9.11.14

Bury bottles of bank notes


(Based on economists Keynes & Friedman's keys to increase spending)


Bury bottles of bank notes
in old coal mines.
Bury bottles to rise hopes
in all cool minds.
Bankers, brokers,
bury bottles, bury bottles.
What a race!
What a bold rush!

People carrying picks and shovels,
people digging day and night,
people dreaming of good luck.
Bottles, bottles...
most unearthed,
some well broken,
few well opened,
eyes astonished grasping cash
then put right in greedy hands.
Mad. Mad. Mad.

Bury bottles of bank notes
in old coal mines.
Bury bottles to rise hopes
in all cool minds.
Once they're found,
what a joy jumping around!
Wealth encountered.
Health restored.

So... if you want
to spur spending,
stop the crisis,
save the world from global crash,
now you know
what must be done:

Bury bottles of bank notes
in old coal mines.
The empty ones in the garbage,
the full ones will all be mine!

Well, be smarter,
why spend so much in bottles?,
why waste  time in hiding them?
Fancy direct money transfers:
cash dropped out of helicopters!
(Great ideas always come
when in jail or in the shower.
Think it up!)




✍Quote of the day

"If the Treasury were to fill old bottles with banknotes, bury them at suitable depths in disused coalmines which are then filled up to the surface with town rubbish, and leave it to private enterprise on well-tried principles of laissez-faire to dig the notes up again (the right to do so being obtained, of course, by tendering for leases of the note-bearing territory), there need be no more unemployment and, with the help of the repercussions, the real income of the community, and its capital wealth also, would probably become a good deal greater than it actually is. It would, indeed, be more sensible to build houses and the like; but if there are political and practical difficulties in the way of this, the above would be better than nothing."
(John Maynard Keynes, "The Propensity to Consume" - Chapter X)





8.11.14

Translating Dios



Dios

Más arriba de las nubes
más arriba de los vientos
y de los querubes
y los firmamentos
más allá de la centella
más allá del éter mismo
y del sol, la gran estrella
y la noche, el hondo abismo
fui a buscar al Dios que amaba
y la voz del que buscaba
más allá del hondo abismo
dijo: "
Yo también estaba
dentro de ti mismo".



- Leonardo Luis Castellani (Argentina, 1899 - 1981)




God

Higher than clouds
higher than winds
and cherubs
and firmaments
beyond the spark
beyond the ether itself
and the sun, the great star
and the night, the deep abyss...
I travelled to find that God I loved
and the voice whose master I was searching
beyond the deep abyss
said: "I was also
inside youself".





✍Quote of the day

"The soul can split the sky in two and let the face of God shine through."
(Edna St. Vincent Millay)

28.10.14

Holly bush

Holly bush, holly bush,
make me feel joy
in red blooms.
Holly bush, holly bush,
my fingers bleed
with your pricks.
Holly bush, holly bush,
you fend off
witches and ghosts.
Holly bush, holly bush,
protect my home
from lightning strikes.
Holly bush, holly bush,
sweet Christ's thorn,
His cross wood.
Holly bush, holly bush,
male needs female
to look good.
Holly bush, holly bush,
you feed
thrushes and blackbirds.
Holly bush, holly bush,
poisonous berries
for all men.
Holly bush, holly bush,
making chess pieces
and walking sticks.
Holly bush, holly bush,
your pure white flowers
adorn the spring.
Holly bush, holly bush
your sticky bark
trap poor birds.
Holly bush, holly bush,
Christmas coming
in your boughs.
Billy Bush, Billy Bush,
you make me feel
Hollywood!




✍Quote of the day
"Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly?"
(Emily Bronte)

13.10.14

The monster within

Control,
control your instincts while awake,
man, tame yourself
for the beast is free while dreaming.

- Sleep, sugar.

The lion roars.
The wolf shows his teeth
among alcohol vapors,
tobacco fumes,
sexual incense.
The creature's secreting cold milk.
That grimace cut in marble,
that facial laxity,
that curling on the upper lip.
Only the quiet night witnesses 
your most intimate secrets.
Wet white linen.
Unconscious tears.
Twisted limbs.
The moon's made you her prisoner,
her unconscious slave.
Let your nightmares flow,
hunt you, catch you.
Cry out in despair.
The Sandman's not there!

Afraid of your own nature, man?
Who can blame you for being mortal...?
Feel no remorse
for all creatures have got a dark side
they can't get rid of.

Till dawn,
in his wild territory,
while his tired master's lying,
man's monster is free.
(Weak Samson, 
your wicked lover's waiting
in the dark to get your whole strength)

In front of the mirror, man,
before inventing romantic verses,
mind that salty reminder of saliva,
that dry gunk , those green boogies
in the corner of your eyes,
and thank God for your pure soul,
for that running water,
for that mystic soap.
Shave your filth.
Save yourself
from the monster within.

"Toned & Sexy
using shake weight",
says TV  
in the dining-room.
A young yawning woman 
stretching herself.
Smiles. Muscles. Masks on.

Yes!,
once more under control.
Dust to dust. The world is safe.
The poet's up.

✍Quotes of the day
- "Being unconscious is the ultimate disability."
(Jessa Gamble)
- “There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure."
(Charles Dickens, "Oliver Twist")

2.10.14

Dirt helps flowers grow

Behind the toilet door
romanticism has got a hard way
to go 
among human aromas,
happy relief
and pathetic noises.
For God allows diarrhea
as well as amorous sighs,
and spirits should poo 
perfumed songs
Satan tries to emulate in vain.
Hell is full of assholes.

In the toilet
all carnal truth is revealed
in raw reality, in decayed flesh.
(In the other room
mom celebrates her baby's stool)

Holes. Breath. Sweat.
Humanity stinks.

But...sometimes the poet
- poets poo and pee too,
same as Popes, same as Kings -
sitting there to console himself,
finds deep inspiration
to fight his pain,
his daily frustrations
in such an absurd place.
Trousers down,
he misses his pen
to fill the paper roll
with ethereal verses
while tears of joy
soften the crucial moment.
How would his dear Emily
look in these circumstances?
"Thou, my everlasting rose."
"Thy perfume inebriates my senses."
Her pale face would turn red
with constipation.
Would love resist this vision...?
"Thy queef maketh me sick."
The thought tortures his soul.
Rotten written,
inspirational fact 
in total solitude.
What a waste of rhymes!
So sad.
So productive.
So and so.

Voilá, Rodin's Penseur!

Poetry, same as God.
can be found everywhere,
even hidden in such a putrid room
where anonymous profanities
adorn the door. Shame on you!
The poor poet always trying to escape.
Toot tones. Toot tunes.
He envisions his lover like incense sweet.
Love's lavender spray.

"Flush when finished, please."

Public angels.
Private beasts.


✍Quote of the day
My spirits soar on high, 
Inebriated with thoughts so pure.
I now can fly, 
Nothing is obscure.
Spiritual healing is taking place, 
As I rise to heavens realms.
Beams of joy cover my face, 
Nothing can me overwhelm.
I have seen the heavens gates, 
Beautiful light paves the way, 
Music sweet to soul and ear, 
I have nothing more to say. 
(George Bernard Shaw, "A Dream")