The April 20th Pioneers present: A Poem.

I’ve got some green in my pocket

It smells of mischief and toil

I’ll hide my eyes if I taste it

I’ll make sure not to boil

My pocket hides little secrets

It glides away and revolves

Plays with shades and ideas

Swallows mountains and sloth

The circus comes at the distance

Drummers drum the drumming song

And while the Pik-a-Doo whistles

It flies and sings them “hello!”



I’ve got some green in my pocket

It twinkles, desires to be born

It plucks the hairs of its nostril

And calls for thunder and storm

I’ve seen the no-eyed hailing monsters

They wait for sailors to crash

And float their boats on the ocean

Sucking their innards till dry

This people don’t hear the stories

They believe the messengers lie

As green goblins sneak under toasters

And spoon-thieves Lindons give little cries



I’ve got some green in my pocket

And carnivals ride on wind waves

They came from the looking mirror

And now have upside-down heads

They say they’d stay if they let them

They want to feed us jellies and jams

From the one made with cucumber

To the ones made with salty hands.

The sirs put on hats that are ruthless

The ladies sing high octane tunes

The horses talk amongst horses

They think we can’t hear them, fools



I’ve got some green in my pocket

It calls for fire to scourge

I told it not to be nasty

And wait for minutes to burn

And travel far, off the distance

Into somebody else’s throne

It wants to visit magicians

And find the fiddler’s new bow

And wrestle with Swingle-Dwingles

Because their scaly and strong

It wants to walk on the lay-lows

And take the long way back home

Barbie Barbarie.

Barbie Barbarie

Barbie rabiosa.

Entre la selva, con una lanza.

Casi desnuda, desenplasticada.

Adora la luna y se da a la caza.

Se ha cortado las greñas para el camuflaje.

Se ha limpiado el culo con hojas de yagrumo.

Y ha fumado tanto que a veces come humo.

Come carne cruda para desayuno.

Barbie es shaman de su tribu y come hongos.

Habla con los dioses de la grama.

Le gusta dormir con diferentes mujeres.

Dependiendo de la semana.

No conoce las bodas ni las corvetas.

no es ni esposa ni modelo ni princesa.

no se afeita los sobacos ni come mayonesa.

Nunca tocará un bicho plastiquito con su lengua.

Barbie Barbarian (a literall translation)

Rabid Barbie.

Between the jungle, lance in hand.

Almost naked, unplasticized.

Worships the moon and hunts the land.

Her hair she cut as camouflage.

Her ass has been whipped with dispensed leaves.

And she has smoked to the extent she eats smoke.

Eats raw meat for breakfast.

Barbie is her tribe’s shaman and eats fungus.

Talks to the gods of the grass.

She likes to sleep with different women.

Depending on the week.

She knows nothing about weddings and corvettes.

Not a wife not a model or princess.

No shaving of her arm pits no eating mayonnaise.

Never will a plastic dickling be touched by her tongue.

Clouds: an on-going tale. (2)

Continuation (from October 12th post).






At headquarters:


Anyhow, the time-card has been punched as if this person is awake doing their job, guiding clouds towards the wind. Picking out which form each unique one will become. Yet they remain there, unmoved. Maybe they just went in a really long coffee break.



Cloud runners are always unpredictable, they are said to possess the highest creativity level permitted, this makes them dangerous but exciting to predict. Cloud-runners and Fractalians are the only ones permitted, if everyone was like them, there would be chaos. Well that’s what I’ve come to believe. If this world was run like clouds, nothing would ever get done.



I always thought clouds could be controlled by a bot-program. Will anyone really notice if they are a series of repeating patterns? People have more important things to do than look at the sky, we make sure of that. It’s our job.



The construction of everyday live has been our pride and joy ever since the conglomerate converged into one. We have designed every detail with our most talented and innovative personnel. Reality has never looked better. Even I surprise myself of our low error counts. Some days pass by without one single error! Those are our holidays.
Today was not one of those days. Since the Cloud-running department seems to have instituted a coup.



The sky surrogate was up and running as soon as we noticed the mishap; I only hope the damage is minimal.



Maybe someone noticed, maybe someone had time to breathe and look up. This someone will be put on notice. If there is a someone like this someone, we’ll make sure to get them busier. But that isn't my job, the memo is circulating around already, someone will get punished for the mistake, someone will work overtime without pay. That’s how it works. Slavery was a great idea; I still cringe when I hear the emancipation proclamation. I would have been good colleagues with Aristotle. Some people are just born to be leaders and others born to be whipped.


My job today, like every Wednesday is to create the monthly layout for the stock market. Dow goes up! GE goes down! Gold will be the ¨hot buy¨ for the first week of May. Simultaneously we are creating an underground cavern complex near Washington state, filled with the precious metal. A lucky archeologist will find it; he will die in a freak accident in a dig in Oaxaca in 2 years, 3 months and 17 days at exactly 9:57 a.m. eastern time. He will have no heirs. A monument will be created in his name at the base of the gold mine. Nobody will care or remember. The Boston Red Sox will win the world series that day and 298 fights will happen between New York and Boston fans during 11:07 p.m. to 5:46 a.m. Most of them will occur on Manhattan.



This is how we make our special associates rich. We raise gold, we create gold for them, play along in the game. They subsidy our ventures. My business is perfection. It’s every detail, constant control, every second is planned ahead. Always plan ahead, that’s the company’s motto.

Clouds: an on-going tale. (1)

She wrote.

Time is a series of binary codes, digit by digit, small pulses of energy that construct information. Time was measured in gold in 1944. Time is money. Time is what has passed and what will. Time is never enough. Time is an illusion. You are an illusion. We all are.

The world will end up without oxygen and nothing will ever rust again. Perhaps one day we will miss the rusty edges of a kitchen cabinet. Someday we may even miss tetanus.

I see the edges rust with glee. The microscopic war between molecules, I wonder what side I am on. I suggest we start embracing mosquitoes as a sign that there is still blood circulating in our vessels. There are explosions everywhere; we are the aftermath of an explosion… the most special kind of debris. I want to know if you’ve ever felt something burst inside you. But I refrain, you must have had an orgasm at your age, well it’s expected of you. I hope you have.

Prefer not to ask, in fear of an unexpected response; I turn my cheek towards the saints. Statues clothed in every color available to the eye to catch. And the beautiful sound of those 4 amazing seconds in a song.

Candlesticks burn away the sadness of mourners, yet the sun still shines. Electromagnetic fields make the sky look blue and clouds that once surf the wind are now static. They stopped progressing on into the next latitudes; they are no longer unicorns that transform into hats or elephants or any-thing reflected upon ever-changing nimbus. Somebody forgot to run the program. I wonder why.

Maybe she slept in or he’s late because of a doctor’s appointment that he clumsily forgot to call-in.

“Jajajaaa jum…”- laughing out quietly. “It must be the wind”. The day is still amazingly beautiful looking at it from this hill. I smile alone and listen.