I would like to go to sleep and never wake up. That would be really cool.
because of lack of sleep and excessive lukewarm feelings I turn to you, facing the wall, asking you to sing me a song. it is too late in the night to have anywhere to go. I am too sober. my fingerprints are soaked in. you never respond. I have very little to say. I want my fingers to talk on your skin. I know how but you don’t let me do how.
I haven’t met a whore with a penis ‘til you came my way. gosh,
I beg you to put me away. how stupid is it. this is.
calm me down. there are voices in this background of words you will never understand.
you have been the only one.
I am not complaining to my friends. my new lover is in my bathtub. but it’s your bathwater that I have always wanted to drink.
let me do sick. because this is why i want to be. writing.
It’s this heat that cooks my thoughts slowly in their own flesh container. It’s this heat that keeps me thinking. It’s the constant noise of the fan spinning. It’s the paranoia of hear footsteps approaching where I am lying, knowing that I’m alone. It’s the belief that hideous insects climb up my bare legs to my scrotum. It’s having to move continually seeking the better posture. It’s the act of smoking one cigarette after another reluctantly, just to do something. It’s the boredom stamped on my face. It’s the silence of the dawn that absorbs me. It’s the darkness that surrounds me, inventing ghostly figures who threaten me and tell me things. It’s the vintage smell of dead people that I think they’re looking at me. It’s the neighbor banging his head against the wall looking for an outlet for his daily unreality. It’s the blood that falls from my open wounds. It’s the thirst that torments me off but I can’t go to the kitchen. It’s Michael Landon acting like a heavenly angel while cancer eats him inside. It’s the abstinence syndrome of many things. It’s the lack of concentration and divine inspiration. It’s the image in my brain of a murder happened years ago and a couple of deaths in the nearest time. It’s the torrid summer hugging me with its sweaty arms. It’s miss. It’s the hunger that shrinks my stomach. It’s the steady rhythm of my blood sweat. It’s the quiet that precedes the tragedy. It’s the dream that overcomes me. It’s the revenge of my worst acts. It’s the anger for not remember who I am, not knowing what I am, not being able to be me. It’s the pen trembles in my hands. It’s the coal that slides unsafe by the paper. It’s another failed experiment. It’s you talking to me. It’s my voice that answered. It’s this infinite sky for which I want to disappear. It’s trying to do something and not be able. It’s saying that tomorrow is another day and leave everything behind. It’s close your eyes and sleep without dreaming. It’s another night in which I try to reach the pear shaped moon. It’s another night. It’s resign myself. It’s me.
last modified 1999-06-15 23:54:24
Baldr (also Balder, Baldur) is a god of light and purity in Norse mythology, and a son of the god Odin and the goddess Frigga. He has numerous brothers, such as Thor, Váli and Hodr.
He was loved by both gods and men and was considered to be the best of the gods. He had a good character, was friendly, wise and eloquent, although he had little power.
Most of the stories about Balder concern his death. He had been dreaming about his death, so Frigga extracted an oath from every creature, object and force in nature, that they would never harm Balder. The malicious trickster, Loki, who was jealous of Balder, changed his appearance and asked Frigga if there was absolutely nothing that could harm the god of light. Frigga, suspecting nothing, answered that there was just one thing: a small tree in the west that was called mistletoe. Loki immediately left for the west and returned with the mistletoe. He tricked Balder’s blind twin brother Hodr into throwing a mistletoe fig (dart) at Balder. Not knowing what he did, Hodr threw the fig, guided by Loki’s aim. Pierced through the heart, Balder fell dead. (picture)
An ash I know there stands,
Yggdrasill is its name,
a tall tree, showered
with shining loam.
From there come the dews
that drop in the valleys.
It stands forever green over
(picture: The Ash Yggdrasil by Friedrich Wilhelm Heine)