miércoles, 1 de abril de 2015

sábado, 14 de marzo de 2015


a short novel


    The caguama; that unbearable & strength, concentration and empty; were full of rage, bottles filled with oil, magna gasoline, and the civil news in all screens of cellphones and laptops, they have cut all lines of communication, the antennas had been blocked, a brownout is enough; occupy the gas stations that are not flooded; try to walk by streets where death does not catch you. Outside the bar, the cold beer was guard by the commune, the noise of  fires & ashes on burning roofs, tens of men, woman and  orphans, makeshift camps outside the bar, they have arrived with hangover & molotovs of sand, glass, pieces of metal; release valves that emerge gracefully in their heavy hands; all blast bleeding, emanating from those bottles, the black threshold intoxicates us in a strongly way, here I am with my beer and mexcal, I am the invisible night waiter who serves to street traders and other dispossessed, there was a prediction that hell will evaporate with the river; near here not too far on a road beside towns, another contingent  burned the oil and gas pipelines  passing through a vast pasture lands, who belong to some politicians, everything  was reduced to a hellish barbecue, they were long and grotesque zebu skulls, long beard, ivory beasts in flames were dying embers of the grass that sustained life.

     The roads are flooded and under siege by boats from the marina, leaden helicopters and mud soldiers, sweaty masses sheltering the imprisoned wall water, they afraid to shoot; only 001%... Top way downtown, high above the city, the clients of the bar roared; we are the generation of intellectual laziness and unemployment they have been claimed; suicidal discontented marching from dawn to their own holocaust.

    There are no more commanders and generals in this land as before, said the wise old men; I mean from the old days, with machete and a gun, huaraches & a blanket hat. We are exiled from time, from underground slums & saturated salty lemons; we are wind; dust, ash, coal.

    The caguama; so unbearable & strength, dropped itself to the wet ground, succumbed in their natural sound of gentle aroma and bitter essence, a clot should go swimming still on my head, I feel the pressure and dull atmosphere; heavy as seeing blood; violently the truck stopped when my soul as unsuspecting deer was hit directly to the pavement; calcium; skeleton, teeth, skull, everything vibrated as a bad chord of a hard drum, my eyes went out, they run like fog, I do not recall having dealt with the driver, or perhaps quickly he just ran away when he saw me lying face down on the street and left me; maybe thinking that I was dead. I guess so I do not know, I do not remember. But it's what they told me later.

      The tremendous concentration of alcohol in my blood was already burned fuel to my feet that respondents to take me back to my dwelling place and origin, accidents come and go, surely death with his watch in hand & empty jar, was grudgingly expecting for me to serve him/her from the cold caguama.  Lend me for a moment some of your breath just to be stand. Bile my mouth, my dry esophagus and the fresh petting of stored solvent; open the canteen, that is just I'm thinking about, although this optical illusions whose play around me; delirium tremens tenderness.

      After a stack of beer cartons as my room bed; humidity walls near the river, that who sleep and threat to spill; the bottle rolled, sweeping the cockroaches awakening them from their sacred lethargy, lying drunk on my aglow salty sweat; sacred foam, saliva and delicacy to them, they slip away of my shadow when the caguama roll; die & fall without breaking in its harmonious architecture; white & uniform walls reflected the box. Little by little I'm infected. All mosquitoes have satisfied from me. Then they will die.

By mexcalero… 

jueves, 20 de noviembre de 2014

Postal ZerO Peace & Revolution

the Bloody Tunas land

     First put some of your favorite warfare tune; welcome bats to mexcalcountry, there was once a upon a time in Tenochtitlan; sacred nopal, sacred bloody prickly pears, old gods of stone & human hearts, under the obsidian knife; red cosmogony of living universe use to rule those acts of sacrifices to complete the whole circle of infinity life just to reborn continually; we are sons of just another sacred humanity that had preceded us & refuse to die. 

