mgenthbjpafa21

Someone should stand to someone’s convictions,
The Falcon should go respectfully on its prey.
There should be axiological principles to obey,
Pigs or henhouses should have better living conditions.

Cows should not die by the hammer or other means,
Parents should relate well after deciding to raise children.
Movie directors would have to embrace their fine art;
People who want to be together should not stand apart.

Life should not be a prima Donna,
No one must, therefore, die from glioblastoma,
Or anywhere in biology be found a granuloma.

And I, being idle,
Should not have rotational inertia,
Or angular momentum.
Instead, immobility is spinning faster...
Conservation of angular momentum,
And I, falling into myself,
should open my arms as a valediction,
Take a stand, rise to a better condition.

All my grieving are my skins,
Cameleon of beautiful leather.
Oh my labyrinthine patterns,
Old skins of detachment and furlough
Oh why I still have a room for you, though?
Short of meaning,
Void of sense.

There’s a blackboard behind a dream
Full of equations as developments,
Full of math of how to renew a stream,
There’s a need to maintain our natural world
Which one can clearly see if you look right.

There’s a blackboard behind a dream,
Full of greedy politicians and superbia,
Full of interests in delaying evolution
There’s an urge to uphold a status quo,
Easy to realize if you hear it right.

Question of perseverance to balance environment,
Vision to accept unraveling of new menaces and deal,
Contract, organize, to calmly fight against the big steal.

Over the next decades change will be so fast, insane,
No one can assure or ascertain if organizations, ready,
Will deal with rapid change, achieving something humane,
For bad instincts, greed, lust for power,
Known for hard to tame,
May put fame and glory
Above survival or history.

Seems to be a fascination,
In a time of Brazilian Wax
And shinning Cunni exposé
Legs open far, allegoric dorsum
As an Inventiveness of Self
Body Art categorically Alluring
 
Cohabitation, Tenderness
 
Seems to endure a spread taste
For bargains involving the Anima
Especially when almost nobody
Really believes having one anymore.
 
Maybe our grandparents had one
People think to ease
The restlessness
Of the acceptance,
The weak not conforming
With the loss of the traditional
Afterlife, whatever the form
It may reveal
It is
After all
Some place of rest to the worthy.
 
One of the great dangers
Of the nascent century
Is
(And now when gaining adulthood)
And
Still remains
The Revival of Faith.
(Are people gone collectively insane?)
(Embrace your eccentricities)
 
Sailing a Sea of Tolerance,
Could I Dearly ask of you
More wax less faith?
Avoid the latter.
 
Faith is a dangerous motivator.
Faith has been killing since the Dawn
Of Sentient consciousness
Made Glorious Shrine by a son
Of somebody
Sometimes believing being
The Son of Something,
Light, Fire, Morning, Gaia
Or Not the Owner but its Son.
 
Usually with Capitals like Lord, Prophet,
Or even the Arian Race,
Or the Masters of Disgrace.
 
Yes, don’t fool yourself
This is all a Faustian Bargain.
 
Be proper, don’t disdain
But how not to
When organized
Religion
Mutates into the same Conglomerate
Logic that transverse society?
 
TED talks are more “religious”
In a sad way
That the politically correct sermon
Of Sunday
(Hail to Theology & Epiphany)
 
Why are people so fond of exorcisms, vampire or werewolves?
Are those sects more accessible than health care?
(In an Extensive meaning which includes aesthetic
And genetic treatments to say the least)
Well, I’d rather become a Vampire.
It seems a relatively open and functional group...
 
Don’t give up on Caustic words to an Acid world.
 
Is it related to the plutocratic society
That dictates how the workforce
Will be like in ten, twenty or thirty years?
 
Like as in predicting 117th Tenessine?
“”Island of stability”
 
Are there enough similarities
To invoke fundamental questions?
 
Shame upon myself if I would ever give up
To your manipulative delusional promises
Shaped to get the compliance of an idiot.
 
Being an idiot doesn’t make
A complete weird stupid wacko.
So much was apparently given, but...
NOT.
 
