The detestable maniac's passion for his grandeur self

I hereby tender my resignation from hard late night hours in illusion and announce my sweet and soft commitment to reality. 

Yours truly,                                                                                                                    

         the boy who gazed, through a blurred and barring glass, upon his own life.

Padrone è morto! Berlingheri è vivo mas che cossa lui ha fatto?

Caress the gentle skin of a lifetime working palm, a hand swallowed by wrinkles, drenched in labor. But there is feeling nonetheless, even more so, the palpable beyond mere existence and the detachment of the insignifance of remaining simply what is but a tool, an extension of the mind’s watch and masterdom over the body. Delicate, soft hands, they are instead soaked, drowned so tragically said, in grace and frailty, serving no purpose other than that, empty of consideration and effort, the exposition.
Why insult the beautiful and candid, not an intention the demeaning or attempt to ridicule high standards in unequational presentation, establishment in poise and concealment within the looking glass. Or even an ugly untroubled hand, the good or, easily filled in, pretty does not turn the object around less dignified of it’s merit and does not steal it of a path perhaps by it lined out.

Which brings a leighman thinker, an extensively subjective, abstract to make him sound more pompous and self conscientious, watchman of the unimportant to the point precognicised in the beginning and very loosely attained by the random choice of argument turns. Obviously, you can transform or affirm that anything is subjective or relative but bear with me on what is probably known by most and what I can assure was not the direction I was hoping to take, relative in its inexistence as it may be, I didn’t do a brain storm before wildy writing without objective or agenda. The random turns correctly chosen advertised a few lines back are not the dimension in which the next thought inserts itself. So, objectivity, ugly isn’t necessarily visual, an aid to the pleasure of the eyes can be deceptive, a little less typically put, a blind man can see beauty even though he doesn’t see at all. A sum of elements turns the basket heavier making the light tumbrill once overlooked or avoided into a worthy matter of consideration.
I can present before thy humble and nearsighted eyes a specimen so deprived of beauty and of an unpleasantry damned to make you awestruck and haunt you with desires of blindness, I could do so, it’d probably be fun. Anyway, a beast, a pathetic creature, an amalgam of mucosity that without an ounce of hesitation would be replaced with hospitality by a 4 hour chess spectacle, reminiscent of Chinese sleep tortures, banging ones head into nothing over and over again. But here comes what no ones been waiting for due to it blatant predictability, this creature, lets call him Henry Margassald shall we?
Well then, lets say Henry Margss as this dejected unfertilizing sample of dung likes to be referred, there was something carried through magnificently unproportional to Henry’s beauty, rather to its atrocious attack on our sight. In this spirit of the useless hypothetical, beyond the sinking in of my point, Henry Margassald was entirely responsible for disinfecting the entire western American continents water supply and thereby salvation of the impervious inhabitants of such wide confinements within what was believed to be safe. Would this amount, more like encarry a beginning , toward Henry’s beauty? Opinions are sure to split both ways or even shoot out hitting various improbable targets but I stand by my absolute defense of nothing, not my place to establish if steve buscemi is actually a sight for sore eyes or still a cause of the sore of our eyes, offense as well as flattering can be taken by your highest than most Mr.Buscemi sir but I mean no disrespect. And what’s more is that to take into scrutiny and attempt a conclusion of a generality is not so bothering but is equally autistic an attitude as administering a suppository to a homophobic obese flatulent fuck by the name of Reginald Mansfield Winchesterfercervillesmainetsserdumainet Smith.
The miracle of telling the sweet tale of a ferociously grotesque being upgrading his presence to bearable is perhaps possible but what is definate is the application to detail.
Alas, the hands of a desperate seeker of a means to live, to continue his and those of which he cares about lives become, although harsh and inelegantly rugged, a Venus de Milo of labor and testament of a mans dedication to what is truly necessary and the abdication or lack of curiosity towards the superfluous that has made man lose touch of such primitive yet vital values. And although Bertolucci is most probably my favorite film director and a man to whom I extend my greatest respect and admiration as well as hope concerning his not so perky health that we have so been accustomed to, I do not intend to leave my own written testament of communism or grace thy glued ass to which I apologize for the trouble you will encounter departing the chair that is by now already an extension of your body with the vision of the bohemian, spectacle that was seen in Novecento by way of an enormous red flag woven together by the “proletariat.”

If I have Rita Hayworth’s hand, the undressed final end of a magnificent limb exposed oh so carefully could I dare to deem it unfit of my kiss and tremble? Could I confidently and provocatively to the extent of one others very empty life put the vanguard stripped majestically entangled carnal object of even the most peculiar hunched being besides the callous, worn out tools of a man in service for more years than he can count outlined for his own enjoyment? Or need say more, relegate ravishing Rita to the revolting rear of the realationality of remainings, rebel ranting against curfew, dedivasize her in light of the lowest in the chains good deeds?

The intent of a short, primarily bull shit driven, thesis was the instating of seriousness and meaning in one other piece, but of fiction, meant to be done by picking up these psyche cherries, but now I sleep.
Farewell and a merry December to all ya depressed or happy with this pumpkin of tiring emotion.

A palavra estimar é uma das pérolas da língua portuguesa

He has found a suitable person

A girl to fit his age

To tread through the cycle cage

The intwinement towards immersion

 

A history of phases, rites of passage

Jumping, averting lives of marriage

But now damnation t’is not considered

Establishment of humble anarchy, order withered

 

Pulling away a mighty curtain

Of cold war implications

For now, no tresspass, that is certain

The ambition of relations

 

Demmur, deliver, drop

The hungry beast so famished

No writer’s block, no search for plot

Instead to have it ravished

 

Steady down, ease up your stride

Control the need to rise, relate

Confide your silence, make my mind your own

 

Overlooking constant rush to react gives pride

Remain in tranquility, don’t exacerbate

Speak through voids, words unknown

 

The arms are but a consolation of a pain unfelt

The embrace to conclude the predicament dealt

My feet on a fine line across niagara falls

Do balance with the crucified position

Of a lesser radical submission

Though towards a reverie, my instinct crawls

 

To eat rice hot or cold

Advances so bold

Of a season in each others company

With no labels, no prediction but a trip to Italy