locos
porque están solos, solos, solos,
entregándose, dándose a cada rato,
llorando porque no salvan al amor.
Les preocupa el amor. Los amorosos
viven al día, no pueden hacer más, no saben.
Siempre se están yendo,
siempre, hacia alguna parte.
Esperan,
no esperan nada, pero esperan.
Saben que nunca han de encontrar.
El amor es la prórroga perpetua,
siempre el paso siguiente, el otro, el otro.
Los amorosos son los insaciables,
los que siempre -¡qué bueno!- han de estar solos.
Los amorosos son la hidra del cuento.
Tienen serpientes en lugar de brazos.
Las venas del cuello se les hinchan
también como serpientes para asfixiarlos.
Los amorosos no pueden dormir
porque si se duermen se los comen los gusanos.
En la obscuridad abren los ojos
y les cae en ellos el espanto.
Encuentran alacranes bajo la sábana
y su cama flota como sobre un lago.
Los amorosos son locos, sólo locos,
sin Dios y sin diablo.
Los amorosos salen de sus cuevas
temblorosos, hambrientos,
a cazar fantasmas.
Se ríen de las gentes que lo saben todo,
de las que aman a perpetuidad, verídicamente,
de las que creen en el amor como en una lámpara de inagotable aceite.
Los amorosos juegan a coger el agua,
a tatuar el humo, a no irse.
Juegan el largo, el triste juego del amor.
Nadie ha de resignarse.
Dicen que nadie ha de resignarse.
Los amorosos se avergüenzan de toda conformación.
Vacíos, pero vacíos de una a otra costilla,
la muerte les fermenta detrás de los ojos,
y ellos caminan, lloran hasta la madrugada
en que trenes y gallos se despiden dolorosamente.
Les llega a veces un olor a tierra recién nacida,
a mujeres que duermen con la mano en el ****, complacidas,
a arroyos de agua tierna y a cocinas.
Los amorosos se ponen a cantar entre labios
una canción no aprendida.
Y se van llorando, llorando
la hermosa vida.

Sobre la roja España blanca y roja,
blanca y fosforescente,
una historia de polvo se deshoja,
irrumpe un sol unánime, batiente.

Es un pleno de abriles,
una primaveral caballería,
que inunda de galopes los perfiles
de España: es el ejército del sol, de la alegría.

Desaparece la tristeza, el día
devorador, el marchitado tallo,
cuando, avasalladora llamarada,
galopa la alegría en un caballo
igual que una bandera desbocada.

A su paso se paran los relojes,
las abejas, los niños se alborotan,
los vientres son más fértiles, más profusas las trojes,
saltan las piedras, los lagartos trotan.

Se hacen las carreteras de diamantes,
el horizonte lo perturban mieses
y otras visiones relampagueantes,
y se sienten felices los cipreses.

Avanza la alegría derrumbando montañas
y las bocas avanzan como escudos.
Se levanta la risa, se caen las telarañas
ante el chorro potente de los dientes desnudos.

La alegría es un huerto del corazón con mares
que a los hombres invaden de rugidos,
que a las mujeres muerden de collares
y a la piel de relámpagos transidos.

Alegraos por fin los carcomidos,
los desplomados bajo la tristeza:
salid de los vivientes ataúdes,
sacad de entre las piernas la cabeza,
caed en la alegría como grandes taludes.

Alegres animales,
la cabra, el gamo, el potro, las yeguadas,
se desposan delante de los hombres contentos.
Y paren las mujeres lanzando carcajadas,
desplegando su carne firmamentos.

Todo son jubilosos juramentos.
Cigarras, viñas, gallos incendiados,
los árboles del Sur: naranjos y nopales,
higueras y palmeras y granados,
y encima el mediodía curtiendo cereales.

Se despedaza el agua en los zarzales:
las lágrimas no arrasan,
no duelen las espinas ni las flechas.
Y se grita ¡Salud! a todos los que pasan
con la boca anegada de cosechas.

Tiene el mundo otra cara. Se acerca lo remoto
en una muchedumbre de bocas y de brazos.
Se ve la muerte como un mueble roto,
como una blanca silla hecha pedazos.