Neolution Fringe?
As in Netflix?
Don’t make me laugh.
Rather have a deserted epitaph
 
Humanity is improving skills with 10% of science
And 90% of resilience
The neo slaves, indoctrination in action.
We map ourselves and (who?)
Choose the buttons to pull.
 
A truce could be called to reflect
But only Acceleration is at the table
Solving the problems created
By
“Those who came before”
Sacrifice now, protect
“Generations to Come”
Blindfolded to reality, misty shore
On the edge of a world not only uncertain
 
But planned by an elite smaller than ever
Controlling a network powerful and new,
Fast pace always telling tales about education
 
Teaching us emotional control to stand after suffering.
 
Who really stands over the death bodies
Of wars and revolutions fought
Of unjustified disease, of countries turned to ashes?
How many times we had to rebuild over a century?
Just say who won the contracts
Tell whose benefit all that pain has become
 
Tell it
If your man made character
If your growth personality still allows it.
You tool, you fool,
Come and see.
 
A believer Golem was manufactured
Out of Human Clay,
Only to dissolve anyway.

The pariah’s chant should be regret and omission of words.
The outcast song should be lament full or else null
The persecuted should have the voice of the oppressed
And yet, hummingbirds have no voices, only movement is allowed
Those hearts beats drumming like Taylor’s band
Those hearts like those who run for their lives
Those legs in incessant fight or run mode, all sides
Engaged at the multi-thread
The ethereal entangled head
Fighting to find its starboard
Fleeing from the menacing horde
Departed from Desolation destination decay
As I can with ease confess is this world’s way
 
Causes and effects are abstractions
An there’s no rest for the ruined wicked
Those who, being no one,
Albeit appointed, not to be ignored,
Hanged from a last thin branch
Work as slave in a Dakota country ranch
Those pigs not so equal to others,
That choose their fate by deeds done
Exuding sour from their visceral sin
And living a false live made of thin tin
Cause iron’s much consideration to them
 
Gypsies read their fates with awe and terror
Prophecies are spoken in baixo tone, repercuting the underbelly with infra sounds
It’s all about that bass, it’s all bass
Under 20, causing sensation of deep panic.
 
Memories of drunk lots of broken bottles
Now used as a collar to the enslaved one,
The one even the reaper refuses to accept in his dark lap.
Those who want to compose but never get a rap.
 
The tribe of one man without dog, no rabbit foot
A man who’s feeling so aloof
A person with a bad boot, a murderer soul, a tongue a foul,
Rage in a broken vase,
Walk without any base.
 
So there’s the snake dressed in human shape,
So identified to suffer in vain, so certain of the surrounding disdain,
That a sense of dark angel enters him,
Surrounds him in such a way that only
The beast of earth and sea feel no fear
When he stares with eyes of apparent black dead, evil intent.
 
And the children before they drink the wine of otherness
And join the collective, which number is many,
Bringing fear to all warlocks and witches, vampires and werewolves
His shadow so strange and indomitable he himself cannot control it.
 
So when the tower clock rang the last twelve strikes one more was added
And for that day on his secret name was thirteen,
The one against his kin,
Dangerous for himself and indifferent to the indignation,
Of the fellow enemy or the rage of close friends,
Foe of all fiends, searching the pact of the crossroads.
 
And longing to sign it with his pure blood.
So ancient as the stone were Gabriel stood
When his brother was left to fall in a tail of derail.

I’d like to see the birds or at least hear them
After waking early or late, real ones or a digital fake,
When they were all over my bedroom their absence was not noted,
And yet hummingbirds had their drinking platforms in my heart garden.

Garden of another, erased my presence,
Gained garden of honest work, lost plants to sycophants,
Although trash keeps smelling my devious path,
Always one pace behind and two moves ahead
Those quiet limbs seem not to devise the proper thread,
This head hurts as any other fucker,
The difference is my pussyish character
The yellish fumes coming out a chimney which I don’t clean
Cause I’m a pig style unclean procrastinator
A motherfucker living in a social institution called daddy’s town
Where no freedom is whenever wherever to be found,
Not even that of trying to gain his life unperceived and anonymously,
In an unverified attempt to regain some autonomy or alter taxonomy.