    Then we were fucked by Spain & pirates, but shit, like I said we just reborn, some of us are a medley of many indigenous & occidental races. The rest is just history, perhaps by 1910 the journalism John Kenneth Turner wrote in Mexico Barbaro, months before of the Mexican Revolution, Yaquis & Mayas were enslaved on henequen plantations; their bodies, sick or weak even alive, were just throw out to the crocodiles; he visited many of them in Yucatan; brutal times that had had not changed at all; every event of brutality and violation of human rights from this pig dictatorshit in order of hashtags if you wanna research on twitter, my beloved reader, this new panorama:
#Mireles #Atenco #AguasBlancas, #Acteal #GuarderiaABC #Tlatlaya  and more recently made #Ayotzinapa #AccionGlobalporAyotzinapa

#GlobalActionforAytizinapa are a few; people are just tired of the swine narcopolitic system of these bastards. 
    Thousands in our cities & many other cities around the world, are marching day & night; tears of rage, #YaMeCanse #RenunciaEPN  shots of dusts, hordes of campesinos de maiz, riders of tha moon, long live #Atenco #Revolution with this peacefull machete, spirit of  #Zapata saludos hermanos del mundo  please follow the hashtag:
#20NovMx and the others . . .

viernes, 26 de septiembre de 2014

Heart Cerezo with Benedetti mexclado

with shelter, looking at your eye
heart of tha seed ,,,

- mxcalero


Something of Benedetti


sangre y perfume

sangre y perfume
aprendiz de nahual
3 times 3
those cruces are swimming but the fingerlings romp,
the feathers that flourished were from canaries miners,
nothing more 3 fingerlings 3
pens and clouds
hell raising  on midday sun
3 heart
lagarto blood,
 3 blue deer
3  fingerling.

Retrato, Pintura
Corazon entre Tres Alevines
Mixta on Warro
50 x 70 cms.

martes, 23 de septiembre de 2014

Candies for flies

candies for  flies (remaztered)

You most fly away…so fucking far away

There no promises here

, even love…

I smell your ether pheromone
Like bitch monochrome
…sugar skin

Those flies

it´s time to come back...
come baby into my teeth & ties
in my house of flies
through dead skin,
because this heart hurts me like a sweet knife
crimson blood
into the flesh and very deep in my bones
just liking madness on the dirty floor...
... that piece of human being...

You most fly away…so far away

There no promises here

even love…

we have to eat your flesh and blood

I know there’s a promised land but is not here…not in this crap

 candies for maggots please...

sábado, 10 de mayo de 2014

miércoles, 19 de febrero de 2014

The last shot of Gonzo

The last shot of Gonzo 

The curse of; 

Hunter Stockton Thompson  18 July 1937 - 20 February 2005

"They're gonna make it look like suicide"
"I know how those bastards think."

The last shot of Gonzo
The curse of;

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!”
     The last shot of  Dr. Gonzo against that old skull, full of acid, a tired man, tired of every political shit that was happening, Nixon same motherfucker as Bush, the Christian intifada, the depression, the old savage shark, the violent teeth, the true words, too many cigarettes, too many acid, too many mexcaline, too many ether, too many is not too much when paranoia turns up; homicide?, suicide? Whatever, he was living from the old days, found his own edge, the torment in all that neurotransmitters, a tough drug warrior, those things that just is like the caffeine to us in mornings, a true rebel that let us a legacy to all of us that cover up with the flag for the free journalism, the other communication, but he maybe  ignored these things;  but passing years people look back to him, & remember  like he said that every time that we lit a cigarette in his honor, we most think like he did”, the internationalization of Gonzo, that stoned & subjective journalism against the classical politic view of Washington, that main enemy who  in these days it’s a political bloody  shit that is already fucking nations & towns all around the globe, that was the same savage beast that Gonzo was already hunting, he felt that he lost that battle, but not the war, cause we are here like a damn echo, stones that screw in the system shoe, all this insane fuckers whose before him & then him we just choose those paths of revelation & true, at least for the living of a good society, but maybe the real fight where every man & woman, children; those  that just not belong to the conventional thoughts, this failed beast system, so if we are in this ride of awareness fight, break the ticket, meanwhile take a mescal with orange & ginger beer, with your favorite drug meal, cause there is a long road to keep writing;  “Sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whiskey and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind but falling in love and not getting arrested.”