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......

I love trips where I get less photos, and return, moreover, with the images stored in my notebook dibujo.Hace a couple of days in La Palma, 1,100 meters above sea level, near the headwaters. Drawing in La Palma, Canary Islands.

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Respiration and the planet earth .... greenpeace. Zonzamas

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a shame, makes the island smells bad ...

The November 18, 2009 21:21 gonzález pepa < mjgd2007@gmail.com > wrote :

And after eight years of opening the so-called dump Lanzarote Zonzamas "(and I say so-called because they do not understand what the reason or justification for using the name of the penultimate king of Lanzarote Maho instead of put Philip the Fair, was well remembered in the chronicles for his foul mouth and rotten ... .. another mockery of the island's culture and tradition ...), after paying for nearly a year to four thousand euros to the engineers who came from Andalusia to, in the Island Council, conduct a recycling center without equal in the English kingdom ; sell the bike after that make waste recycling and reuse was essential for the environment and the sustainability of the ecosystem of this piece of land recognized as a biosphere reserve, after fouling the environment one of the archaeological of interest in Lanzarote, the now they aptly named, Zonzamas , old habitat of that Aboriginal king have been found even pieces like "sitting Idol" Phoenician representing the Egyptian goddess Teuris ... ..., after this insult to the people conejero ... now it does not work for about three years. That shit goes out the door toward the road that connects Sanbartolo and Tahiche. That make holes the size of the Grand Canyon to get into all kinds of appliances and then ground up to sink his way to hide the hand of nonsense. The animals are broken at the sight of everyone who wants to photograph them as insular rotting. That night .... as the criminal act .... fosnalla = fogalera to put the aforementioned shit away the traces of years of accumulation and without thinking, very Babieca, by force and divine intervention to lower fever Eolo installed on the roofs of Argana, Drive, Altavista and to Vega ... ..

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A Great Blog to learn


Began in Hebrew can be translated as "in your backyard" garden of Eden. The diet in Eden was Vegan: YD "s said:" I give all grass seed on earth, and trees that produce fruit for food. "(Gen 1:29).
http://begano.blogspot.com

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Hieronymus Bosch in unusual company for being alone

What went covenants? What
ointments or what used to make potions to attend such ceremonies?
And what was his role among many offices and spewed delicate samplers?
still not the intrusion, espionage away with the imager. Because
may still be bliss, domesticated
an angel contemplate unreachable distances,
blue bubble suspended in the center of a sphere floating souls
but sin is stormy and snatches away in swirling who slashing. Blow
skin and change the speed of the fire that devours the best intentions and do not ever get
with beautiful disguise tail ornaments and the hoof.
color is like a howling among the flowers.
And those are the inks used Hieronymus? What sins
mixed to achieve the darkness of the nightmare? Falling drop
certainly broke the glass slid into the box
and found a good place in haunted entertainment in the landscape.
At first glance it would seem a workshop in which each one is absorbed in his game,
or summer fair where they compete illusionism and acrobatics,
or perhaps a book of hours in which the images randomly mixed.
But there is something that screams like a pig who slit the throats in the morning, something
smelling the edge of the knife, the stench of the devil.
And here now comes trotting over the mud with his hands and feet.
Comes with ice and fire and all the sun against. You
urine in the head and your desire turns into a frog, in lizard, a dog.
I have extracted from shocking wedding freaks and aberrations of the species,
of links between a pair of beasts and a tool to pass. Mergers
orthopedics, links that are tied for the clash and torture,
critters that jump to the pressure of filling defect, scarecrows
obscene, prelates crapulous, fireproof strengths and vampires,
breaks executioners, concealing and feast greatcoat Asylum ears
disturbing as sphinxes, purple and jaws, delusions such as funnels, floods
always unharmed bodies for iridescent pleasures of the soldiery. Another blow
flame, another scourge of thunder,
another layer of blood on the rugged theme "delighting punish"
and follow the orchestra. Ah the counterfeit
temptation and heavy instrumental clerk of the devil!
have all "the dismal range of hell" in front,
and as the back of the blame and be the inexhaustible form of punishment. What
Hieronymus doing there in the midst of such hotbeds, with the cleat
color of fever and those people turning on your head?
Is the guest of honor or party host suspicious? It may be a reprobate
and pay with any abuse of the self reproach investing
luck,
turn transformed into the hollow trophy one sense, the attribute
deletion in the sponge that absorbs excess of others.
But perhaps his alliance is with the heights, against all hope.

may not pray with love and with faith, but with the vision of the sentence.

