The Troll

I’m sadly amazed at the levels of violence we humans are using while operating in the free arena that is the Internet. Makes me wonder how life would be if Government and State would cease to exist… And believe me this is cause of grief, because I am an anarchist, and I hate big Government.

Saddened because I encounter this behaviour daily, in posts regarding all sorts of topics, and with people of all walks of life and all sorts of educational levels. It leaves me pondering if we ever will become free of the tyranny of our egos. I know I am to blame as well, because I am also a narcissist, because I want to be right… But at what cost? That, my friends is the ultimate question.

Those in South America may enjoy a lovely cup of boldus tea, but I’m afraid it might be hard to find in the boreal regions of the planet.

My love as always,
Lady Astor

………………………………………………

I hate you
Because I think.
I know what lies within your head.
I am pretty certain,
Just by looking at you,
What is on your mind.

Moreover,
Upon checking out two words you said
I can tell the entire structure of your thought.
Where you are from,
Where you were before
And where you will be.

Because I know.
I know you are wrong.
And I am of course,
Completely right.
And if you haven’t noticed
I can tell all that, with a blink of my mind’s eye!

But you see,
I’m completely tolerant.
If someone ever thought up a statue
To commemorate the most equitable person on Earth.
My effigy would become
The monument’s grandiose face.

Your years of study,
Your abilities
Your contemplation…
Are all irrelevant.
Resistance is futile.
I am right and you are wrong.

Simple as that.
Because I might be a troll,
But I’m also sure,
I’m on the good side of the fence.
I just know I’m right
And you are not.

………………………………………………



The Troll is illustrated by John Kovalic

Friend in Light

Yesterday was “Friend’s Day” in Argentina. One of those annoyingly commercial dates that count on media manipulation, so that everyone feels guilt should they not give gifts – or phone calls, e-mails, assorted greetings, etc - away to their friends… And by friends I mean anyone from annoying peers at work to your old high school buddies.
I chose to write this poem on the day after. It’s dedicated to one of my best friends, who has also been portrayed in several other poems, which can be found in this very log.
I believe it can be better enjoyed in the company of some ginger tea.

……………………………………………………

Friend in Light
Without fright
Takes a dive
Deep in the night.

Open wide
Your curious eyes
With the spark
Of a newborn child.

Look up
At the changing stars.
Upwards is
What downwards does.

In due time
You will see
That you are
What you will.

If you will
With true love,
You will know
What you are.

Real is not touch
Taste or sight.
Real is existence
In this lower realm.
Which is not absolute.
But changeable,
Flawed
And corrupt.

But ideas are not.
They forever stand,
Perfect in the heavens
Perfect in the land.

This is the best gift
I can give to you.
As a father, as a son,
As a friend in Light.

Dedicated to Juan Sabato
……………………………………………………



Full Moon rising behind the ancient temple of Poseidon at Sounio

Pound of Flesh

Dear friends,
This is a new venture for me. Never before had I attempted to intertwine my views on local Argentinian politics with my poetry. I spent most of my adult life as an expat and therefore I was active in the society I lived in, keeping the thoughts about my homeland for myself.
But nowadays, with so much hate-mongering exploding like geysers in my land of birth, I sense that if tension is breaking the surface of the unseen, I might as well eject some turbulent thoughts myself.
Rabid supporters of the current government, some of whom I sadly count among my friends, have become angry zealots who defend dogma. I have always stood by the freak of the land, the motherless, the queer, the voiceless… So when things start to go weird, when you have to pick a side because if you don´t, if you dissent, you are consorting with everything that is evil… I choose to pick no side, but the side of reason.

Enjoy your green tea with some mint. And breathe.

Lady Astor loves you, always...

……………………………………………..

You are so damn sure.
You look at me with contempt,
Half smirk,
Shallow eyes,
Random facial hair.

You preach like the priests you hate
And outdark your foes with your lip.
Rewrite the past for convenience,
But swiftly accuse any detractor
With dirt dug from their graves.

Your flag says you stand for the poor,
Yet you side with the wealthy.
Conniving, dark, corrupt…
Relics of a past
That just won’t go.

I am the sepoy.
The traitor you must shut up,
The traitor who lived abroad
And became enamoured with the Evil Empire.
A Lady when you wish there were only pigs and whores.

You tie yourself to old antics,
Still watching the tube in black and white,
While the wild colours of the multiverse
Keep blinding newborn souls
That you haven’t yet touched.

You drone.
You ignorant.
You fool.
Just a tool in the shed of Shylock’s den
Ready to serve.

You are the heckler in my speech.
Shouting obscenities because I don’t believe.
Come up and debate with me,
Share my stage,
Wake up and be free!

Because if you want me to take sides in your binary game
You’ve lost me since the first day.
I do not perform for the blind,
So whatever you hear me say
You will only get it if you wake up and play.

I only wish I am mistaken,
I wish it just for your sake.
I wouldn’t want to be where you are standing.
When Shylock and his aging queen
Demand their pound of flesh.

……………………………………………..

The Coldest Day of the Year

No preface today, just poetry, in remembrance of Martin Inda.

....................................................


I’m brewing in hate,
The worst of all emotions.
I lose another friend
In such a short term.
I’m tired.

When you lose a friend
That sense of loss
Invades your soul.
Who will be there to tell our stories
When all our friends are gone?

All the images of times spent together
Flood my mind’s eye
In this chilly weather.
It is the coldest day of the year.
Tears warm my cheeks.

Times too hard,
Times too hard are getting to me.
And cold crisp air,
Reminds me of all those friends
Who couldn’t stay.

Who is to tell,
When the time is up?
As the Fates keep spinning the thread,
I wonder,
Who will be next in line for Athropos´s final cut?

....................................................



"The Triumph of Death", Pieter Brueghel The Elder, 1562, Museo del Prado, Madrid.