Fuck me in the morning, fuck me pumps, show me death and decay!
Explain how Success leads to health and control over one’s destiny,
Explain that’s this solitude, Jules
Of no rules, mere seed of mutiny,
Will inevitably lead to deep unavoidable, deep shit.

Bake me, cook me, show me how to bend to fortify back muscles,
Tire me with tons of stress,
Don’t give me time to guess,
If there is a reason to be,
Or not, because that’s an old question,
And we are all long past that inglorious point
The point is a ton of money,
The rule of measure,
Master of sex appeal, nucleus of any deal.

The substance informing human will
Sadly although I may love all things that money can buy,
My indolence and fear of failure has lead me to this point,
The Capetown of bad luck,
The burial of Oedipus,
The fall of Clytemnestra
Error of Cassandra, broken sword of Alexander,
Mad persecuted, unsettled portuguese salamander,
A thing that difficulty walk, and cannot wander,
Much less act quickly or react in real time.

So, unable to get anything, not even a dime.
Closed business, anachronism of a lost time.
Unfaithful to women, refusal of fatherhood,
Beater of mother, spankler of wives
Eater of puppies, peeler of cats, hot killer of innocent,
The case of bad content
Should be buried in some ordinary basement,
Covered with low quality cement in life,
So one day that bad scent would led to the uncovering,
And revive this story erected in glory, so that,
For the sake of children and public mental health,
All his alimonies kept secret so such ordinary life and ludicrous failure,
Cannot influence any more losers that wouldn’t work or contribute,

To the hail Mary blues
Sacred oeuvre of mankind, the horde devoted to afford
Long live Kapital, kampari to gin, a saké after an anime
Versus the power of clips, get energy from red bull,
Leave rest to those who died,
Performance of chondrite is nanite based tech,
But not the unconquerable shore of my sobriety
Sadness
Madness
Ungratefulness
Futility made obscenity.
Heart breaking, if you believe in such romantic nonsense
As the spirit of time praises and keeping yet cultivating ‘emotional intelligence’
“Cognoscente Ferrari” practicality denies,
Picturesque dark tainted crimson smell of defeat,
Is every single praise or joy,
Every adoration,
Every smile regarding the little big things,
What really matters in this Blink of an existence we lead,
Is kept as Undina and Undine,
Painful is the realization,
Transparent clarity of acting contra natura
Against my true good nature,
Defiling all axioms and philosophical principles of my interiority,
Occulting light and kindness,
As a lost enterprise of not done and death.
 
Cause money is the name of the game of do or die,
The beauty innocence and kindness of children,
Stimulating talk,
Vertigo of intimate touch, content of embrace,
Dwarfing sights of mother earth,
Sacred places of human belief,
Intense calm of areas devoted to grief,
Never ceasing rhythm of music,
Joyful unbalanced balance of dance,
Tantalizing views of substance induced states.
 
All that makes us human, even that
Thing called work that I hardly labour to avoid
All and more and Mucha more,
Are the hidden lines of the lore erected as surreal folklore,
Beauty and me or should it be harmony and I,
Why?
Aren’t you gonna regret it oh harmony,
Never having been capable of habiting me?

Wagner style shield-maidens chants echoes roaring
Over
Apocalyptic plumbiferous thunderbolt crossed ceilings,
Little gremlins wearing SM cyan outfits over crimson Tattooed butts
Sit over complex drums speeding the world.

The lyrics are in a beautiful incomprehensible language
As we take our step by step deconstruction of thee,
It will only remain the void availability of your vacuity.
Is that refrain forgotten in vain?

P.S.
(Mystery of Iniquity, dear Lauryn Hill...you came to my remembrance, Hail! Thank you, sincerely yours)

Uma hora de dias, os concertos Promenade, 
Subserviência ao Império Anglo-saxónico
Onde querem o mundo eu sou o chão, 
Onde querem herói eu sou perdido, 
Onde quer que esteja, aí não estou. 

