December 3 and 4 collection

Reina del color

Mucha queja sobre el aprovechamiento, mucho dolor.

Que mi dinero, que la casa, que aquello y lo otro.

Víctimas somos todos. Ni pena ni nada. No puedo permitir pena alguna, pues ya vivo en ella.

Entonces te uso, te abuso, y me abusas. Y así somos felices. Es la única forma.

Dime que eres de otro, dime que no te importo, que no me quieres. Te diré que no eres nadie, te humillaré. Te anhelaré en mis días, te esperaré, me acostumbraré y me templaré.

Ahora me da asco, a veces. Mi sistema parece odiar. No es para tanto, si usted está cerca solo aguanto.

Mi corazón es suyo, y en él hay odio y carne, hay todo lo bello. Bello, yo, y bello tú. Todo bello, y sin ti, día gris.

Cansado, no tengo punto. Una vida desperdiciada, un futuro más sin ti que con. Especular no sirve, el gozo es ley. Y te digo somos el alma; sin nosotros, la pasión no existe. Sin tú y yo el mundo no gira; la dulce tensión nos agita por dentro, espuma nos sale por todos los orificios. Eres mar y yo rio, y rocas en mi cauce, me bifurco, tardo más en llegar. El sol me ebulle, mis nubes lloran sobre tu cuerpo. Los pájaros cantan. Me seco en el camino. Adios.

Una trufa para la pitufa. Caricias de astilla, me amarra y estruja. Al menos limpio estoy.

03 dec 2019


Romance is over REDUX

He decidido usar tu apellido. Lo siento, todo personal. Te lo preguntaré en vez de solo empezar a usarlo como un weirdo.

Nada, es broma. Lo que quiero ahora es resolver el problema de saludar a mis jefes. Supongo que lo más sensato va a ser hablarlo con ellas directamente. Me permite ofrecerle mi mano? O le gusta que la besen?

Te habré dolido alguna vez como me dueles tú? Espero ambas respuestas, pues no puedo saber cual es.

Primero “no.” En este caso, okey. Es esta posibilidad la que el plan de acción cubre. Mi anulación temporal del actuar, por deber, derecho, y en el nombre de la normalidad. Segundo, “sí.”

Quería dejar la descripción del “sí” como implícita para el lector, pero hagamos el esfuerzo en el nombre del padre, del hijo y del espíritu santo.

Si “Sí,” entonces es un grande y lindo sí. Veamos las implicancias de este sí para tí:

Como mínimo:
-Has pensado en mí alguna vez.

Como película:
-Le has tenido que mentir.
-Te ha pillado pensando en mí.
-“No sabe quien soy.”
-No lo has querido llevar al trabajo.

Full stop. ¿Qué va a pasar si decides llevarlo? Cielos, creo que por accidente descubrí algo peor que lo de hoy. Lo había pensado, pero solo como una posibilidad muy remota y estúpida. ¿Y si es capaz de cobrar venganza de esa forma? Cielos… ahora tengo miedo de ser herido de peor forma. ReCATAloguemos mi “anulación temporal del actuar” como “anulación INDEFINIDA del actuar,” y agreguemos a sus razones de ser: “por deber, derecho, y en el nombre de la normalidad y la sanidad mental.” Eres peligrosa. Adios por hoy.

polaco, 04 diciembre 2019

PS REDUX means I basic

ally wrote at two different times dealings of the same topic. Yay for repetition. Here’s the only quote I’ll save from the handwritten text:

“Engage normal mode. All thrusters set to minimum. It’s time to grow up.”

PPS: I bought her a “trufa,” which is a chocolate-covered chocolate-flavored thick sugary substance. Harmless.


The above is an unfinished linework from an unknown author. It is said he was a famous scribe’s young apprentice, who was cursed by reading upon one of the forbidden books his master had locked up. It is said he was found dead with the pencil still in his hand, in writing position and without any signs of decay, even after a day had passed. They say his soul got cut off with such expertise, the body didn’t realize it was time to die. We have digitally enhanced what we assume is blood, to give you a better idea of the overall shape. Or perhaps because I’ve taken way too much time on this already and I’m likely to never finish it and I need to move on.

