Maisa

voice sung the well missed stranger for a visit

Voice of the Voice

voice of the voice speaking

wanting to say something about missing

another human being

that woman was like my soul when we lived close to each others, and her home was my home. actually, I was at home whenever she was by my side. in my memories I see her in the darkest corners of neon lit clubs, being there only for me. but when she danced, my. she woke everyone up from whatever dream they were in.

when she was released into the wilderness, that being the parks and streets of a city lit by the midnight sun, she was whatever she wanted. a lion, a boy from the middle ages. damn, she was happy to be whatever, and for that reason, she was everything. at least for me.

no need to tell any story about why she has left the city. she's ok.

“hello, charlie.”

“I have no idea where that name comes from. I'm sorry for my name. If I knew what my parents were thinking, I'd know the reason for my name and maybe some other reasons, too. ”

a heart skips a beat somewhere in space. whose, can't really tell. might have been mine, I guess, for the music played inside this squat I'm in bounces back from the walls in a bit too space twisting manner. damn, did I just say something?

“you don't need to be sorry for your name.”

“yeah I know. just wanted to let you know I am.”

“are you ok?”

“I'm pining.”

Pussy Stone

 

“I can't remember my name.” 

“charlie. I want to tell you something. ” 

“charlie. go ahead, tell me something.” 

“I can imagine there being people deemed roman, from the empire, who climbed up north to central europe, penetrating like men to the lands unknown for their kind. and you know what they found intriguing in the fine ladies they met?” 

“fine ladies...” 

“they saw these ladies all over the countryside and even in the cities eating the finest cheese ever seen like it was candy. like our candy today, don't know what their metaphor of choice would've been. and the fine ladies of a certain country were told to have hands with white nail tips like the wings of an angel.” 

“I know this one. and so was born french manicure. ” 

“yeah french manicure.” 

“this reminds me of a time, a time my father used to speak about. being stationed in france, back in the WWI. imagine all those all american boys fighting against whatever for the greater good of humanity. those sweet milk and honey boys with no idea about how depraved a land europe was, and how their ancestors had run away from just that sinful chaos of liberation...”

“finding innocence from a battle field is like finding a straight drag queen from here.”
“I never really understood it before, but now I see that war being a trigger for something beautiful. the 1920s.”

“I've missed you, charlie.” 

Every Iota

 

some time ago I sat on sofa with a form lost a decade ago, sofa placed to the darkest corner of the windowless downstairs of a club. next to me a group of kids had been quiet for a moment, and I guess that sparked the girl dressed all in black to try to wipe the floor with the speaker above her by throwing a joke in the air.

“you know how old people go and sit around in parks and feed pigeons with bread? or whatever birds. yeah they do that. and old people are much smarter than we are, they've been here longer and already know there's no point to try to rebel or whatever, so I guess some of them have come up with the best method to say fuck you you stupid kids with everything stupid you hold important. I throw your so called food to birds. they know how to metabolize it, and we don't. and boy do I know.”

and so the creatures of the night spread all over in confusion, a couple of them ending up after days of wandering to the national library, hiding behind thick selves during the early morning hours while studying a couple of books nicknamed as consciousness bibles. whispers were heard by no one.

“it says here that sleep laboratory studies have confirmed that lucid dreaming takes place during REM sleep, so when I can just spin off from an awaken state into a dream and remain conscious that's like a quantum leap, right?”

“girl, you're a bit more than an atom.” 

“more than the amount of my every iota.”

“besides, you see dreams in other phases of sleep, too. I'm reading about consciousness in regards to so called inner speech, and the guy is actually thinking, well hear this, consciousness partially consists of a silent running verbal commentary describing one's current perceptual, sensory, motor, cognitive and emotional experiences. this activity of talking to oneself in silence is called inner speech and it is part of the wider process of intrapersonal communication, which also includes mental imagery. inner speech occupies a significant portion of consciousness, as people report that approximately one fourth of their conscious waking life involves silent verbal thinking.” 

 “what, are most people most of the time in silent space? is it really silent in space?”

this internet has in the past hinted to the direction of a certain group of looters. these kids have a keen eye for every moment, and they work in the sphere of acceptable morality by only going treasure hunting to public parks after drunken fiestas and into abandoned real estate. abandoned real property, some say.

one thing that people like this sure know how to do is directing the excitement of finding a valuable into turning that valuable inside out. so, well, it doesn't really make sense that a leather handbag found from an abandoned decaying house in the middle of nowhere had old currency in it for a couple of months without its new owner never noticing. 

well, fuck sense. back in the library one more sentence was mumbled.

“I am going to find out whether dinosaurs were conscious or not.”

Contra poem

when you whispered into my ear

that time has never nor will ever

truly exist I became a little crazy

or then maybe it is just the lights

flashing and there being nothing

to call a tomorrow on my hands

just a gray area becoming more

and more sweeping in its reach

as almost taking over yesterday

when you were sleeping here in

my bed which you now want to

take away just because it would

make your metaphysical system

work like wonder in the eyes of

some random beholder in some

even more random future that I

think is not even possible given

the premises you have signed as

being okay and please don't take

this personally but I think you're

not going anywhere without me

for I am the key to all that keeps

you awake at night while others

deemed ignorant call out names

of demons to gain confidence in

order to approach someone who

they in some deep level do hope

to love in the same poetical way

that I as a simple little twat have

always and will always love you

enough? not quite for there's something else
I want to tell you so please dont hang up on
me for I know that just a second would pass
and you would already regret it like one can
be imagined to regret a suicide after nothing
is solved but instead everything deemed evil
just continues to bother a poor soul and what
I imagine is that the agony goes on in a place
somewhere without our lovely time and space