Salí del llanto, me encontré en España,
en una plaza de hombres de fuego imperativo.
Supe que la tristeza corrompe, enturbia, daña...
Me alegré seriamente lo mismo que el olivo.

Gaugamela
Palace of the Camelids

The roosters of Persepolis crow again. Their disloyal resonances and deadly gloom came from seventy kilometers from the Iranian city of Shiraz in the province of Fars, near the place where the Pulwar River flows into the Kur (Kyrus). The Gallos ghosts came mounted on the houses of the twelve Giga Camels, the remaining six recovered. They were coming to retreat, to take the path to Jaffa. The House of Camels was started, as preservatives of the required immunity, in order to be in accordance with the sanitary ellipticals and adaptation to the departure of Judah. They were going to the semicircle of the Lepidoptera consorts united with the ghostly camels Giga and those of the Early Rising Roosters, who will give the first rank in the game of the Birthright, after seven weeks in Judah. Knowing that the phylogeny of animalia is of wide versatility, this super being of the desert  animalia, which will agree to the departure of all and the repatriation of the hexagonal Birthright, except King David who will enter the Celestial Cenotaph in Jerusalem, escorted by the Cherubs.

From Tel Gomel came the reverberations and voices of the last metallic rattles of the swords and the howls of the Macedonian infantry, colliding with each other with their pernicious weapons. While these screeches reverberate like an anvil falling in ninety degrees on the hail pieces of hope of the Achaemenids ..., and their families had to say goodbye to their family plains, as many already lost their cracked souls from inhaled mutilating curses. Today a miraculous event was to occur, a Dorus Hetairoi fell from the high sky, and it came flaming  with fire. And from the northwest side fell a Sarissa spear, which it intercepted in the vicinity adjacent to Joshua's stone, forming a neat Cross lit with the brightest star. It was nothing less than the vehement fire of Meshuva, which brought with it drops of water from the Jordan with the Image of the Baptist, to make the hierarchical gravitation on the pony of the Camels, which at this point had all the dominance of the plague of the ailments that could cause a great impact on the twelve camels, due to an endemic outbreak caused by some leprosy attacking the surroundings, carrying higher infections to those who ride them.

The scene was one of total rhetoric consonant with Tel Gomel, "Gaugamela Palace of the Camels." This paradox came to resent the reciprocity of magnificence of these camelids in the perfect analogy with Gethsemane, for this purpose of agreeing with The Ghosts of Shiraz, shortly before the great battle of Gaugamela began in 332 BC.  equating the lands arranged before the planted areas where these divine species continued to bring the sensitized sense of war around turned into battering rams of mustangs passing through the auscultated portals of the Orchard in agony of interplay.

Over the soft roar of Tel Gomel, maidens in white tulle with half-crossed dresses came, serene and chaste from the plain of the Palace of India; they were the wives who married the commanders of Alexander the Great. They were from the war lineage that also came to concelebrate the farewell to the Animalia and the Hexagonal Birthright. Today the seven miracles are brought together in a perfect line of the apeiron, which of all things, is identifying this first principle with the "indefinite" or "unlimited." Considering that the constitutive principle of things was the apeiron, which is not water, nor earth, nor fire, nor air; it has no concrete form, it is infinite. The cosmos is born, develops and perishes within that "apeiron" in Gethsemane.

This existential infinity of the principles of the world is born from this feat in Gethsemane. Affirming that only this immaterial element or any other of the so-called elements, will bring the apeiron nature of the Garden in flames of sisel love doves, from which all the heavens and the worlds that are in them are generated in Gethsemane renewed towards the infinity of Joshua's love. Now, from where there is rebirth for things, there is also reconstructive destruction, creating needs; that in effect, they repay each other by blaming and retributing for their injustice, according to the disposition of the time, thus speaking of these things in rather poetic terms, these maidens come in their flocked chariots of Sisellas feathers from Tel Gomel, for the blessed that he bathes the subsoil of Tel Gomel and Bumodos, among the cosmic flushes of the Apeiron of the Messiah beyond its origin in the Kafersuseh (many births under a great single multivalent spirit, among thousands of origin stables of Dimensional Beam powers, where I love her sir venerates from the trapeze hung from beam to beam. The fireflies, Bumblebees, Bees and Wasps resemble the profiles of the hollows and hills that were hidden before the figure of this entire nascent profane world, but grandiloquent to migrate and wear the engineering of the large beams that support the structural sky, predominantly on the horizontal and its bending. The World after decompressing dragged the orographic linear cords of Gethsemane, puncturing the cords of the rocks and their average messianic lithosphere, in this way the inertia was opened twisting towards the rock, gathered a set of guidelines that distilled from later moments and adaptation of the inertia to adapt with the Aramaic dynamics emerging from the mouth of all Bern olive trees after yawning and trapped dust silt.

