Ducks
chair - or eloquence shared loneliness - 
The tree - or eloquence to Christmas - 
By Don Fer
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Lawyers Panic Attacks
chair - or eloquence shared loneliness - The tree - or eloquence to Christmas - By Don Fer
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
What Does Myopia With 1.25 Mean?
October 2, 2008
NOT FORGET
Photos by: Don Fer
En route
Street Lighting 
Las Pintas Destroy
state 
ANARCHY
Topping, hope never dies
Confrontation
outbreaks of violence
The "security" protecting hotel
transnational 
greet the police
repression against
Any fence is good to express
The contingent Punk band, always present
if:
not forget 
Monday, September 8, 2008
Rhino 4 Evaluation Patch
Dedicated to the band of UTA with which I spent beautiful moments full of light, music and dance ...
"Eternity is in the pages of a tabloid"
I am a poor devil who works at night and sleeps during the day wrong. I never thought that death would affect my life so much so. Insomnia in the days of depression was unbearable to the extent that I was about to tear my eyes to winnow out the window of my room every day that mangy dog \u200b\u200bsaw me sad when I left my home.
Accept the work for the need for formality and although my two years of nightlife closer and I see the edge of the end I still like driving my car on the roads in the dark watching me irreparable crashes where blood flows freely through the streets, prostitutes on every corner offering magical and comforting to those crazy vampires travelers that come to try to suck some of its soul full of sorrow round full moonlight where lives are at risk for a pesos.
it has become in my life: Vampire night visions and solitude accompanied by moments of almost always on the wet pavement reflecting the neon lights of the city on its black surface filled with stories that would absorb. And while it's sad, because I do not see more light, excites me to live with the imminent danger to me. Finally we are all close to the dividing line that separates some of the other death and eternity.
I've seen people die in car accidents. On one occasion two young men gave their lives when I will escape to eternity. His fate was to die and their crazy screams filled with despair, his last breath and the smell blood from the debris and twisted iron never erase from my mind: one more memory to the chest that keeps my anxiety, my madness, my anxiety and my depression broad, extensive ...
And that since she died and I do not want out in the sun, the days that are so common to the majority. I have no desire to go to the supermarket early the park to eat ice cream in the afternoon, to buy a hamburger into the night. I'd rather sleep in the day dreaming of what might be but it never materializes beautifully stays there, in the recesses of the unconscious ...
Yes, now I'm unconscious.
And when awake and I rise from my bed, drenched in sweat and still having visions play, the only thing I managed to do is to prepare my immediate destination. And no long-term plan because I have the idea, and irrefutable, it will soon reach the end. There is now only survive and eagerly wait to get next to this couple to hug and say, I finally arrived! that everything is going well.
Never again be at her side, or in death, for I know that I go to the place of the tragic and she Ha! that of the commons. For now I'm content with being, and without spirit, by which they arrive, like vampires, try to keep my own. Always, inevitably, they end up moving away when they realize I'm empty. Flee and never return to be the same. I will continue touring
avenues lit by lanterns and dirty yellowish maybe now if is forever linked with the pavement and run my blood, my tears and my soul freely to the nearest sewer, that my eternity is expressed in the front page of a tabloid newspaper.
Don Fer. September 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
Undf Player تحميل
Ian Curtis I am alone in the great theater. The lights with multicolored flashing everyone. I'm cornered and although I am part the show and not participate in it. I decided after having faced the laughter, reproaches, taunts and jeers. I can not stand the scene or my colleagues complacent with forced laughter.
'd better act for me, please me showing my wild instincts and contradictory. I have tired of applause forced the eloquent positive and hypocritical. The melodrama of the world is fine for most, for those who need the lights on their faces and applause of others to feel alive, they are forced into the circle of life and this is going like a tailored suit . I stop spinning on it for a long time now. I tried and failed, I'm not made for this world and its complex moral and objective abstractions.
Occasionally a light flashes in my heart and seems to guide me, like a pointer, to the other artists. And let me go even if fleetingly. They do not realize but for a moment my futile spirit joined his current body. And it made me feel good, all the feelings that I keep in my soul displayed exacerbated and illuminated and better management. I've loved, hated, suffered, created and guided at the same time, this seems not to matter more than others to continue seeing me as just one more. No one will notice the difference between an actor in the world and one of spirit, of loneliness and otherness.