No. 19, the night drifting (1984)

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spider,

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Bourgueois in Canada ... Louis made a big araña.Mi Bourgueois book "Mapping" Invest the way, to walk the sky ...

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Louis made a big araña.A Bourgueois I like this tree. Rios

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leading towards the sea .. which is death .....

H emos seen images that make us feel pity, impotence , sadness ... maybe even disgust.
I do not know how you feel when seeing the images below, but I feel helpless and sad, to see how our world is deteriorating and falling apart by our own actions.

is the Citarum river , located west of the island of Java in Indonesia .
Ironically this river in its heyday, was used for fishing and irrigation, but due to factories that are in place, the river became a huge dump . The villagers stopped fishing. What we now do is "dig" in the trash, something that could be used to sell or deal with food.

And all this crap will continue towards the sea, contaminating everything he finds in his way ...

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SCHOOL OF SOL.


We gathered around Paco Rodriguez, and gave us a long lecture on ecology.
La Escuela del Sol still has the intention to disclose matters related to the Art, Science and Spirituality.

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. Huge
day against my ears buzz;
thunders like a god suddenly caught by a wing in the cage of the world. Dorado
to scrape his madness, spiraling up to break the edges.
What now calls this huge bumblebee fury that pulls the sky?
Is it just fuss at me up, so much splendor in war? What else should I
abide apart from rocky head, the rope at the ankles and the hole through each hand? Perhaps
reproach me my share in the distribution of stays, perhaps
judging only my side is visible,
that it makes its way through darkness and moving blocks without SBER
same as the bow is blinded by a ghost ship.
You, too, a cruel day, so fatuous as I, as the mask of the unseen, the murky fog
you, just the emanation of an offshore submerged
the sun to peek unfinished hides the other suns of the distance.
have come here out of memory to run into later, without a password
justifies us until the end of the game.
Your color is the same as any dealer stock and dark times.
But enough about why you are not, nor even be others,
fatal nacesarios, under the tides of history and the flight of birds, perhaps because we
also unavoidable
both included in the turbulence the first wave in the boiling of the verb, both hitting
together on the beach amid the uncertainties of return,
until the last day, until the last castaway. Because maybe
whom, when and where the variations of a single substance,
states suspended until the end of counting.
No me out then with this hurricane shock of cloth against her face.
not you throw me the same as if it were a limpet insidious grip
your superfluous, a fan error hourly embedded in the rock.
not effectively banishing even take me in suspense between the thumb and forefinger,
although I swing and let me fall on my own.
A dark, against china, disasters.
.
.

No. 18, the night drifting (1984)

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For a balance

I tested a thousand times
forcing my head to the neck in the joints where the universe ends
or throwing it rolling until the vertigo the endless blue of the skies empty. Unthinkable
limits; unthinkable immensity also unlimited.
My head was now a wreck inside the bubble of fever,
a trophy of God over the fence from exile, a seething
Arcimboldo in the pike erected in my bones;
yet hatched secret passages to the tower of salvation.
's turned upside down, the sun began to evaporate by inclement,
until melted into the tiny memory salt is just delete it from oblivion.
But each blank region was a surge towards the promised land.
light them up only to plunge into loss in the trappings of time, just to prove
forms of the night and thought of as an acid solution
ambiguous that preserved intact the agony.
has triumphed again against iron bars and rocks, landslides and empty.
And is not tried,
on wheels and wheels of visions in flames relentlessly overwhelm my place,
that even with hell accrete domains in this meager head? I played my heart
the storm, a swirling
insatiable wings went further that all borders. Against
eye that stuck where it drowns the dream,
against blackouts and capitulations, I played until the end of the open
to continuous brilliance, continued stabbing, pure loss.
I squeezed between two black rags, including broken glass,
as a relic whose worship exalt only transgression and sacrilege
tore the archangel in heaven promised, with his court of dogs
night executioner nailed side by side the scaffold of disagreements, then dug it
ice needles, spoons hungry
and found at the bottom of a small amulet:
a drop of mercury to pounds who is looking for atonement and death.
I've become so dark faces fixed stars, dust deposits
dazzled sites like jewels in the desert.
can witness those who loved and was loved by the end of
world-a world that does not end even under the cliffs of the goodbyes at close range.
"Where is then the defeat of a heart on tenterhooks
alert for the love of every day, free like a phoenix from the excesses? I bet
my arrival at each intersection of randomly greater mystery,
to this secret letter that touched the feet of the high adventures on the website of the legend.
To get there you had to go through the depths of the soul;
had to penetrate through swamps where splash death and madness, delusions
by greedy as catacombs and tunnels to the closure;
had to transpose fissures and wounds sometimes communicate with eternity.
not preserve my house or my clothes or my skin or my eyes.
The sanction was exposed to fierce guardians at the edge of the world,
in exchange for that step further into the abyss of love,
a recognizable echo of words only in the alphabet of dreams
half a dive into the icy waters that gnaw the threshold of the other side.
If I look back now, I see my footprints
left no footprints in the sand phosphorescent.
My journey is a blast lofts gray fog,
just a trickle of salt in the rain, a flight from foreign bands.
But I'm still here, holding my bet,
always all or nothing, as long as if it was the penultimate day of the centuries.
may have won by measuring the light that shines on you, greedy
by force that absorbs me sometimes a kingdom never seen and lived longer, the signal
incomparable grace that transforms in every possible loss miracle.