Vernarth says: "With my Xifos I will restore life beyond the burning of wounds, come worms to snack on your Hoplite meats, come now ..." I am Hetairoi ... "and I usually die several times over the worst pains in the jaws of ambrosia with Hestia, but I do not tolerate others suffering pain beyond my control. In the minutes that the wind horns besiege, the jailer's living Garden will be freed from us, which leads him constrained to unleash the insidious and opaque spheres of isolation that deprives knowledge even when he is drunk on death itself and not attentive to it. that blooms on the thorns full of Saracen alcohol "

On gigantic dimensions the insects copulate  the shadows directed on the shadows of the Camels Gigas, thus beginning the departure of the Aramico Huerto, converted into the new palace of the animalia, but containing the airs of pollen on each particle of the concretions of the Mashiach. , now on the platform of the Palace of the Camelids and on the holy hummus of the Garden of Gethsemane.

The Apostle Saint John says: "anguish urges to go to the other side of memory and have to look at other tree species with water from the universe that irrigates the world the swamp" ... Petrobus appears sitting on his golden cloud with Raeder...
Raeder says: “I will go with miraculous airs, and terrified themselves of our own miracles, bathed in the water of the stream and from the head of Petrobus we will go dispensing water where there is none, but he has no memory only the instinct of who need. That is why I have to hang on his jade rings that his webbed legs carry. Now is the time to continue somewhere in the line of the twelve camels after these seven weeks in Judah”

Eurydice intervenes: “I will climb on the camels and talk with them about why the line that leads us will never separate from Gethsemane. We know that we have to return from Jaffa to Limassol to remove the Mariano gold medallion, which was bathed in the background, and that Procoro awaits us immersed in the aroma of the Orchard. I keep a crack in my heart where a Berne Olivo tree grows, and that from its shoots that come, will populate the houses of Skalá and the heights of Patmos”

King David: “I will proclaim on the baptismal airs, and that the ghosts of Shiraz will raise Olivos from the columns of the avenues of Bern, to raise the columns of passageways that lead to the heights of Agamemnon creating the kingdom of Mycenae in the mythology that propitiated the sovereignty of all Argos. This is suddenly ingested in the triad of the Hebrew, Aramaic and Hellenic worldview, to triumph over the excess of external knowledge that they had of it and it will have to be kept in my cenotaph full of wandering aromatic insects”

Etréstles states: “the emanations of the Sun and the progression of other suns will always be the adjective that will make us be part of each particle of land here in El Huerto, Messolonghi, Limassol, Rhodes and Patmos. Wherever I have ever been, the lashes of my eyes have closed completely enough to keep them semi open until the encounter of new lights that protect those of an anonymous dawn with them closed.

Also after this episode, Campaspe, one of Alexander the Great's concubines, appears. She came in the name of all the maidens and concubines who were betrothed to their commanders in India. The beauty of this noble woman is renowned.

Campaspe says: “We were all going to be Sovereigns, but the face of death was always in front of the Commanders of Alexander the Great. The outfits we wore were only black and scents of Palacios de Guagamela. The cold that comes from another leads me to possess those of others that are not what brings me here. I was delivered to the hands of a painter who portrayed me, but the true meaning of the warm mustard lands of Gaugamela are in the din of the wasteland pleasure of the solitude of the spaces, there is no more striking and curative good, than the one that has come from Vernarth to Tel Gomel, paraphrasing as the sensuality of sadness that continues to manifest itself here in the floating ungulate hands of the ghosts of Shiraz, bringing to the greater confusion of uniting all the forces of the world, for all the blood that has not been emancipated or renamed "