The following is an analysis of the image. The drawing is a (dead) artist’s rendition of a page from “The book of Abraham the Jew.” In Spanish:

“…un rey con una gran espada, quien mandó a matar en su presencia, por algunos soldados, una multitud de pequeños infantes, cuyas madres lloraban a los pies de los ímpios soldados. La sangre de aquellos infantes era luego dirigida por surcos, tallados en roca, y depositada en grandes vasijas, en las cuales el sol y la luna bajaban a bañarse.”

So, basically, soldiers are killing babies, then the sun and the moon bathe in the blood of the slain.

Starting from the top.

Some king or ruler of sorts is giving some soldiers orders. This is basic chain of command stuff. As a soldier, you’re not supposed to question orders, even if it means slaying the babies. Because your job is to take orders. Now let’s talk a bit about what jobs entail, to stop the potential hate these soldiers could catch.

The essence of working is trading. In the worst case scenario, you’re expending energy without getting anything in return, short of keeping your life. In the best one, you can live comfortably without doing anything at all.

Voluntary work serves the ego, so no getting out of this one.

Now, for work ethics. We are finite beings, and are limited by our bodies and its triune constitution: heart, mind and gut.

A balance of these three, or rather, a harmonic cycle between these parts is what we understand as a normal human being. “Perfect,” your author could even venture.

By trading our labor, we offer what we are in exchange for validation, AKA you become valuable, AKA you are able to afford living, AKA you prove that you can continue to live in this realm, AKA you’ve dominated a big chunk of this dimension. Living doesn’t get better than this; dying sucks.

A proper worker is therefore not only aware of his own invested interest, but also that he’s only as good as his production.

“Producing” and “production” are used here in a number of ways, but what it comes down to, abstractly, is entropy. When you contribute to order, you are producing. So, entropy. Out of chaos, order.

Let us return to the picture. The soldiers are executing babies. “Alright,” someone may say, “So, they’re monsters.” It is to avoid this logic that we went over that job thing.

If you’ve ever, I dunno, had a job, you probably know following orders is critical to good, proper functioning. At the very least, discipline itself can help develop other, more interesting skills. It’s like a gateway drug of good.

A soldier that doesn’t follow orders is by definition a bad soldier. Your job is not to love your country, or whatever else you can think about; your job is to follow orders.

“At least my job doesn’t involve killing!” Not directly, sure, but being alive means killing, one way or another. It means killing because being alive means you need safety, and someone has to provide it. Providing for your safety means at some step of the way, someone’s gonna get hurt. Whether it’s to defend your territory, your property, your culture or your family, violence is a given.

Next time you wanna point a finger, turn it around and see if it fits. Most of the times you’ll find it doesn’t, unless you’re into prostate stimulation, which actually sounds quite interesting. This guy I read, said he “edged” for three days before going hard on his prostate until climaxing.

“Ok, so the king is wicked then.”

Maybe, but that would be implying that you aren’t. I don’t believe you.

For argument’s, let’s assume it’s true. He is a wicked ruler, murderer of children and likely woman rapist. Maybe someone ought to murder his children, or just lock him up eternally.

Guess what? He can’t have kids and he’s got the jail guys bought, so if push comes to shove, they can just suicide him.

Realistically? He’s a schizoid or a psychopath, and is way above you in terms of power, so your opinion doesn’t really matter anyway. The solution is to stop wasting time judging others, and focus on the consequences. You’re in luck, that is exactly what follows.

I’m not gonna elaborate much on the decapitation part. Usually, for example, death is shown severing the feet of people. It follows to think that there may be more to this mass decapitation than just “death,” as that is not its usual MO. Here’s a hint: Which important organ is housed in the head? Is it possible that the babies are not “babies” per se? Which contexts allow for someone to be referred to as a “baby”? Suppose that person were to lose their mind, or consider the possibility of them never even having one at all. Have you ever met a “brainless” person?

