de vuelta en la bici
Tlazokamati Ometeotl

Si El Poeta Eres Tu

The kettle's on, the sun has gone
another day
She offers me Tibetan tea on a flower tray
She's at the door, she wants to score
She dearly needs to say



I loved you a long time ago
Where the wind's own forget-me-nots blow
But I just couldn't let myself go
not knowing what on earth there was to know.

But I wish that I had 'cause I'm feeling so sad
That I never had one of your children.

And across the room inside a tomb
a chance is waxed and wanes
The night is young, why are we so hung up
in each others chains
I must take her, I must make her
while the dove domains

and feel the juice run as she flies
run my wings under her sighs
as the flames of eternity rise
to lick us with the first born lash of dawn.

Oh really my dear I can't see what we fear
Sat here with ourselves in between us.

And at the door we can't say more
than just another day
and without a sound
I turn around
and I walked away

flagella

Slipping back into the mist
Sliding into ignominy
ether
and scum
Babel
Disbelieving anything everything I think of to explain myself
That’s rich – explain myself
If I don’t believe me, then who could or would?
pleasurable
i am not my mind remember then forget it all
surreptitiously
crept up and cut it off

As the hand held before the eye conceals the greatest mountain, so the little earthly life hides from the glance the enormous lights and mysteries of which the world is full, and he who can draw it away from before his eyes, as one draws away a hand, beholds a great shining of the inner worlds.

Rabbi Nachmann of Bratzlav

Lied vom Kindsein, Der Himmel uber Berlin

from "Dagon" by HP Lovevraft

It is at night, especially when the moon is gibbous and waning, that I see the thing. I tried morphine; but the drug has given only transient surcease, and has drawn me into its clutches as a hopeless slave. So now I am to end it all, having written a full account for the information or the contemptuous amusement of my fellow-men. Often I ask myself if it could not all have been a pure phantasm -- a mere freak of fever as I lay sun-stricken and raving in the open boat after my escape from the German man-of-war. This I ask myself, but ever does there come before me a hideously vivid vision in reply. I cannot think of the deep sea without shuddering at the nameless things that may at this very moment be crawling and floundering on its slimy bed, worshipping their ancient stone idols and carving their own detestable likenesses on submarine obelisks of water-soaked granite. I dream of a day when they may rise above the billows to drag down in their reeking talons the remnants of puny, war-exhausted mankind -- of a day when the land shall sink, and the dark ocean floor shall ascend amidst universal pandemonium.

The end is near. I hear a noise at the door, as of some immense slippery body lumbering against it. It shall not find me. God, that hand! The window! The window!

pondering ponderously

 But in his quiet chamber the pondering sage describes

Magical circles, and steals e'en on the formative spirit,

Tests the forces of matter, hatreds and loves of the magnet,

Follows the sound through the air, follows through ether the ray,

Seeks the familiar law 'mid the grim wonders of chance,

Seeks the immutable pole to the phenomena's flight.

B.N. John

intro to "The Restless Universe" by Max Born

lest

A gong farmer was the term used in Tudor England for a person employed to remove human excrement from privies and cesspits. Gong farmers were only allowed to work at night and the waste they collected had to be taken outside the city or town boundaries. They later became known as "night soil men" or "nightmen"

from "Margrave of the Marshes"

It was a real pleasure to feel again that feeling that comes only when a band is really hitting it right, when it seems as though some unseen hand is reaching right down inside you and dragging out all the hang-ups and inhibitions in there and flinging them away...Being an overemotional sort of twerp and being a dark, whirling mess of inhibitions myself, I was dancing quietly in the corner of the backstage area with tears streaming down my cheeks and an idiot grin on my face.

Father rarely spoke to us on matters of moment, preferring to leave health and welfare issues to Mother - who didn't speak to us about them either. However on this occasion we had travelled from Birkenhead to Neston on the bus and had missed the connecting bus to Burton so had no choice but to walk the three or four miles. Every step of the way Father spoke to Francis and I on the paramount importance of regular bowel movements and the damage that could be done to us both physically and spiritually if we failed to adhere to an appropiately rigorous regime in this area. I feel now that much of the wickedness that has emerged in me since that walk has been the result of my failure to follow Father's advice. 'Go when you want to go' has summed up my attitude to the whole untidy business and has been the advice I have given to our children when they have in turn sidled into my room, as sidle bewildered young persons will, to ask, 'Father dear, tell us about, you know, going to the lavatory.'

John Peel

it's been 2 months, 3weeks and 20hours since i last rode a bike
and over 11 years since i went more than a few days without riding, and then it was only due to illness, surgery or travel that i ever did. it's not that i'm too ill now, it's just that i don't have a complete bike in Wales, and no money to buy the missing parts, let alone go and retrieve what i'd need from Mexico and the US
"cyclist" has been how i've primarily defined myself for so long...who am i now?