The gray haze of the Orchard mourns on gomorresin, the insects moan the evidence of the triangulated pollen that Campaspe spreads in her nascent genome, and the twelve camels begin to turn on themselves, along with their long and prolonged snoring. The slopes snort in the sound of procreation in the whistles of the fresh air, disputing the borders of the Bern Olive Trees that ebb the elongated bands of their white dresses, stripping. The Mashiach was leaving between the gray fringes of naked nubile. The insects continued to come out of the caves of previous character of Golgotha, and the Lepidoptera voices emitted voices in ancient Aramaic, similar to the event of Bethany in the hands of Lazarus contracted to immortalities in the shreds of his shroud, turning green in the olive trees reared in a epitaph never chanted.
Gethsemane became a mezzanine scale of Persian architecture, but of a channel of affront of a high measured premium, Mashiach on each of the four wings of the Lepidoptera and the Cherubim, frolicking in the jelly of the phrases exuded by the aerial rounds of insects that were compressing the new cycle of language, together with the overflowing candle of pearlescent matches running through the scrawny flannels of the goodbye of the Mashiach united in the foamy saliva of the Olive Tree and in the dominant beam of Kafersesuh.

Vernarth and the Apostle close their eyes already mounted on the camelids, they take a slow walk on the mezzanine that suggested walking through rocks and desert lands. All were already mounted on each of the Giga camels, leaving Gethsemane flooded with insects, birds and blades clouds of pollen on the fumaroles of the quantum.

Debajo de las multiplicaciones
hay una gota de sangre de pato.
Debajo de las divisiones
hay una gota de sangre de marinero.
Debajo de las sumas, un río de sangre tierna;
un río que viene cantando
por los dormitorios de los arrabales,
y es plata, cemento o brisa
en el alba mentida de New York.
Existen las montañas, lo sé.
Y los anteojos para la sabiduría,
lo sé.  Pero yo no he venido a ver el cielo.
He venido para ver la turbia sangre,
la sangre que lleva las máquinas a las cataratas
y el espíritu a la lengua de la cobra.
Todos los días se matan en New York
cuatro millones de patos,
cinco millones de cerdos,
dos mil palomas para el gusto de los agonizantes,
un millón de vacas,
un millón de corderos
y dos millones de gallos
que dejan los cielos hechos añicos.
Más vale sollozar afilando la navaja
o asesinar a los perros en las alucinantes cacerías
que resistir en la madrugada
los interminables trenes de leche,
los interminables trenes de sangre,
y los trenes de rosas maniatadas
por los comerciantes de perfumes.
Los patos y las palomas
y los cerdos y los corderos
ponen sus gotas de sangre
debajo de las multiplicaciones;
y los terribles alaridos de las vacas estrujadas
llenan de dolor el valle
donde el Hudson se emborracha con aceite.
Yo denuncio a toda la gente
que ignora la otra mitad,
la mitad irredimible
que levanta sus montes de cemento
donde laten los corazones
de los animalitos que se olvidan
y donde caeremos todos
en la última fiesta de los taladros.
Os escupo en la cara.
La otra mitad me escucha
devorando, cantando, volando en su pureza
como los niños en las porterías
que llevan frágiles palitos
a los huecos donde se oxidan
las antenas de los insectos.
No es el infierno, es la calle.
No es la muerte, es la tienda de frutas.
Hay un mundo de ríos quebrados y distancias inasibles
en la patita de ese gato quebrada por el automóvil,
y yo oigo el canto de la lombriz
en el corazón de muchas niñas.
óxido, fermento, tierra estremecida.
Tierra tú mismo que nadas por los números de la oficina.
¿Qué voy a hacer, ordenar los paisajes?
¿Ordenar los amores que luego son fotografías,
que luego son pedazos de madera y bocanadas de sangre?
No, no; yo denuncio,
yo denuncio la conjura
de estas desiertas oficinas
que no radian las agonías,
que borran los programas de la selva,
y me ofrezco a ser comido por las vacas estrujadas
cuando sus gritos llenan el valle
donde el Hudson se emborracha con aceite.

draft enclosed below... prior to?