The tent opens and closes constantly but always the same show: they wanted to get along with others, which consistently violating human and innocent tender called by his ideals. And the audience applauded for not knowing anything else. The great dilemma of mankind is that actors do not know their role in life. Always follow and adopt the one that goes better with time, with which they can make you laugh or grieve the other. Always looking good, always.
has lost the drama involving the art, has blurred the innate sense to function freely. Now life has become too vulgar, too stereotyped and material. It has abandoned the spirit, magic involved follow momentary wild instincts.
But go ahead. Follow humanity, makeup do well, the costumes bright and trendy settle them perfectly. Leave us alone to those few spirits who wander through the night laughing sadly you.
If only I could stay with a sincere look of love, hate, anger, sadness or any true feeling I could leave in peace, but everything is played ... Continue humanity, that immortality is for the few.
I stay in my lonely magic theater, being my only audience, laughing and suffering to myself. If anyone want to enter this tent remember one thing: and if they will ever get to do would go crazy ... I already am.
Don Fer.
August 2008 The Carp ...
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Need Holiday Loan Jackson
important thing is that I consider myself a writer, how dangerous is that I am a dreamer. Don Fer. Personalities
Today woke with the feeling that he already knew: chills, anxiety, extreme sweating and exasperated heart beats, his stomach looked like a fire whose smoke ran the airways to leave their parched lips hurting the throat.
know that a new addiction had come into her life and decipher exactly what it was: I could never stop writing.
was sick weird for some or addiction may be considered at best a hobby, but for him it was becoming a necessity comparable only with his will to live. The discovery caused great suffering.
He wanted to lead a "normal and healthy", buy a car, a girlfriend, home, pet and money ... I had already tried, but his other addictions had not made fruitful reading, study, cigarettes, alcohol, night wanderings, parties and sex dominated all aspects of your life.
A bride and a start was sparked by the ideas of liberty that flowed in her head killed her. Bought a car and in a fit of anti materialism destroyed it. Got a dog and some unsettling times in a fury, refusing responsibility, gave it away.
He was heartbroken, his dreams now had high temperature. Waking at night drenched in sweat and tired scared, sometimes I could not breathe. The accumulated ideas in his head, which seemed ancient, demanded to be released, but he wanted to be reflected only wanted to be normal, not having those dreams and those needs; longed to be as you, like many others, as the majority.
wet He rose from his bed and decided to return to school - first mistake, in his walk had found old people who, like theirs, their minds were full of abstractions unintelligible insane. At the University had everything but he seemed to have a magnet that drew the most complex and crazy creatures that roamed the aisles: paranoid, schizophrenic, punks, junkies, various musicians, writers, whores and one or more different spirit of the majority.
sometimes compared himself with a insecticide for when trying to establish some relationship with some beings "safe and sane" these he fled. I saw the most with their life plans in place, with its brand new brides and beautiful cars. Listening to their conversations prejudiced against anything that violated their impeccable good manners and morals. Sometimes he felt like following them, join them, to provide even your heart as long as they were showing it to be like them ... to be normal.
always sent flying, and traveling.
Eligio quit his job - "He's second mistake I knew I needed money, lots of money in order to have luxuries, eating at the finest restaurants, exclusive bars drinking, buying the most expensive clothing stores, the latest fashion wear and use the best aromas.
After his terrible discovery had decided to go to a classical music concert at the Palace of Fine Arts in his hometown. Everything was fine and kept quiet until an officer from the government of his country adjure few words in honor of musician who would lead the orchestra - in his country ruled the right and his madness, he knew, was left She began to whistle , booing and demanding with cries angry that he be shut up and leave. I have taken from such a prestigious place if not because the whole public seconded, it was known a leader and for a moment his heart swelled.
He realized that madness is also shared and although he had not carried out their plan, taken over from an older one - to empty LSD in the drinking water systems that came to most households in the city imagined joint reaction and her skin prickle: the freedom to be experienced, perhaps for many for the first time, and would join the magic touch that gives the madness: then we all wake up from their slumber.