We will not dig too deep on the weeping mothers, as I am still unclear on how they’re actually represented.

The blood is let out. We harvest the blood of newborns. Perfect. And it’s all leading where? Into the sun and moon’s personal jacuzzi.

I’ll say it out loud. Sun and moon? Earth. Existence, terrestrial living, day and night and every creature that ceaselessly transits the soil. Our sun, the light, and the moon, our life, is governed by the sacrifices of others. The life-force of innocence is what keeps the cogs moving. The hard decisions must be made by man, and hate must freely flow to be converted into bone fuel. This has been me, and giving these pseudo-moral bullshit lessons is really tiring.

undisclosed timeframe

Llorando salen las lágrimas

An analysis by yours truly.

Recently I read up on a certain Mr. Nicholas Flammel. Apparently he happened upon the secret for the philosopher’s stone by… his labour. An accident, perhaps, but we’re not here today to discuss the meaning of fate.

This book was bound in brass, and was written not in paper or parchments, but rinds, as in, peeled bark from soft trees. There’s three sets of seven leaves, for what I would assume is a total of 21 “pages.”

Here’s a preliminary rendition of the book’s outer appearance. I was intending to do much more than this, but alcohol took over; immediacy took hold of responsibility and good habits. Fuck off, she’s with someone else. May god help us all.

The symbols are just giberish I scrambled together at random. May those versed in the arts excuse me.

PS: Everything went smoothly after the gift. It helped clarify the most hidden secrets, and reafirm our status as a “bizarre happening of nature,” one which must be enjoyed at all costs.


En función de la victoria

What’s the point of “winning”?

Obviously, it’s a cool thing. I hope, however, you don’t think it proves anything. Here’s the thing: winning is beneficial only to the victor. I’m a #gamer, okay? Team loyalty is only good if there’s something in it for you, isn’t it?

Am I speaking from the point of view of a homeless loser? Absolutely. I know the feeling of victory, however. I know what it feels like to be on top of things. I don’t hate success, victory, recognition, clout or destruction. I welcome it. What I don’t appreciate is mistaking things. So if you think your favorite X 12 year-old super world tennis nobel prize winning superstar is some sort of statement on anything other than personal success, you’re in for a spanking.

The message is clear. We don’t have anything on winners. Millionaires, athletes, builders, superheroes. They owe it to us. We owe it to them. Shut up about it, and work harder. Pay tribute like you should, scum.


“Una muerte lenta”

Belleza natural de Chile
patrimonio de la humanidad.
Solo me falta un poco de sal.

Espero hayas disfrutado de este paseo.
El patrocinio es hormonal.
Por la juventud, los genes,
y la mismísima corona real.

Cuando no fueron solo mis ojos,
sino mi cuerpo entero el quebrado en llanto,
entonces cambié mi canto.
Bajo tu imagen soy un santo,
pero piojos, y “otros.”
Tú, y el otros.

De lejitos, no más.
El bus de acercamiento nos falló.
La conductora olvidó empacar las cadenas
y el camión por el hielo rodó.

Del fuego quedó un cúbico esqueleto magro
y un peluche perfumado.
Un largo cabello negro,
único testimonio de tu paso
por el letal, fino enredo
y sensual acantilado.

Un libro antiguo, historietas sin brillo
Cartas viejas,
textos de práctica de un armadillo.

Sonidos del más allá.

Caja de Pandora
por Dios desprovista y condenada.

Un regalo posible solo de hacer
a quién se ama, o a quién por conveniencia
es mejor dejar ser.

O ambas.

O una después de la otra, en ese orden.

Hasta nunca, deseo.
25 nov 2019

Escribiendo por compromiso

Hoy es un día excepcional. Me siento mejor que nunca, o como mínimo, lo mejor que conozco. Siempre se puede estar mejor, sabemos que esta es la base del sistema.