No. 17, the night drifting (1984)

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Al

.

The court is high end and no borders.
sensitive to random variations in the cloud or fire,
records every stroke that falls on the territories of destination insomniacs.
In one night outside the other end, the license to blame,
drawing my own writing career, fatal, the blind witness. Setbacks and progress
, dips and flights, suspended and falls
up that text which is tied and unties illation with hesitation,
is concealed with caution yaw and foot on glass,
stops and is lost with every driver dreams jolt.
And what will be the total effect, which slips away as the beast of the trap and sets
die from weed dark skin leaving
or flight without stopping by the whites of the crossroads, inward maze?
accusation or allegation, I fail to interpret the intentions of the elusive message. Hard
reading from here, where I violated the law and the instrument, where rights and wrongs
spread like a ripple, a vice
language or disciplined maneuvers of a plague,
and change the color of my syllabus in and forth ago.
But there is someone who does not confuse ignorance
someone who reads even under the deletions and the dismemberment of my calligraphy
while filtering the sun and the sea sparkles between two lines. Print
blood is my confession, sealed with ash.
.

.

No. 16, the night drifting (1984)

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exactly how much we hurt

Susan Josephine Fragueiro
.

.
Now where are you,
expelled from paradise all of this world,
without finding your place or in the forest of the cicada or the tower ant,
and even in a wilderness of loneliness that molds resigned as a fact to your body as a pillow
renunciation of your head? You've already crossed
lucid, with your eyes votive lamp,
that vanishing point you were talking about,
where the gap begins to reverse and widen the land of promise.
Now, when you could teach me all the subtleties of the way, simulate
certainly not proud to know them to praise the attempts of my feet
and build a queen seat of my mistakes,
like this side.
We walked together so many years feeling seams that joined us this story! You
loosen the knots and cut it a stroke every stitches,
with the same excess of handing your bread and you rush into the abyss and into the fire
-itself, the boundless love, passion and exuberance,
the excessive inertia in the face vampire ritual of doom.
you rip your bag of weather, your clothing of bones,
the handful of gray stones attached to the last fold of fate, Sandy
jaw,
and ran away by the dazzling galleries without another sun your soul no more coat
two or three names from your nakedness
crowded as reliquaries.
Did not we already ajar again the edges of shadows
as a gap where life and death exchange their hostages
pious as ghosts? Ever
could hold hands, when we are very lonely
,
when the dread of tiger fur coat with all the windows?
My hand, to meet yours, there is no answer, as if slip
naked and blind by a mirror surface that erases. Eye
recorded only the heat of immersion in a vacuum endless inexorable.
My words are like shredded clear glass against the wall.
"may not come, you who always went before being called,
you, that you stand as a shortcut to the need
and were flying like a bird attracted by the white smudge of a wish?
Can be a messenger of the breakfast, watch the epidemic and the storm? Perhaps you have confused
again
place and time and again before and lost travelers wandering dunes and crossroads between circular air
confused with that of those who do not feel expected
of going nowhere. Perhaps
dwell on those sites and cathedrals in which your voice sounded Piaf,
the cry rising in spurts from love desagarrada throat hurt to forgiveness:
or in those rooms who sought your life miserable in a yawning black
and you threw at random and disorder as two glaciers;
or next to those committees in which you drank alcohol to large flares,
not to see the world through a party, but to burn the pial to misfortune;
or in the attic where I left a Christmas tree
as deluded forever an angel perched on every corner inhospitable year
much further and there, in houses that now are clouds,
where you could draw such a perfume, a head of a stone,
when not yet had that double vision of that perfect failure as a gravure,
when smothered with bars still pictures,
when you draped in the future under the guise of Donatello and Michelangelo,
and it was still early.
What accounts will be keeping a closer eye, blurring
your tortured biography with deletions that are a minus?
Or do you hold a wing from above, while struggles for desasirte
with those stormy flapping,
with that little beast force exasperated with you resisted the cages of any ordinance,
injuries and penalties accrue only with patience strange?
Or you have not managed to enter and you can not come on to the exit?
I can not assume that you're sitting in your chair Van Gogh making another tough anteroom,
reviewing the holes in your story for the keys, as if they were
stamped with fire in your two hands, as if they were necessary
;
or agapanthus waits between celestial dream that you wake up in the morning rags,
facing the wall,
where a door had just a curtain walling and vanishes,
and turn your head and be unable to distinguish your poor belongings,
the low certainty to protect you every day. I can not stand
levels suspended from a reflection, cornered in the impossible.
I who gropes not find the slogan, or who forge
visions with the smoke exhaled from their own nightmares. Both
illusory veil to cover the gaps in your absence!
No, no more effort you make trying on bandages visible fog, do not try to dry myself
every tear with a breath of winter, do not try to whisper
with the crackling of the logs the old tunes.
You and I need more evidence that
thirst to know that somewhere gurgling groundwater.
We walked together so many years under these dreadful gleaming wheels waiting for a miracle!
Now wherever you are is the miracle:
that is "the land of nowhere, your true homeland."
There is the golden flower, the crown of light,
the secret heart of the jewel that your heart beats and lights up the darkness.
Do not look back.
rises, rises to lose sight of as the migration this autumn,
as bones that break up on the beach.
And olvídanos with broken crockery, calendars dead, shoes,
olvídanos tenderly, with such fervent obstinacy that you know, but olvídanos
, however much it costs you,
much we still hurts.

