Miguel Santos nos trae el segundo escrito en inglés para esta entrada de La Generación del Atardecer Presenta:.
- La marca erige el espejismo de continuidad y homogeneidad -
“I want my poison to taste like poison
up there the drinks all watered-down”
- That Handsome Devil, Standing Room In Heaven
What excruciating perceptions, learning like a phantom, to dream poison into a well. To resist with this useless tool we call a ‘nature’, the inexorable fragmentation, the cognitive downpour that is loss and alienation. I’m down at the lobby of the St Rita Boulevard, taking a trip down the rumbling in my head; doubting across these streets. Tears know neither end nor origin. Strangers go to and fro beyond the rim of my eye sight. Yet we dive along the daily rituals, untouched. Flowing like a river of concrete, along the sidewalks of sidewalks, along we huddle up in back alleys, getting a blowjob by some ultraviolet splendor. Can(‘t) grasp such idea. Wonder how the brainstorm of a heaven was put into motion, pure and angry individualization, a mere suggestion, an ironic remark in some party, a wet dream meant to fool the sentient beings.
Ilustración por Paula Del Toro
Shall we be beyond disgrace, shall I? i? ( )? A decoy.
For it seems the presence remains, after… intangible, a giant, differentiated from me and yet a mirror, and it dictates over a thousand parasites inside my own throat. “The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated” says a specter passing by. “In every shadow there is a legacy of teleological proportions, this very second has a most profound and prominent purpose” says God and the Atom, brothers in arms and personal comrades down at the lab. I’ve been watching the explosions in the social order. Was the world lost somewhere among the path to paradise? Towards the salvation we all seek, towards the better world? By far the assembly of our daily struggles is no easy task. We nurture our cognitive delusions, greyhounds eternally obligated to never stray from the race. Following the artificial bunny until its legs are sprayed along the track. We feed our demons and, of course, our angels. They present themselves boldly and silently everywhere. It is possible to masturbate two jackals at the same time. I have seen it! The lion and the unicorn will make all cities fall, inevitably! To control the subject is to neutralize it. What secret lies in time, but silence in the deserts all over? That is the perfection I found, the lack of anything moving, growing disturbingly. An intact spring of nothingness where all secrets lay bare, but no nasty sentiment being shall interpret. Where indeed is the good stuff, the sweet stuff, the lust and pleasure, the emancipation of the bonds whatever they may be; for only a second and a half? Woes to us, the silly motherfuckers, are all of us. How cost-effective, how soothing it must be for our priests and scholars and businessmen, quite a task to interpret and divide as God and Adam, the language duo. But who indeed is the sufferer, how is this suffering induced into the very core of consciousness? Riddle the riddle out of its head. Moral indignation will not suffice, and the demon and the angels approach, to claim the rightful prey along the gardens of despair and empirical lucidity. For we are masters of the world, we have propagated its deserts with our love.
“You and me and the devil makes three
don’t need no other lovin’ babe.”
- The singing sirens, Didn’t leave Nobody but the baby