When the concert
learned that his world was not the majority. It looked to himself, slurred some words and decided to close the doors to the mass useless, that he no longer served. Decided to try to be the same.
returned to their old ways, repeated the ritual, get carried away sweet and a bit downcast by this new need, wrote, wrote and wrote. Almost miraculously realized that revitalized the spirit without ignoring the suffering that is now associated with something sacred. A sublime only get THROUGH the pain, elucidated.
Some of the different beings that converged on it: intellectual, spiritual creative and were at peace, which lads ran freely in summer wheat fields, but there were other parts that were not quite right: the physical, moral, speedboat, the structural and socially acceptable. Where
depressed him know he would not live as they liked to do:
write, but ramble that if it were to be the same: saturation and subsequent search for other addiction harder to continue in the same game that had been his life. Physically write
raged him: not sleeping or working, her wrists ached constantly, smoked more than they should be injected much more heroína que conseguía después de liarse a golpes en callejones oscuros en donde las apuestas corrían libremente. Sufría pero, en verdad, no podía vivir sin esto.
Cuando creaba la ensoñación y la abstracción lo dominaban todo el día: amanecía crudo, dejaba sus pertenencias - junto a su corazón - en esquinas peligrosas; se prostituía para conseguir algo que comer. No le importaba nada solo escribir… Sabía que estaba vivo gracias a las letras y eso le reconfortaba.
Dejar de lado su locura sería conducirse al suicidio. Soñaba… su rostro iluminado por una sonrisa; su casa llena de accesorios y su jardín repleto de flores y abejas water-soaking drizzle some, their children playing in the yard while he and his partner were kissing warmly saying I love you. His office would be full of diplomas, would use the best brand clothes, his doormat would be fixed in the latest fashion, is amused at the weekend with friends in a bar and then get home early to bed and talk to his wife about the hard work week ... I dreamed and saw lying on a couch watching action films in commercial cable television system.
Perhaps it was better to dream with this alternate reality to imagine that once had been a writer. For him dreams were as real as life itself and I knew that the best or maybe the worst - that will not know until it happens, is that sometimes these become reality.
not want to accept as it was, at times he tried but could not, just waiting for the destination and what this will dictate.
I knew it was coming ...
suddenly awoke. Again?
was in a room, alone. No windows or external life the only ventilation was a small gap which in turn served to spend a little food. Naked, not knowing where I was. He looked at his hands, feet and touch his face: no recognized. I did not know who he was, where it came from or even if it actually existed.
the distance in a corner I see a pencil and several sheets of paper, found it hard to know what it was. Monotonically with a reaction due more to habit than anything else got up, stretched their stiff members and approached these tools to make use of them, wrote, wrote and wrote. And so it went
telling snippets of their lives, longings and dreams. And soon it acquired the personality at that time wanted: yours, the thousands, the writer ...
destination? Would end in when the leaves were finished. Don Fer
May 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
Interstitial Cystitis And Meth
Analogy between the slut and the writer 'm so free-spirited than traveling long distances at night in my gray horse mounted four-cylinder totally lunatic, drunk and maybe even a bit dreamy and charismatic. Sometimes I pick up my friends, the whores of the Guerrero or my junkie warriors of the underworld.
I enjoy the cold air that hits my face as the speed increases, cuts it and makes my lips turn cold and raspy. I laugh openly that law enforcement officers face just look at me with quasi depressive, perhaps guessing or mulling my destiny.
And I get to where bullet holes. There is no other way to describe the worlds visible and tangible but are always underground. I keep at something that in my view seems to divine which side doors open to give a slight push to explore what lies behind: naked bodies, sweaty, smelly copulating, fusing their cells through their encouragement and vital liquid.
She holds my hand hastily, find a room where an intruder comes in terror: a black rat feet long fangs showing angry fed our curiosity, daring, leaving a little hot bed comforting and full of bugs.
And our bodies lie down next to each other to look at the ceiling where I see what should be the surface ... very far away. Inhale and exhale cigarette smoke mixed with marijuana coca that we share: we are kissing through it.