    whiskey, always with the whiskey...
                         there was, some, "pressing" matter,
to give me over to grief...
     a grief that was never going
to be a grief...
                  more, a, bewildering in situ...
something unavoidable...
                        like finding respectable
homosexuals akin to douglas murray...
             ah! that's what it was...
watching the premier of rammstein's song
ausländer? thoughts?
                 "teaching" colonialißation in reverse?
truly... france, england,
   perhaps even spain...
                              teaching...
good teachers...
                   they were always going
to be good teachers...
                     the only colonialißm
the germans ever ventured to address was
of their neighbours...
       ****** choice...
                   oh but i'm pretty sure
you would come back from Warsaw
with a homogeneity nausea sickness...
   i know i do...
         every single time,
   the homogeneous ethno-representation
is nauseating...
       even though, i'm stepping back
into a throng, of, "my own" people...
   i lived on the outskirts of loon'don for far
to long, i don't see an ivory beauty,
the pearls of Ghana,
      or some ***** and blue indian,
i start to "worry"...
                              i once traveled to
Cheltenham... and it, felt,
     like i was walking through Warsaw...
i don't even know whether i was surprised,
or whether i was experiencing the same
homogeneity nausea sickness...
                    each step of passing through
the city, i wanted to puke...
                         well not out an aversion
to being white among whites...
                        i guess i'm just the remains
of the globalist narration of so many
different people living in close proximity...
hub...
             as if revising a city akin to Rome...
when once in a year, gladiator slaves would
come for a month of festivity,
and the whole world was revelead
  with all its faces and hues...
                    but the germans know this...
inverted colonialißm -
         of being "colonialißed"...
                         i'm pretty sure the folk
in Warsaw are less understanding
     to the chocolatiers of Brussels...
                          because, as far as i am concerned...
Brexit, really, really came...
        when... the privileged status
of former British Empire citizens put to
question, a sudden surge in the floodgates
being opened for the former iron curtain countries,
you could have told these Pakistanis,
these Indians...
         don't worry... these people have come...
but... don't think they'll stay...
some will...
                   but most of them come
from an environment of homogeneity...
perfect example...
              a flight from Warsaw to Stansted...
talk about "racism",
     talk about "multiculturalism"...
i said jack ****, i just listened to the debate
behind me between a "racist" man
and a youg, impressionable young woman,
who cited the book why i don't talk
to white people about racism...
            i came here aged 8...
            and as a first generation expatriate...
oh yes, i can use the term...
which is weird...
since if i really didn't sink into this tongue
i'd call myself an immigrant...
just like the english immigrants
to h'america or australia call themselves,
the alternative: expatriate...
               the "racist" cited an evolutionary
predisposition as to why same attracts same,
a contradiction of magnets,
but, then again, we're not talking magnets,
but people...
               i'm dissociated with my "fellow"
ethno-centered peoples...
       sure... memories of childhood friends,
digging holes and playing a game
of throwing marbles into them...
hide & seek at night...
   kicking each other in the ***...
                     my memory bank reaches
as far back as being aged 4...
so... yeah... i have a lot to work with...
   again... i woke about how else to describe
that supermarket cashier from yesterday,
how she wanted to become a paramedic...
how her perfect skin,
   without a bout of hay fever looked
radiant...
                            the words:
       like a lake of milk,
                                       illuminated by
a full moon in a night of frozen constellations
of stars, or perhaps only her love spots
   of moles.

    well... that's that... now i'm ready to cite
and translate some Horace...     

sunt quibus in satura videar nimis acer et
  ultra legem tendere opus; sine nervis altera
quidquid conpusui pars esse putat similsque
    meorum, mille die versus deduci posse.
Trebati, quid faciam? praescribe.
              <quiescas>
       <ne faciam, inquis, omnino versus?>
<aio.>
              <peream male, si non optimum
erat; verum nequeo dormire.>
    <ter uncti transnanto Tiberim,
            somno quibus est opus alto,
                   inriguumque mero sub noctem
corpus habento. aut si tantus amor
                             scribendi te rapit,
          aude Caesaris invicti res dicere,
multa laborum praemia laturus.>
   <cupidium, pater optime, vires
deficiunt; neque quivis horrentia pilis
agmina nec fracta pereuntis cupside Gallos
aut labentis equo describit volnera Parthi.>
<attamem et iustum poteras et scribere
fortem, Scipiadam ut sapiens Lucillius.>
      <haud mihi dero, *** res ipsa feret:
nisi dextro tempore Flacci verba per
attentam non ibunt Caesaris aurem:
      cui male si palpere, recalcitrat undique
tutus.>
<quanto recitus hoc quam tristi laedere
versus *** sibi quisque timet,
                           quamquam est intactus
        ed odit.>
                  <quid faciam?      

