Pit stop with both
Fluid and Liquid support,
the pressure’s on.

The Illusions of the Track
left behind by the speed:
just a step and they’re gone.

We take breaks and excuses
after the absorption of learning
and surround ourselves with
that which gives us yearning.

Influenced by the Zone
we anchor to the beat
and break a bone.

Sorrowful is the season
when we are supposed to celebrate,
for the deceit surrounds us
and there is not a honest debate.

Instead there’s some sacred figures
and repeated dramas,
actively seeking to catch us
and bring forth traumas
and get us to act
and to produce culture,
biased schemas from where
the Egregores nurture,

and when we realize it
it is already too late,
for the Fact is done
and our chance turns
from slime to none.

I.

The “liquid spark” awaiting for Ignition,
but the process could’ve been damned past Immersion;

The laid-back succession of dim lights
follows a pattern of shallow secession.

With pride we overcame all
untill we found illuminations,
we were already handicaped;

In hind-sight there was no far-sight all along,
only a broken perspective, already ruined and sabotaged.

The nostalgia of the past hits hard,
already in evocation of deep warmth back then;
but only persisted the longing and constant suffering,
“if not now, then when?”

II.

Being short-sighted
and not only
from your bad eye;

the impulsiveness
stains the destiny
with unforseen dye.

Wandering in strange deafness,
not knowing the difference
between to listen and to hear;

the days are so dimlight-bright
when you fake a smile
which goes from ear to ear.

Sometimes the consequence of a lie
is the repression of a tear.

The rebellious nature,
whose behaviour stems
on the Will to defy,
has fallen from the heavens
and abides to the possibility
to bring back the Sky.

In order to do so,
it must overcome
the horrifying fear
which is to lose
that which one holds
most precious and dear:

To be willing to say good-bye
at the end of each year…

La energía volitiva
está muy mermada,
¿en qué será empleada?

Volver a darle un sitio
a las extrañas cosas
podrá manifestar
otra vez las rosas,
pero no prestar atención
a lo que se transforma
manipulando el espacio
gestará otras fosas.

Incremento del apetito
al devorar alimentos:
consumimos animales
pa’ recuperar los alientos.

Y, después del consumo,
la recocha y la fatiga
enervan incluso más
a la preciada energía.

A paso de tortuga se retorna a la marcha,
y es mucho mejor que no emprenderla.
Así, a un paso a la vez,
avanzamos a la meta
para tener causas que celebrar
y no volver a reprenderla.

Todo esto y mucho más
le acontece a Mr. Anhedonio
en el oscuro y frío plenilunio.

Seductivo saboteo,
interceptando la comunicación.

Alterando los registros:
poderosa sensación.

El silencio esperado,
deseado y anhelado…

Parlanchín rico y sentado,
muy pronto aniquilado…

An odorous scent
and not of the pleasant kind:
from the source that swells
as base under symbolic disguise.

New set of trials
with striving permutations
that bring back memories,
ever present lamentations,

just like the scent that dwells
and the stench that does not suffice:
smelling through the essence of histories
the nose can lead to truthful revelations.

In baroque ornamentations
and vengeful sensations
the chromatic aberrations
shape their twist manifestations.

Lines of bland style
and drastic contrast
express the classic mile
from a recurrent past.

And through perennial conflict
there’s a sucession of both events,
in which either gets a wound inflict
by a constant shift of cause and effects.

Pieces of fragments
turning to dust
in a constant shattering
by our thought’s action,
of that reasonable deed
that disturbs the images,
representations of what’s real.

It don’t matter how things end
because their corpse isn’t even cold
when we twist around our memories
only to fit an ongoing narrative,
and then, facing a new demise,
procrastination becomes king of the dance
and so on the final rest is left undone.

Echoes that pierce into us
caused by our own ripples
still produce new waves,
thou they be unnoticed.

And it’s pointless to pretend
that things have a meaning
only when they find an end:
maybe it’d be more corageous
to just say No and put and end to it.

Such shame when there is loss
either of time or of grain
due to a crescent moss
or the toxicity of the rain.

Drops of different density
destroy the deployed destiny.
Enter the entelequial entity,
exit the existential en-query.

Eventually the Eternal Enmity
explodes in extemporary ecstasy,
defeating the disturbing dynasty
that dwell in dodecahedric dynamic.

But still, there was a loss
and another effort goes down the drain:
and in the pipes now a growing moss
covers up the unused grain.