El punto es que no tengo ganas de escribir. No he terminado de leer los confederate papers, y es algo de lo que realmente me debería encargar. Alguien podría decir que no me interesa, pues de otra manera ya los habría leido. Puede ser cierto. Lo que más me interesa es ella. Ella, ella, solo ella. Quiero tomarla de la panza mientras la beso. Quiero que me vea en la plaza para entregarle su regalo, y decirle que es para superarla, y decirle te amo. Quiero despedirme para siempre, quiero levantarme e irme para siempre. Que llame mi nombre. Que la ignore y siga caminando. Que si me quiere que lo deje. Así de pasado el rollo tengo. Quiero correr y escapar.

Quiero que sea mía. Me molesta la neutralidad pretenciosa de mi actuar. Soy un cobarde y tengo miedo. Pero siempre prefiero cubrirme el culo. Todas las bases, siempre listas para correr. El peor caso no tiene idea que yo mismo lo alimento todos los días. Es mi perro, y yo lo quiero como a un hijo propio. Pero el bastardo no come cualquier cosa. Se alimenta de mi carne, de mi espinazo, de mis cojones. No soy feliz de mantenerlo, pero de igual forma lo quiero. Lo entiendo, y si bien consume mis energías vitales, sus desechos resultan bastante útiles. Salvaje como es, alimentarlo no asegura su docilidad. Cuando el peor caso se vuelve realidad es cuando usas su mierda. Esa maloliente putrefacción ya está procesada en pequeñas bolsitas cerradas de plástico, sellados al vacío.

¿Alguna vez has visto a un dueño de perro restregarle la cara en su orina? Bueno, el peor caso no es un perro realmente. Lo que haces es hundirlo entero dentro de la bolsa, y marinarlo toda la noche en ello. Debes hacerle recordar quien es el dueño. Debe saber que lo guardas por conveniencia, y que su posición privilegiada lo es solo porque así deseas que sea.

¿Y los mejores casos? ¿Las risas, los sexos, los romances? Ellos viven en la mugre, ni siquiera comen la mitad de lo que el peor caso consume en una hora. Pero estos entes son distintos. No les alcanza para la siguiente esfera, pero están más cerca de ella.

Una mirada, por ejemplo, puede alimentarlos por días. Un toque particular, semanas. Su amor… temo en pensarlo. Una ración así de grande podría durar toda una vida si se aprovecha bien, o ser desperdiciada en dos segundos por glotonería. Mi falta de experiencia en romances largos se deja mostrar.

Biológicamente, follar es mi último paso. La meta es penetrar e inseminar. La de ella quizás sea muy distinta. Se me había olvidado. Es joven. No tengo garantía de ser suficiente.

No, no dudes ahora. La amarás tan bien que no sabrá de números. Rogará por más. Más amor, más nalgadas, más fuerte, más veces, más duro, de perrito, en público, en la plata, de cabeza, con los dedos, más duro, con trago encima, que ya estoy estoy listo para la segunda vez, que ya estas lista para engendrar de nuevo, en la boca, por la boca, con la cabeza, con los labios, con las mano, con los muslos, con los pies, por atrás, con los pechos, en los pechos, con un mordisco, con los dientes, en la cara, afeitados, peludos, con correa, sin meterlo, hasta el fondo.

Eso es todo. La ebriedad me supera. El amor me hace mal. Buenas noches.

polaco, 24 nov 2019

Se te nota en la cara, polaco

Hoy comenzaremos por repasar la situación, pues una abrumadora falta de narratividad, nacida a base del miedo permanente de aburrir a quien me lea, me hace pensar que le falta “punch” a mis texto. Además de eso, el post del día anterior de mi colega parece haber movido algunos corazones. Veamos si yo puedo destruir algunos también.

So, I like her. I like her a lot. Let’s call her Darla. But she’s taken.

I met her at, supposedly, around the same time she was starting to meet someone else. So they got to her first. At least that’s what they told me.