i guess this would be the perfect time
to write a translation before disclosing the draft...
well... it's Horace...
          who did Dante take to walk him
through hell?           wasn't it Virgil?
only a naive-****-show of a man would
take with him a Greek poet akin to Homer,
or Sappho...
       well... not exactly...
not if poetry attracts poetry...
     James Joyce decided upon Homer,
but i'm not a James Joyce...
if Dante desired to take Virgil as his guide...
i've decided upon Horace...
  and here's the translation:

some say, that in the art of satire i am too acute,
that i go beyond established confines (of the art),
the others, that i write without talent and that
the poems i write in a simialr vein,
can be written into their thousands, every day.
Trebati (a serbian name, etymological
meaning: to need;
point of conjecture... well... if the medieval
world is to be made concise...
and the etymology of slav, implying slave...
it... only appears to hold true for the southern
slavs... the balkan region...
  as far as i am concerned,
the northern slavs... didn't exactly
make it to slave status,
the southern slavs might have been
of the roman empire...)
       Trebati: what do you counsel?
say something!
     stop writing!
            therefore throw my poems
into a corner?
           yes!
         to the executioner, that might be best,
  but then what do during the night,
when it's impossible to fall to sleep?
   rub your body with oil,
thrice swim the length of the Tiber,
in the evening drink some wine -
          you'll thus banish insomnia;
and if still, you have an irresistible desire
to write, then write for the sake of passing
  the victorious deeds of Caesar for posterity;
a generous reward you will receive.
   willingly, but my strengths are modest,
for me to sing about the death of the Gaul
javelin throwers with their broken spears,
or the wounded Parthian,
                      when he's dragged by a horse.
celebrate then, because of this,
   his bravery, his sense of justice, his wisdom,
just like...

  ****! another googlewhack!

                 lucyliusz w scypiadzie
       https://tinyurl.com/y5u7uelu

       just like... Lucius in Scythia.
           maybe i will not tempt, when the right
time comes. the time isn't right, Caesar's ear will
not succumb to the compliments whispered
by Flacci...
           do not stroke the steed in time,
    which will with its hoof kick.
better that than by reproach via a poem
      of these mediocrities,
     like the clown Pantolabus or the grandson
of Nomentano -
        who without blame, and even as
being untouched, hates.
                               and what of it?
        
hell: now the draft...