No. 15, the night drifting (1984)

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Cartographies of the Garden.


After his latest exhibition at the Instituto Cervantes in Manchester and Tokyo, Rufina Santana comes to Tenerife with a project intended for exhibition in the Circulo de Bellas Artes in the capital .

This "Mapping the Garden", ideal place where life is represented by organic forms, details of dead branches, leaves, fallen trees, and pools in connection with his previous project "Archaeology of the Garden" (2001).

Her work is in line most current painting and renovation of the landscape genre: Monet, Turner and German painting of Kandinsky and Nolde. Rufina Santana

A is interested in the mystical nature. The paintings, inspired by visits to various gardens Rufina Santana, is what the title of this exhibition "Cartographies of the Garden", "Cartography" in the plural. The paintings

describes a sensual nature, as appears each day at dawn and dusk, the landscape he lives. From the gardens naked "The Geria and Salinas in Lanzarote, the refinement of European botanic gardens or the silence of nature in the Zen temples of Japan.

is the first Rufina Santana fragments after the stroke with the intention to form an aerial map of the territory of his painting, where the plant, soil and water are represented in timeless and dynamic coexistence through images, which are macro and microcosmic while .

Brushstrokes sometimes become academic, since ocher surface can be filled with different shades of yellow-green, purple ... so the brush marks their lives with spontaneous spots wisely exploited by the author.

Rufina Santana says of his work:

"Lights and shadows of nature are more striking than one might imagine when I paint from memory of my trips. " "I always start with random spots, thinking or remembering moments of enjoyment, in nature." "My eyes behold the landscape and on the canvas represent the changes, the sequences of light, shadows caressing the mountains, where flowers are born, the logs bent, leaning over the water." "I want to explore nature and how it can serve as a reflection."


On one side is the structure of the landscape, hence the name "map", and secondly the mystique of the action of light and, therefore, the color on the landscape. This is a work-based paint color coats. Each group arising from random spots and nature takes over branches, leaves and puddles scenarios arise by chance a great beauty in chaos.

Chaos and Order. Stations such as births and changes that speak of vital networks. Fragility of existence, in constant vibration. Strength and endurance of a changing nature. Layer upon layer, the paint is fixing the memory of the observed.

"Beauty is in the most unexpected places and gives us not only to be discovered, but to be deeply contemplative." Says the author.

stroll through the garden of Rufina Santana is quiet and the act of painting: pure feeling.