I am sorry
for I think
this looks
pretty bad
like as if I
might start
a dive from

the edge of

my mind to
a pit which

is not to be

glamorized

even by the

best of our

playwrights

just give me a sec to
catch my breath and
I will speak out that
which made me call
you at oh my is it 3?

oooshhhhshhoohhhh

what I wanted to say was that I know this is a small piece of eternity
and I have finally become humble in front of it and thus am ready to
acknowledge it to be ok for you to live your life in the way you will
live it and there is really nothing I have to say about the choices that
you have or are to make because I know there isn't anything I can or
even would wish to change with my poor judgment which is mostly
motivated by fears that I have picked up along my long path to have
as a stupid fucking souvenir from this life of chaos that I've chosen
to live for the past whatever years and you know how I am and how
all my actions are motivated by my stupid idea about objective truth
lingering there somewhere beyond the reach of any mind that is best
described as being a confused drunk retarded blind navigator with an
absolutely disproportionate ego that keeps on screaming at every turn
about its opinions on how to reach pleasure and to avoid pain but now
I truly have understood that there is no pleasure or pain but qualitative
experiences that I as an independent experiencer can give the meaning
I wish to and to take stress from the actions of others is nothing but me
chewing my own tongue so please do go to sleep and do what you will

Asses of Sassari

through a pitch black night a car races through unlit highways, reaching in speed 200 km per hour. this is happening in an island of africa, where roads either curl around houses built way before any motor vehicle had seen the light of day, or connect distant villages built high up on mountains through valleys that separate them. techno is present inside this speeder of ours, almost riding over in volume the sounds that the motor is forced to produce.

on the backseat a girl sits stuffed inside a black rain coat. she knows fear is not appropriate when facing speed, so instead she gives her life to so called higher hands in order to relax. tricking her mind, if you will, like in thinking that she will never be as sure as now that death would wipe her out as happy as possible, given her brain playing the e note. 

going fast through darkness is pretty much what everything in space does, but one does not really grasp it before sitting on the backseat of a car. from the front seat one can see well all that is within the range of the headlights, something not nearly as obscure as the light of distant stars blocked momentarily from the eyes hidden in the backseat by random trees or buildings passed. 

all in all, a great situation to turn inward and dive into the internal space from which one rarely brings back anything tangible. and so went the night hours.

internal space ended when the sun began its rise, and it was just a bit before six am when the car pulled up by a field squeezed between three high hills.

"why did we stop?"

"you remember when I told you about antonio, the guy I went to the same school with as a kid? his father lives here."

"oh yeah?"

"yes. me and pino thought this would be a good thing for you to see. see those donkeys over there? there's seven of them and they're owned by the father of antonio. every morning he comes down here and takes one of the donkeys to go up that hill with him for the day. you know he's over 80 years old?"

"why does he go up the hill with the donkeys?"

"so that the donkeys could see the view, of course."

"does he have like monday tuesday wednesday thursday donkey, you know do they all have their own day, or does he have a favorite donkey that gets to go up with him more often?"

"I don't know about that."

"why wont the other donkeys follow him when he goes off with just one of them?"

"I think they have food down there where they are now."

all fell silent for quite some time, and observed with no fuss the coming and going of the old man, who still at his eight decade possessed will enough to wake up before six am on a sunday morning to take one of his dear donkeys to see the sights. 

outside the car the light provided by the rising sun reflected from the moist gathered on the flora. the heat within the car had not told a word about the coldness of the night. the warrior on the front seat turned around to look at the girl in the back, and saw red cheeks glow as a bed for tired blue eyes. 

"you have beautiful eyes. you're half something, korean right?"

"sono mongoloide."

pino laughed out loud for a while and started the car. he drove through small sinuous roads rising high enough to see far into the valleys slowly beginning their daily sunbathe. living through a night always leads to a serene morning, serene for having a promise of existence after a long, lived period of darkness. all were dead tired inside our car. alas, it was a pity that the gas ran out after a brief scorch on the highway.

not a soul answered their phone at 7 am on a sunday morning, so the kids opted to take a long walk for the nearest gas station, a walk that was to be counted in hours. the girl wrapped around herself, walking few meters behind from the boys. she felt cold and weak, not the least for having just spandex covered legs. the sun was up already, but it had not yet warmed the ground shocked by the sweeping cold masses of air from the surrounding sea. after half an hour of walking by the small country roads, the kids stopped.

"I wanna tell you something, mongoloid girl. by the looks of your legs, you are a nomad, and so were they. but I do think they were a step further than you, for I think you have not tamed a horse. I remember hearing a story about a king who had a son, whom he was to show his kingdom to by riding together on a single horse for months. and so they did until they ran out of food and had no luck in hunting around the deep gobi.

when the king saw that his son was getting weak and loosing his grip on life, he took his knife and made a cut on the shoulder of their horse, who stood gracefully without creating a scene out of bleeding. the king took out his chalice, and filled it with the blood of the mongolian horse, which is a pony in european standards, but has double the stamina of our equines, I hear.

and so the son drank up. and made to become a hell of a king."

Porvoo

All Fiends

all fiends down there know;

that guy is one happy a fellow

since your girl has such a wild scent

she can turn bits of africa into cement

having a skin made soft with jojoba oil

she leaves behind an easily traceable foil

to sense her you only need to grab the phone

laws of physics can be bent with a single moan

maybe after experiencing a simultaneous climax

you know true heights lie beyond smoking smack

and, girls

here is some sex and the city programming;

find a man who loves you more than you love him