Day: August 18, 2015

“I want to dance, oh ye ladies who care, for I do not have much time to listen to my heart which begs to cry. I have short time, and before death comes, my mouth if even for once would have known laughter. Friends have arrived at my porch, knocking and begging for me not to die, but it’s too late, I will die today. Let them struggle, drenched in their own sweats, they cannot save someone who is not willing to be saved,” said I two days ago and indeed I died but here I am again, breathing.

It was three days ago when I received a message from my girlfriend with whom I have led myself to believe that happiness exists nowhere but in an invisible chest to which love is the only key. She wrote: “Dear love, with you I have tasted what true love could be…

Every man is weak who has not understood himself before setting out to understand the world; when he’s supposed to drink, he eats; when he’s supposed to strike, he prays; when he’s supposed to pray, he fucks; when he’s supposed to fuck, he fights; when he’s supposed to fight, he hopes, and hope, he does not know, embraces only those who are willing to run against the wind.

I am a liar if I tell you that all is well, all is not well. All is only hoping to be well but not any well. The rich man has all he desires, but unlike the struggling man, he cannot jog in the street and inhale his childhood neighbourhood air without being guarded by men in black suits and pistols, what a limitation! I also know about a rich man who doesn’t need guards while he jogs, who would dare touch…

Come here child, let me tell you a story.
A wanderer so witty went to a Land so scary,
A Land so scary made his stay so gory,
And so was provoked the wanderer’s fury.
Find a seat, you will like the story.

The name of the Land, my dear, was Derry.
Too much witches, too many bodies to bury.
Hunger spiced their food, no such thing as curry.
Ghosts punctured hymens, none in town a cherry.
Find a seat, my dear, really scary was Derry.

The king of the Land said his daughter will marry
Anyone who can indeed restore the poor Land’s glory.
Harry Potter is a fable, the wanderer was not Harry.
The princess didn’t have to be bait, the wanderer felt so sorry.
What a father will give her daughter to any mongrel to marry?

The wanderer boiled at last into his little armoury,
Grabbed odds…