Written-communication study. RS

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Somewhere in the great unfinished wall is the door that opened that

and casts its shadow on the implacable guardian setback all your destination.
It's just a closed door on behalf of chance,
but has the color of inclement
and resembles a tombstone on which is impossible at every turn. Perhaps now
squeak with a unique melody to the ear of your past, perhaps
shine like burnished gold an idol of the ashes of farewell, perhaps
each night is about to open in the end wall of the same dream
and his midas power against your bonds as an unhappy Ulysses.
It is just a hoax,
a fable of the wind through the interstices of a false story refractions
Waste arising from oblivion when it borders on nostalgia. That door
not open to any return;
mold bears no intact under the pale ray of absence.
not back then and who at the wrong end of a journey, each step
wrong mirror you
subtracted the world discovered the place where he lost the key and exchanged for a confusing name, the slogan.
Does each step you took did not change, as in a chess
the secret relationship of the parts that mapped the whole game?
Stay away then with your gift of scorched earth, your chest
embers turned into stones of atonement
do not turn your other precarious wilderness havens in exile,
it also also be one day the wall and longing. That door is
lead sentence, not question.
If you get through, find
back, one after another, the doors of your choice.

No. 14, the night drifting (1984)

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Behind that door is not changed and other rare substance

My grandmother was a white witch who inherited an altar in every stone of the Druids officiated half
where the white moon ceremonies .
He lit the lamps of a puff embroidered
the most beautiful stories with longer strands and evaporated
winter witch with just an orange peel without fear.
His world was a beacon lit
thunderbolts that distance from the eye kept fearful of camphor and naphthalene.
Devan Hanks charms in the dark castle towers
and put in his bunker, in the form of a golden tresses,
alongside portraits of unseen
and slow, fervent plumage of the legend and patience .
With his eyes water to be dissolved diseases such as fire flowers, lace
as snow,
and saved many souls from hell living and the dead
quietly haggling with the Saints until dawn.
It was a garden with his gentle courtship of birds, crazy and goblins. They announced
dogs.
When it rains leave me a steaming tea and a sprig of lavender.

My mother was a queen who has traded its domains on earth for a lot in the sky,
a small place for re-erection of the house and family.
will have fulfilled the covenant, because he had the gift to comply with and enforce all the way,
like a burn, the law of the word.
was as majestic as a cathedral and more heroic than any wall height
but changed according to the occasion, sweet or solemn,
like archangels. To back the shadows
ambushes, hungry packs, halving
bridges and nights with your hands so soft. Mastered
poisonous weeds just rubbing them with his toe,
discovered secret to the light bubbles on the bottom of streams and swamps,
and away the masks with stormy eyes as if drawing back a curtain.
returned many times from the edge of death, only to wrap.
It was for a very long way away
and, taking all the sun, a mountain.
Every night caress my head, tears the darkness and the tears dry.

My father was an infidel magician king quellegó to our south along the other side of the star.
came from sea to sea, from an island
intersected earthquakes, dynasties and winds,
and founded a colony of secret longings and treacherous salt that absorbs a díua
and one day the greedy sand.
His hands were not made to grab;
hands were palms up miracle offering, the pearl of the hopeful and destitute.
His senses as smart as the luminaries of forests
pagan and was able to convert a room suddenly enlugato in a ballroom,
a red apple on the summer's most coveted trophy, but had
under your skin and behind blue sparks of laughter a distant
brin, something like a hidden vocation of absence.
disease tied it with invincible ties to a stationary enclosure.
I've seen in Agrigento, in Jupiter's torso down between Greek columns.
He went with the tide, like a drowning man who is carried to shore.
It brings the dawn lit flares and a handful of almonds.

They return and take their places next to these windows, this table, this bed;
back with big chunks of walls and furniture and landscape and build dissolved
scenarios interspersed with strangers over the years.

have changed and are not limited to:
shared with me the brilliance and scratches on this side.
have changed and are not limited to: an opaque
moth, a falling object, the branch hitting the glass, this cold
running down my face.
may try as I venture to violate the time
to mix the cards of the present, future and past.
have not changed and are different.
not wax museum memory.