I’ve known her for two months, give or take. We didn’t see each other that much at work, so whenever I had the chance to work around or with her, I felt blessed. Back then I didn’t know, but she was taken.

For the first couple of weeks my feelings were pure and beautifully naïve. It wasn’t love at first sight. It took me about a week to notice her, and after I did, the deal was sealed. I specifically remember talking to myself about it.

– “So, are we into this chick or what?”

– Well, she’s not ‘that’ cute. She’s got a nice body though.

– “She’s fucking hot. Her face is so damned gorgeous you can’t help but think about how your kids would come out looking.”

– You fucking creep.

– “Remember that time you fantasized about bukkaking her, and how afterwards you felt so bad you thought about kissing her like that, to “share the denigration”?”

– Ok, I’m in. I like her. I want to like her. Yes, she’s by far the most beautiful there is.

– “So it is.”

At the time, I got this idea to make these little origami paper boxes. I had about 62 dollars to last me for a month, so the idea was to fill them with candy and sell them to my colleagues. The process took about three hours for a 100% return in investment. I didn’t, however, have the space to work in, so the whole ordeal was made even more difficult than it needed to be. Not to mention the lack, and even the theft, of adequate materials.

I started by gifting her some of those. I gave her about 3 of them, all from different batches. Each time I’d do it it would almost seem like I was handing her some forbidden thing. A quick hand-off and barely a look. This one time, we only glanced vaguely in each other’s general direction. Turns out, it was because she was taken.

This didn’t matter, however, and neither did my inability to feed myself properly. She gave me the strength to work overtime. Without her image constantly pulling me forwards, calling me to her sweet embrace, I would have never had the initiative, much less the actual drive, to pull any of this off. She was already making me better. I loved every second of it.

Then the unthinkable happened. She told me her term was coming up. Darla would be leaving soon. I panicked. I invited her to lunch. She said no. I didn’t ask why. I fell into despair. Like a beta I spilled my guts ambiguously about how I felt towards her, as I sheltered myself from the imminent destruction my ego was gonna suffer. Like contracting your abdomen to protect it from an imminent punch. I’ve lost count on how may times I’ve written about this horrific event. I beta’d out of it like a scumbag. To be perfectly honest, up to the moment of writing this, I had completely forgotten about the rejection. I guess this is a good thing.

Handling rejection was easier than I expected. I enjoyed a sudden burst of energy, even stronger than the first one. I felt like my system was overcompensating to keep me functioning properly, and it worked. I was happy. The oscillations dip, however, and dip they did. On Darla’s last day, one of her friend-colleagues asked whether I could walk her to a certain diligence she had to attend to. We ended up in a bar. She came on to me. I had the opportunity to have sex with an older woman, but I rejected her. We were both drunk, and I fondled her breasts and masturbated her clit over her jeans on the street. But I didn’t kiss her, and I didn’t accept her invitation to her house. She cried, insulted me, compared me to a pedophilic priest, and later revealed that this was the first time she had been rejected. “Welcome to the world of men,” I replied. I obviously was still in love, and couldn’t bring myself to “cheat” on Darla. I cried too, but only after we parted ways.

And so, Darla was no more. I lived with her memory from then on. Every day. I used to wonder how much time it would take to forget her, but little did I know, she was there to stay. I looked for her features on the street, and found that her phenotype was not as unusual as I first had thought. I imagined what would happen if I met her on the street, or worse, if I saw her with him. I wanted to forget her, badly. I wanted to replace her, to find someone else quickly enough to get that awful, good smelling sticky livid substance stuck under my brain out of there once and for all.

I tracked the progress of her disappearance. At the summit, I had forgotten what her voice sounded like. But not a single day could I afford without her cropping up. I was hurting without Darka, but, week by week, you receded more and more. The door was open, and the light slowly sucked the remains of her out of my psyche. Layer by layer.

I had convinced myself I didn’t need her, or rather, that I wouldn’t be able to have her, and as such I rested at ease, more or less. Not having hope meant that all that was left was to give in. Give in… to complete oblivion.

