Nevermind the bollocks!

Long ago, when I was a little boy, I recall watching this series about the Monkey king . Today I found the traditional chinese story of the Monkey in the bookshop. I must say that very few times a book grabs my attention from page number one in such way that I cant stop reading. 'Dear Monkey! He set out on his cloud trapeze, and in a twinkling he had crossed those two hundred leagues of water'

Samson and Delilah c.1613 Copperplate e ngraving, 380 x 440 mm Rockox House, Antwerp SPLEEN by: Charles Baudelaire I'm like some king in whose corrupted veins Flows agèd blood; who rules a land of rains; Who, young in years, is old in all distress; Who flees good counsel to find weariness Among his dogs and playthings, who is stirred Neither by hunting-hound nor hunting-bird; Whose weary face emotion moves no more E'en when his people die before his door. His favourite Jester's most fantastic wile Upon that sick, cruel face can raise no smile; The courtly dames, to whom all kings are good, Can lighten this young skeleton's dull mood No more with shameless toilets. In his gloom Even his lilied bed becomes a tomb. The sage who takes his gold essays in vain To purge away the old corrupted strain, His baths of blood, that in the days of old The Romans used when their hot blood grew cold, Will never warm this dead man's bloodl...

THE SICK MUSE Poor Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, to-day? Thy hollow eyes with midnight visions burn, Upon thy brow in alternation play, Folly and Horror, cold and taciturn. Have the green lemure and the goblin red, Poured on thee love and terror from their urn? Or with despotic hand the nightmare dread Deep plunged thee in some fabulous Minturne? Would that the breast where so deep thoughts arise, Breathed forth a healthful perfume with thy sighs; Would that thy Christian blood ran wave by wave In rhythmic sounds the antique numbers gave, When Phoebus shared his alternating reign With mighty Pan, lord of the ripening grain. Charles Baudelaire

my pooped heart oozes 'baccy juices Sad pooped heart. Yelled abuse And soupy juices Smear my sad heart. Privates parade Their evening Painting degrades. Magical waves Lift up and save My tainted heart. Quid-spitting done How to go on Poor swallowed heart Their booze and smut My knotted gut My cheated heart? Arthur Rimbaud

I'm the man who wanders. Met the gal who walks... trampling the dust, sinking into the night... I am sexual said the gal who walks, I am a loner said the man who wanders. Daring digesting digested dust. drunk, skunk. Push it push it push... are you a pusher?... no sexy... I am the man who walks... I will use you-just do it - walk home- I want to walk onto you mountains. Hold my hand, let's walk until our skin, skunk, sunk, dried dies...

Tiger Tiger Tiger Tiger. burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye. Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat. What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp. Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears And watered heaven with their tears: Did he smile His work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee? Tiger Tiger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? The Tiger William Blake

Do androids dream of electric sheep? is a science fiction novel written by Phillip K. Dick in 1968. After a world war, the planet is devastated, radioactive dust it in the atmosphere and eventually it will extinguish human race. U.N have created a plan to save human life by encouraging emigration to Mars, offering to each emigrant family a robot that will work for them as slaves, they are called Androids –or Andy-. Yet a new series of androids have been developed, they are completely organic and their intelligence level is superb, consequently they can disguise easily as humans, this new type of Andy are called Nexus-6. Some of the Nexus-6 have escaped from Mars to Earth in order to live totally free amongst humans (yes there were some humans dwellers in the planet as some people refused to leave, the eventually will die as a result of the radiation). A bounty hunter, who at the same time, a police officer will ‘retire’ them by using a well proven test in order to find out emotion...

‘Junk is not, like alcohol or weed, a means to increased enjoyment of life. Junk is not a kick. It is a way of life’ states William Burroughs in ‘Junkie, confessions of an unredeemed Drug Addict' , credited to William Lee in its first edition in 1953. (pictured on the left hand side). In ‘Junky’ –the final title of the book, this time credited to William S Burroughs- Burroughs depicts in a raw way what is to be a heroin addict like, I just found very interesting how the story grips the reader from page number one till the last word. ‘Why does an addict get a new habit so much quicker than a virgin, even after the addict has been cleaned for years? I do not accept the theory that junk is lurking in the body al the time –the spine is where it supposedly holes up- and I disagree with all psychological answers. Once a junky, always a junky. You can stop using junk, but you are never off after the first habit’ writes WB later on. I think raw may be the proper word to catalogu...