No. 13, the night drifting (1984)

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My species is not water or fire or air or land only, but when I set
the samples I know with rusty pins.
But from my side and
odd times and in those days when you open the lid of the moment and is distinguished background
if I tear my thick layer and leave me in the dark without the protection of my name,
see that I belong to this strange family of transparent metamorphosis, incomplete
that order is set to a color like salt in the world
or take the form of that it contains, and is a key
well as an absence.
Just a word suddenly penetrate my side by side, especially if
forever, especially if ever, or perhaps, or too much,
to be printed as a burn to the basement of my anatomy.
Because that's my substance: an animal hiding in the woods,
incorporating fingerprints, smoke and soles for the grass that runs between your teeth.
I devoured the landscape, each piece of instant eternity, with my own food. I copied
views are closer to me that my eyes, burning like
images inlaid glass in a wound.
treasure It is not by begging upon dark splendor of avaricious counts. For communions
exposure,
by vocation and caress attachment even in the face goodbye, goodbye to impossible, let me invade
for things as remote as a country I've never been, that as I
I am a tattoo look red, ranging
bluff on a platform which is enveloped by fog my destiny,
a door ajar for a blast that blows cold makes me breath,
almost anyone.
But it never be complete; not appear Length achievement.
And what consist this unfinished nature
constantly veering into other highlights, other borders and other permanence?
What could be my kingdom in this mixture, under this inexhaustible propensity
that encompasses much more than weeds, feathers and stones changing?
Perhaps the kingdom of the lost unity between shadows, the kingdom
absorbed from the nostalgia me first and the last breath.

No. 12, the night drifting (1984)

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Yard


In Barcelona, \u200b\u200bnear the pond. Patio
University.
In April, oranges like raindrops on the trees lit. I see the philosopher
Emilio Lledó chatting with Antonio Gonzalez.
Sitting on the stone bench, notebook in hand, I draw sketches for a new project.
Daffodils, students and teachers reflected in its waters.

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philosophers

And I, like you write as if you were my favorite notebook, as if you were the person who accompanies me on this trip ...... .......
Garden Walk and meditate, and you are the role or the canvas on which to paint ...
I see your pictures, I read your post and feel Inspiration ....
Thanks for being here as a rock, winding water, air,
in the flame is not extinguished ...
You and I, on the lawn of two banks.

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Two Shores Garden on the Isle of RTVE Graciosa.Programa "The Green Beetle" Animals in Tenerife

http://www.rtve.es/alacarta/index.html # 384981

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"Boots with laces, Vincent van Gogh

. Are
two strange fossil, a shadowy emissaries
buried in a forest fauna coal
coming to claim a mite of light for your dead?
Are idols of stone, rubble
detached from the mill of the saddest dreams? Or are
iron molds
steps to forge the image of martyrdom and likeness of penance?
.
Are your old boots, unfortunate Vincent,
bespoke a deep interior, such as orthopedics in exile;
two slices of torment bitumen hardened by poverty,
embalmed by drizzle sour
with some loose ties weave only with homelessness loneliness, but with hard
buttresses to be meager the game of fate,
to corral you into the wall round the crows.
.
But are your boots, perfect in its kind of asylum,
tie models for each burst of hallucinatory journey,
faithful as your chair, your eyes and your Bible. Clinging to you like
fatal claws from plants to the ankles, Groot Zundert
from the inn of hell just end
is useless to want to bury your roots in a house buried under the debris, the mud
burnished brightness candles and the intimate warmth of the potatoes,
because time and again faced with the edge of mayhem,
because time and again the waterspout sucks up who do not understand: your flight
evaded a blue vertigo, like a crater of fire.
. Boots
trench, helpless in the battle of the storm and the soul:
you have turned in all of heaven
vortices and have fallen into the trap of your fire hidden under fire in the fields,
without ever finding a way out ,
for more fans to trample the flowers and bees buzzing yellow suns
those furious scream deafeningly against your ear, so distant, lost as a pale
hostage among the clouds of another world.
. Boots
court groping in the night of the scaffold, with no other
glow ripped some poor flint flashes of madness,
among which is a bird shot in the middle of your flight:
the strange, remote target of a black ad above. Echo
coffin stumbling up the stairs to the bedside hesitate
where incredible rush visions glass, cracked by a bullet
the barren universe,
and drop to slow shake the dust storm balance attached to their soles.
.
now sniff the blanket of ivy that covers your dream with Theo,
there in the irreversible Auvers-sur-Oise,
and dig another grave among the scaffolds the vast darkness.
are boots goodbye forever and ever, hungry funeral:
are searched in the memory of your death.
,
,

No. 11 of the night drift (1984)

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birds in the streets of Dakar to return to the Garden will make more free?

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The red man is on, press and wait for the green. Maori