Then she showed up at work. They way this particular company works is they bring in replacements when they need them, and they usually stay for 2 months. She had been working for a month before I came in, so I had a month left without her.

I heard her laughter. It just happened to be that there was a new room to process clothing (retail) before bringing it into the store itself, and it just so happened that her colleagues were there that day. So, she was hidden. I only saw her for a second. Blood started to rush to my head. My breathing got faster, my hands started to shake. There was no doubt anymore.

I was in love.

I obviously did not pop in to say hi. She came as she went.

On the last two days of my term, they called her back. On the first day, I cried over my incompetence and cowardice. Crying some more, I sat at a local bar and wrote the shittiest thing ever. This one I would definitely deliver. And so I did. That was the last gift I gave her: a shitty drunken letter. There’s a thousand more that will never see the light of day.

A month and a half later, we were both called in again. Now she’s officially taken, and so, I’ve taken to mistreating her. Something about “compensating for the lack of closeness with immediate provocations.” The worst part is, it has sort of worked. She eventually learned to mistreat me too, and I’ve learned quite a bit from it. She used him to provoke me. It worked. After teasing her about her height and weight, she mentioned the gynecologist confirming her stats. After my subsequent non-questioning, she offered, on her own, that she was not pregnant. I joked a bit about the virgin Mary. I think I denied her the pleasure a bit, but still, you placed the image of your fucking him in my mind. I was mostly invigorated.

I bought that stupid plushie she liked. The picture of her holding it whilst smiling is forever burned into my soul. Fuck me. I still have it as of writing.

And so, we arrive into “now.”

Today the day started normally enough. Until she started talking on the phone with… him, I guess. I fucked off as soon as it began, but the microseconds I caught her laughing were enough to fuel the void and turn it into a vortex of pain. Megadeth reference. The rest of this day was the most miserable I’ve been in quite a while. In the following paragraphs, I will loosely transcribe the notes I took during the day.

Okay. Let’s pretend I’m a good person, a decent man. Let’s imagine I won’t butt into this anymore, and I’ll fuck off to Neverland. I’ll just treat you the same as anyone else. How do I even start? Should I ignore you? Should I just stick the pain into my asshole? Yes, I like to pretend I’m tough and can handle rejection. I never expected the pain to actually become physical, however, and now I’m genuinely sickened. In addition to the crying, I had to use the toilet to retch as well. I hate it, and I hate you, I hate that you speak to him, I hate to see you, I hate that stupid gift. Here’s something from some other notes I have: “If you hate someone, you’re the one with the problem.”

Looks like I’m sensitive today. Must be those oscillations. I sit down and write, I want to cry, I want to drink. My heart is broken. It’s not anybody’s fault. If I give you that plushie I’ll never get out of this. If I burn it I’ll turn into a psychopathic asshole that likes to waste money. This is the face of mental breakdowns.

Polaco masturbates in the bathroom. Polaco cries in the bathroom. Maybe I should take those pills.

I played with fire and burned myself. It hurts like a bitch. Why does love have to hurt so badly? Why do I have to feel this strongly for someone, at all? What the fuck is going on? Why did thinking about you wrapping your legs around someone else’s waist as you moaned for more, shimmering and sweating didn’t affect me, but you speaking on the phone did? Since when did your laughter started to make my blood boil?

You will pay for making me suffer this much, world. You will regret the day you gave me the capacity to think, feel and act. You’ll wish you never messed with me. I’ll make you wanna stick your volcanoes upside down inside your mariana trench and blow lava into your own rectum as you give me a handjob with the hands of a thousand korean whores. Hide your kids and your wallets.

I see now what the challenge really is. I’ll forget her. I’ll get over her, with her still at my side. She’ll turn into a nobody, and I’ll turn into a goddamned human with the capacity to overturn his own desires and feelings. I’ll shut myself down.

Oh no. I recognize this feeling. I recognize this passion. I recognize these tears. It’s the same as the first time.

I love her.

May god help me.

polaco, 22-nov-2019