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.”  

martes, 17 de diciembre de 2013

Fire Country

(A drum to Magdalena )

Dragging rocks,
bare feet without direction,
when rivers overflow fire,
there is no more that run,
take the speed of the wind, biting dust,
breathing by cracked gums
running gullies under the night.
Breezes are not strange and the beautiful rubies,
beautiful as the yinns
walk through the halls of Bethlehem, alley of whores,
always remembering to bring flowers to Magdalena,
 because Mammon aspires to eat it,
bifid tongue on your thighs;
perennial hips of myrrh and wine,
horns of plenty have sheltered it;
elephants and camels loaded travelers, long lines of  gold traders
 things that involving weapons and money are full of blood.
One day will survive flies; and with them the nightmares,
but what gnawing the flies nothing just but the dust or the bones?
the same cassette of endless delirium and sadness, is repeated over and over again,
pregnant daughters of larvae will copulate in your flesh, as necrophilia lover which is;
all pregnant of the same color.

Dead steppe, mothers elephants,
 feet of clay and memories with smell of strange roses,
sunk in the mud flies.
When you go down from the hill with your donkey loaded with firewood, in the cold night,
rent for yourself some shelter, add color to your ocher traces
when get flooded those carboniferous fire wings
hovering since you left and you come home
giraffes winged;
winged giraffes at sunset ...
during the rain fire in the low plain of Palestine;
salt cocoons of Jerusalem
remember to give her flowers to Magdalena,
dressed in linen and silk,
a refuge from bombs, an improvised and beautiful brothel,
remember, gold coins and wild flowers to Magdalena,
and your tongue will vibrate to the pulse of her belly,
to not trade the Kalashnikov,
and you keep playing in war your old drum rom pom pom pom,
with sad eyes christmas shepherd;
in that your hard loneliness, food by demon nations. Resist.