É que quando cheguei aqui nada entendi 

Alguma coisa de suíno queimado, rançoso

Quando vos encarei por certo duvidoso, 

Do coelho na toca, da raposa no galinheiro. 

E foi quando soube que não voltarei inteiro, 
Meus cornos serrados, meus bagos esmagados,
Meus membros truncados. 

Olho presentemente com meu melhor olhar ausente
Em composição surrealista, uma paisagem portuense 
A minha presença entra pelos buracos de tantas cabeças 
Tantas tetas cheias em contratos Leoninos,
Tanta camaleoa que tive que recusar à toa. 
Há tanto tempo que não vejo a corda em Lisboa!

Hit the road jack 
Jack of all trades, master of none 
Till the end of the week you must be gone
No more, no more, nunca mais vais?

We aspire, leave, walk, and run,
And yet, some feel like drowning.

Return an assumed impossibility .
Road runs asunder under our feet,
The devil's beneath in synchronicity,
Earth rotates and yet we stand,
While
Babies become masters of chess.

While incompleteness is all around.
Nude feet feeling the grasshopper at dew,
Two seemingly legs still standing…

Dancing with an allegro cadence,
Laughing suddenly among people
Running imperturbable to their jobs
In concentrated cadence, tidy appearance.

Nothing returns to face mr long face,
Time indefatigable progression,
Which is subjective for a mortal
Who feeds on moments long past,
And build, shape your individuality,
Admonished aesthetics empty of me.

So laughable your attempts, so fable,
As a polygon and 4 picks, not a table.

Since I came to this world of inevitable demise
I understand how to despise the ripper
Like I turn my back to any stripper.

And there is nothing of complex
Nor formulas, nor inspiration
Not the progress of the Nation
Or simple Awolination.

This is all and all is dream which
Is the witches plan to our sin,
That plain of greed I have refused,
That rattlesnake I've always been,
Serpent leaving marks in the sand
Until the sand storm's demand.

Signs of mutiny on the Bounty of fear,
Captain, o captain, my dearest dear.

Bate a sombra no pontal lançando um presságio de mal
Cresce em linda barriga de linhas ágeis 
Desenvolve ora ora em fetos saudáveis, 
Hora a hora encasula em embriões viáveis 
Olá ao mundo num parto de dor e temperança, 
Há esperança em querer a mudança no gerador da matança 
Que falecerá antes que a mãe tropece na calçada,
Ensanguentado, se esvai esgotado, 
Morte num momento, presságio agoirento
Vive num dia que se não sabe adiado
Aquele que tudo verá acabado. 
Aquele sem pedagogia, o sem melancolia,
Que não seja de olhar o mundo numa polia.

Numa genialidade mecânica, é um desmembrador, 
Num maquiavelismo esotérico e tétrico, não basta o mal teatral
Ele exige em sublimação o reconhecimento da solidariedade,
Como se o outro fosse empatia, urge pela saciedade
De exercer o mal, em liberdade celebrado como benfeitor de verdade 

Quando assoma na varanda é uma sombra do mal que manda
A assunção da sombra no pontal que confirma um presságio 
Uma música negra chorada por outro em forma de adágio. 

Porque vive nestas linhas desalinha
Porque existe neste destroço de esboço 
Porqe a manga tem seu caroço 
Porque hoje faleceu lindo moço 
Há quem jogue as armas para lá 
Na sagrada festa a Xangô e Oxalá 
Porque escrevo isto eu sei lá. 

Anne Sexton felt the need of religion
Oh starry, starry night, I am well with indecision 
For that is my nature to gaze at the fork,
To float in a windful sea of waves in a cork,
Seated gazing at that sexton's starry, starry, 
Sky that she borrowed from Vincent.

I take from her and pass it on, my intent. 
Starry-eyed people that carries our hope,
I carry on, tootling, persisting, I try to cope!