when all seems bleak upon the blank
plateau and the calm seas of
thought being voided -
    i tend to find scraps of language worth
keeping,
  odd bits of letters no written,
      interrupted narratives -
conversations never had - or pivoting
upon an alternative choice of words,
never mind...
    i acquired english and made myself
its father -
              audacious, i agree -
but psychopathic? i hardly think so.
              to out-speak a native means:
doubling down - standing ground -
digging trenches...
                 i have made english into
the equivalent of an armchair,
    sitting pretty, sitting cosy,
   in some shady part of an east london
pub: peering into the stage, attempting
to differentiate the actors from the props
and the props from an: authenticity.
trick is... well, i can't read in my native tongue
when in england...
  which is why i am extremely anticipating
the december hiatus impeding...
immersed in an environment filled with
the nativspreschen - notably from
devices such as the radio and the t.v. -
   i can digest a book in my nativspreschen
with as much ease as:
  spreading butter on a slice of bread...
        but that's because when in england:
i'm wholly dedicated to the language,
   perhaps not the culture which i mimic -
but i have allegiance to that ******* comfy
armchair that's the english language.
- i remember this one incident of being
thrown out from a local pub on the grounds
that i "launched a glass pint in rage across
the pub floor" - xenophobia tickle -
                 i spoke too much like oliver reed
to one schizophrenic and some other lost soul...
a few days later i tap the shoulder
    of one of the bar mistresses and ask her
if she's feeling o.k., if you want
a depiction of constipation, you should have
seen her, she has harbouring a hedgehog in
her *** by that point...
          a complete ******* of a pub anyway...
you see, even with an acquired accent,
if the question is asked: where you from,
and you say: not from around here,
   even if you've lived here pretty much
all of your life: you're not puritanical enough...
mind you... i'm the pedigree breed,
surrounded by mongrels...
                 i am, but a mongrel of the soul
nurturing an adopted tongue, while
   "trying" my hardest to forget my native tongue...
*******, i'm not going to turn into
a terrorist, which, by the way,
english society has bred...
                  polish is not omnipresent -
it's not the king-quack-**** sitting on
the throne of hippo-******* that's
the meridian - you have you dream,
taken from the spanish -
       die ***** von sonnezunge
ständig suchen  für die mond:
       die schlaflosigkeitreich -
the empire of (the) sun-tongue -
perpetually looking for the moon -
  insomniac empire.
      hell, have it, maybe by having it
you can have your, little elaborations
of the dream fabric...
             point being:
my native tongue is an equivalent of
the iron maiden by comparison...
       the merovingian was wrong:
you truly wipe your *** with silk
by speaking english...
                notably by introducing the
amputee R's worth of trill to sound old-school
and a knowledge of latin always helps...
but nothing quiet comes across
as speaking the native tongue better than
the natives...
        i think that's called ambition...
      or a heckling of some sort -
a heckling where no one is staged or is
telling a joke...
                   a bit like being generous
to the turk and his predicament...
  he owns a store, the local council comes
to him, he literally has a caravan outside the store...
and he's worrying about employing
lawyers to solve the matter, he doesn't
know what the problem is...
two bottles of wine and some coca cola
and i peer outside: ah!
         so i tell him: you're obstructing
an item of public property...
  the simple answer is that you have to
revise your makeshift caravan shanty and
expose that bench...
did i get a thank you, or a free bottle of
whiskey... turks... what do you expect,
  he thanked me by increasing the price of beer...
if people older than me have no
standards of etiquette - why even expect
any study of ethics? you first learn aesthetic,
then you learn etiquette,
    and then comes ethics...
         you think i bought anything from
him ever again? loser.
     - became a corporate ***** -
but then again at 16 quid a litre of ms. amber scot,
i can't complain.
                  - but come one,
you've been given free legal advice and
you can't even repay a debt of being given
advice... ah... i see...
it would have made the proprietor look
                     stupid, i.e.: d'uh! a bench!
funny you should ask (without even asking):
whenever i go back to poland i feel grounded...
nay, cushioned - after all i am not there
to visit my countrymen as such,
   more or less imbued with a sense of
proximity to my neighbours,
  the germans, the czechs, the white russians,
lithuanians and the ukrainians....
               and to read a book...
but mostly about feeling the vicinity of
the neighbours...
                      and inhale a breath of
authenticity, in historical terms...
                     because back in england -
  well i have a patriotism for the language:
but not the people -
                    the language i can cherish -
the people mean diddly-squat to me...
  after being barred from a pub on false accusation,
well... expect any different?
                if only i were black,
i could call that racism...
                        alas, i have the ****** luck
of the irish...
                 then again...
                                       none of this even matters
beyond a squabbling defaced impression
of a memory...
                              it still stands:
i'm comfortable writing, since i deem
english to be an armchair -
               but the nativspreschen i find
as an iron maiden...
            although when wholly immersed
in an environment when the only words
in english you hear are: weekend, etc. -
                     there's this aura of oddity that
surrounds me:
         either i'm a ghost among the living -
or i'm alive, immersed in ghost town...
i can never tell...
                           all in all:
continental air is so refreshing having spent
an entire year on an island...
   the almost complete lack of moisture,
the crispness of dry cool,
           the crackling of the foot on snow
in imitation of walking on egg shells -
  and the mere snow - notably falling crisply
during the night...
            islanders are a very strange people...
whether the british, the icelanders,
the maltese, the cypriots, the irish,
                        you name them...
                      islanders have this knack at
believing themselves to be superior
to kontinentalvolk -
       notably when it comes to the basic
etiquette of tourism...
                  in was in paris, twice...
each time i had the luck of a fellow tourist
who spoke french...
                                     once it was this
italian girl, another a canadian girl with
russian roots: a pole's luck, i guess.