César Abraham Vallejo Mendoza (March 16, 1892 – April 15, 1938) was a Peruvian poet. Although during his lifetime he published only three books of poetry, he is nonetheless considered one of the great poetic innovators of the 20th century. Always a step ahead of the literary currents, each of his books was distinct from the others and, in its own sense, revolutionary. "...As of Peruvian poetry, for me, Vallejo is extraordinary. Yes, he is ours, and besides, he was a Communist," said President Gonzalo. José Carlos Mariátegui, the founder of the PCP, considered Vallejo to be "an absolute creator." Cesar Vallejo, the poet, the militant, the Communist, is being remembered by the proletariat and the people in the 106th anniversary of his birth. read more. And for me IMHO, Vallejo is perhaps the one of the better Latin-American poets. poems here . God I feel that God is traveling so much in me, with the dusk and the sea. With him we go along together. It is getting dar...

Looking for a good poem I came across this poem written by Argentinean Oliverio Girondo. I don't give a darn if women's breasts are like magnolias or like dried figs; a complexion like a peach or like sandpaper. Importance equal to zero I give to whether they awake with a breath like an aphrodisiac or a breath like insecticide. I am perfectly capable of bearing a nose that would take first prize at a carrot show; but one thing is for sure! And this is irreducible. Under no pretext whatsoever will I forgive them for not knowing how to fly. Any one of them who doesn't know how to fly is wasting her time trying to seduce me! This was – and none other – the reason that I fell in love, so madly, with María Luisa. What did I care about her lips in installments and her sulfurous jealousies? What did I care about her web-footed extremities and her looks that withheld judgment? María Luisa was truly light as a feather! From daybreak on, she flew from the bedroom to the kitch...

Author, singer, songwriter, playwright and lifelong jazz fan, Boris Vian was a legendary figure in Paris in the post-war years. Vian, who died at the age of 39, left an indelible mark on France's intellectual and artistic life and his avant-garde music, novels and comic sketches continue to inspire a whole generation of fans more than 40 years after his death. "In descriptions so richly imagined that he sometimes has to invent new words, Boris Vian brings to life the strange world discovered by a wandering traveler, Timortis, a psychiatrist who wants to "psychiatrize." Timortis has been born an adult and has no memories of his own. An "empty vessel," he believes that if he can learn everything there is to know about someone, he can bring about a transference of identity and make his own life more complete. He is wandering in search of people who will bare their souls and all their memories... " more . Buy his books. Hurry up!!

Back home, on holiday, I finally found out “ Putas asesinas ” by Roberto Bolano (advised months ago by Kerlames ). Just to mention three stories I was astonished with, “ El retorno ”; the story of a ghost and, “ Putas asesinas ” and “ Bubba ”, a tale of a South American, an African and a Spaniard football players and their adventurous journey in a top class team in Spain… Bolano is a versatile writer; whose combine a good sense of humour, superb imagination and wild narrative that gets anyone from the very first page. Here there is a fragment of Bubba . (Spanish language). For English speakers check this out.

Summer 2006 is now an annoying collection of memories gone by forever... the time to pick up dry, whithered leaves is here... time to be indoors with a good book (but fuck! I've gotta work...). In "the ballad of the sad cafe" , a tale of unrequited love, Miss Amelia, a spirited unconventional woman, runs a small-town store and, except for a marriage thet lasted just ten days, has always lived alone. Then Cousin Lymon appears from nowhere, a little strutting hunchback who steals Miss Amelia's heart. Together they transform the store into a lively, popular cafe. But when her rejected husband Marvin Macey returns, the result is a bizarre love triangle that brings with it violence, hatred and betrayal... Born Lula Carson Smith on February 19, 1917, in Columbus, McCullers was the daughter of Lamar Smith, Photograph by Carl Van Vechten. Courtesy of Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division Carson McCullers a jewelry store owner, and Vera Marguerite Waters. Lul...