Hipogrifos

BAKER STREET

2009-05-18T14:57:00.001+02:00

I liked scrambled eggs for breakfast but
the doctor banned them from my diet long ago.
Cholesterol, he said.

I loved looking at the street from a gap in the curtains but
the landlady installed Venetian blinds long ago.
Privacy, she said.

No evening would pass by without me smoking a pipe but
cigarettes became trendy long ago.
Fashion, they said.

I could tell when a client came from Victoria or Charing Cross but
they all drive cars since long ago.
Modernity, everyone says.

No wonder I feel like travelling to Switzerland and
jumping down a waterfall.
Moriarty, you will say.

FLAT WEATHER

2009-05-13T13:40:00.002+02:00

We were sitting by the pool. Our feet
in the water that felt cold at first.
A woman was shouting
something about
dolphins asphyxiated by plastic bags,
skin cancer,
government conspiracies,
or any other.

Suddenly, a breeze came smelling of barbecue
We turned our heads to it and
breathed.
Silence beyond let us hear the cracking of
the burnt wood,
swell the sauce and lick
our lips.

It was spring, and the sky looked
as old
as the Pharaohs.

RETIREMENT

2009-05-11T15:35:00.002+02:00

This used to be the hand to save mankind
This used to be the grip
The sweat
The fingers that get crossed and the parlor
on which we give away
the speech.

Being tiresome and lazy helped to give it up
So now, in the mornings, when the light as a lightbulb comes in
The hand is no longer the hand, but the spiderweb
And we breakfast in a myriad of water and sand.

It’s difficult not to get as stuffed as teddybears
But we don’t care to try any more
It’s nicer to burn in the microwave
It’s nicer to grab the heat from the windows
While everybody else, outside, in the jam, shakes hands
And figures out how to survive
For another day.

GONE BLANK

2008-10-02T15:29:00.002+02:00

I don't dare to believe that I'm the only one
hallucinating.
I don't dare to feel more piercingly than anybody else
the air on my arms.

Breathe is what I must do to sing, after all.

The surface of the rocks keep scratching,
Thinking the morning is just too good to be true when,
secretly,
it is the night and the fog they clutch to
when they are thirsty
as empty jars.

SO MANY BLACK, BIG CARS

2008-09-19T17:44:00.005+02:00

Only through the glass you can
see the air
reverberating and that small
hairy dog that keeps
jumping, left
and right, in front of the
red light.
Nobody sees you picking your nose but everyone
gives it for certain that
you do it. It's the path,
the wind through the air conditioning pipes and the
stillness
of the policeman.

Any day but this, you will be staring at a
blank screen. There'll be no way out other
than in.

Guess what: you think you know the code when,
actually, you almost never got a glimpse of it.

Only inside the traffic jam the universe seems to
run slowly.

CONVERSATION WITH A CHINESE CAT THAT MOVES ITS PAW UP AND DOWN, COMPULSIVELY

2008-07-25T13:25:00.002+02:00

Fortune cookies are crap,
you already know that.
And zen gardens only make your desk
dirty.
What you should do is
play lottery every day,
but that doesn't mean you have to
fill in the numbers.
They are already known, only it's impossible
to guess them. Even for you,
with your computerized machines.
So the solution is simple: you will never be a millionaire
unless you win.
And winning is out of your control. How to control it?
You tell me, it's what I've been trying to do for centuries, and
look at me:
I have learnt to move my right paw as if
I were greeting people. That's all.

WHY I DON'T CARE A DAMN THING ABOUT THE PROPERTIES OF THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM

2008-07-08T20:59:00.005+02:00

Everybody says --sooner or later--
that man must not be alone.
Or woman, for that matters.
I keep laughing at the ceiling,
disguising,
appearing as someone other than what is expected. Or who.
I could say --like Lady Macbeth--
that I have a heart so white,
but it's nothing like that.

I'm starving
I'm craving for brains
those are my witches
I'm starving
I'd rather be on myself hanging on the rope
of irony.

Everybody says --sooner or later--
that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush
Or three, for that matters.
I keep setting them free
watching
their bossoms rise with air. Or water.
I could say --like Oscar Wilde--
that illusion is the first of all pleasures,
but it's nothing like that.

I'm starving
I'm craving for lungs
those are my demons
I'm starving
I'd rather be on myself scratching the walls
of debt.

So I would shut up for good
So the everybodies would set me free
So the Lady Macbeth and the Oscar Wilde would take my place
and lift her (his) foot
and place it on
the first step.

Always,
forever
mixed up
by the unexplained
quantum properties of the space-time continuum.

POCKETED

2008-07-08T18:05:00.003+02:00

Once upon a kisss of the crimson eagle
there were the roots
the glass of milk
the palms.

Just then I found the proposal of the impossible
pocketed
in my inner drawers, where I would have never
found it.

I lied
I lied all the time while you used to watch
polish movies on the TV set, the satellite
dish raining over our heads in the
winter nights.

NIRVANA

2008-07-08T18:04:00.004+02:00

The time is ripe
for the whispering in the water
for the crucial iridiscent jump
that will lead us
on.

And I am not ready
(I'm not ready)

I have never been there, nor I want to
For there is this edible itching
laughing
at the edge of my lids.

I want to break all the bones
before my time comes.

Because I am not ready
(I'm not ready)