Las piquetas de los gallos
cavan buscando la aurora,
cuando por el monte oscuro
baja Soledad Montoya.
Cobre amarillo, su carne,
huele a caballo y a sombra.
Yunques ahumados sus pechos,
gimen canciones redondas.
Soledad, ¿por quién preguntas
sin compaña y a estas horas?
Pregunte por quien pregunte,
dime: ¿a ti qué se te importa?
Vengo a buscar lo que busco,
mi alegría y mi persona.
Soledad de mis pesares,
caballo que se desboca,
al fin encuentra la mar
y se lo tragan las olas.
No me recuerdes el mar,
que la pena negra, brota
en las tierras de aceituna
bajo el rumor de las hojas.
¡Soledad, qué pena tienes!
¡Qué pena tan lastimosa!
Lloras zumo de limón
agrio de espera y de boca.
¡Qué pena tan grande! Corro
mi casa como una loca,
mis dos trenzas por el suelo,
de la cocina a la alcoba.
¡Qué pena! Me estoy poniendo
de azabache carne y ropa.
¡Ay, mis camisas de hilo!
¡Ay, mis muslos de amapola!
Soledad: lava tu cuerpo
con agua de las alondras,
y deja tu corazón
en paz, Soledad Montoya.

Por abajo canta el río:
volante de cielo y hojas.
Con flores de calabaza,
la nueva luz se corona.
¡Oh pena de los gitanos!
Pena limpia y siempre sola.
¡Oh pena de cauce oculto
y madrugada remota!

Del bosque en las frondas la brisa callaba,
Las flores dormían, la noche era azul,
y en torres y cumbres, en selvas y campos,
La luna regaba su diáfana luz.

Pensando en su amado que lucha en los mares,
La pálida virgen intenta dormir,
y escucha un acento que pasa y le dice:
«María, no llores, no llores por mí».

Los ojos entreabre, se yergue en el lecho;
«¿Quién es?», dice trémula y empieza a
llorar
Al ver del marino los ojos sin vida,
Sin vida los labios y mustia la faz.

«Mi cuerpo, María, ya está bajo el agua...
¡Qué triste es la ausencia, qué triste es morir!
De un mar borrascoso las olas me cubren,
Mas oye, María, no llores por mí.

»Del mar encrespado las olas fingían
Montañas enormes que alzó el aquilón.
Tres días el barco luchó con las olas,
y al fin en las olas el barco se hundió.

»Entonces, oyendo del mar el rugido,
Volaba mi alma, volaba hasta ti...
Pasó la tormenta, mi cuerpo reposa:
María, no llores, no llores por mí.

»¡Oh virgen!, prepara tu velo de novia.
La playa está cerca que el alma soñó,
La playa en que se unen por siempre las almas,
Do habremos de unirnos por siempre los dos».

…Los gallos cantaron; borrose la sombra;
El aura en el bosque se oía gemir,
y dulce un acento vibraba en los aires:
«María, no llores, no llores por mí».

Consciencia
Gritando y Preguntando
En la madrugada

Como gallos del campo
Cantando sus Canciones
Para despertar

Con ojos medio abiertos
Palabras pegadas en mi lengua

No tengo respuesta
Para tu confesion
De admiracion

Es que estoy muy joven para esto
Relaciones y compromisos
Todavía tengo el corazón
De un niña sin preocupaciones

Perdoname por ser sincera
Pero no quiero estar contigo
Me gusta estar soltera

No quiero ser intima
Mejor deja la idea



© Sofia Villagrana 2018

árboles y más árboles se agitan o despiertan y su
frescor abunda con la sangre es tu pelo de noche
hay albricias de ti pájaros suaves y tormentas sin
fin como tu cuerpo cuando cantan los gallos
y tiemblas y
la madrugada te revuelve los rostros