She strips showing her white and cadaverous body from lack of light. My heart beats fast excited but stops suddenly to hear is sixty dollars.
and opens her legs and a foul odor rises from the center of creation. Penetrate her with my erect member and a gas soon begins to invade the environment, I see it, smell it and I gather that is lethal. The slapped by insolent action, circle the room. I get high just a whore does not deserve to die.
When I leave I realize that the nocturnal creatures, those devils indulgent vices watching me. Trying to flee away from their radiant eyes but one of them I can see, with a kick to me heels scraping on the ground tomb, is mounted over me and kisses me warmly on the mouth touching my body and trying to envision a hole, something where to put the magic it brings. After struggling a while I inserted a thin line of white powder through the nose ... when the vacuum is that I am ready.
And I go to the surface, back into the air. But even I feel I need more, always need more. The memory of her on my bed, overwhelmed me, revives me to go snooping around below.
After a few beers in another hole and a distance not too large the meeting in a corner near Tepito and since I see in the distance, I know it perfectly symbolizes my pleasure, my perversion more entertaining and today will exploit together some gold mines ... or maybe silver.
asked me if I'm going to hit again, I said I did not know and she with eyes of infinite sadness can I say yes, but I'm not willing to hurt, I do not see his blood shed on our white sheets almost underground . I know she likes to hit it and tell me why charge me sixty dollars, says that one day I'll kill her and I answer emphatically, No! A whore should not die.
and go to another hole where rats instead of fanged, famished dogs look at us with mournful eyes ... And I lie down beside her and hug them and tell them everything will be better and not do as she rushes me with his hand to to follow. I feel like a tear down my cheek.
Once inside our room it hits my face and I like it. Out of his bag what I imagine will be a gun, but oh! surprise are amphetamines and cocaine.
I like you, he says. E
exchange: substances and she hits me I offer membership which I find hard to get. And so we take drugs and dream copulate.
When I wake up crying she looks at me and says I'm cute and sweet words you say to a hooker must not die. After a moment he snapped, but an asshole as I can.
desperate and begs him to kill me. I want this to be the last time, I want to rest with the smell permeated my body for eternity.
Hit me until I was unconscious and then with a dagger drawn my heart and give to the dogs in the hallway - I say. She asked in astonishment to me that I work ... I am a writer, I answered almost in tears.
Meditate a while, an eternity, his eyes look at me with mock indulgence, takes my hand and release the loudest laugh and have heard evil then almost shouting: A writer must not die! A writer must not die!
When I turn to look at your eyes is gone.
Don Fer.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Funny 3 Minute Long Speeches
hope sinking into the silver, get revitalized, and a little shiny. Don Fer
Friday, April 25, 2008
Example Of A Franchise Proposal
Ortega y Gasset Prize in the category of photojournalism
Who put the mines in Iraq? Stock
Gervasio Sánchez
Sofia lost a leg to a landmine when he was 14 and now, with 25, a mother of two sons and one of the stars of Mined Lives , 10 years, the last English photojournalist project which aims to reflect the histories of mine victims around the world.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Glory Holes Jacksonville'
To my family, which is always in the drinks, good or bad.
A note that lasts through the heart, memory and even the collective unconscious deserves to be respected and praised for all eternity.
The art does not occur in the sky, occurs where there is FIRE.
Don Fer.
Horacio Franco, or event XXX.
If ... The rain that fell outside the Palace of Fine Arts caused melancholy, memories of better times, that which is gone forever, lost love, of otherness missing.
Inside the enclosure was all heat, human - Synthetic: tired perfumes, makeup; many clothes say the artist guilty of this meeting. And he went ahead and went loose, wearing at most with a pair of trousers and a shirt that barely covered his torso.
Horacio Franco, flutist who celebrated three decades of professional career on 12 April is my honorary cousin as surely is clear-boyfriend, son, partner, nephew, godson of many. His personality invited to adopt.
And in this Mexico Lindo y Querido! As hard to be XXX: Thirty years of dedication to the craft more beautiful and pure that there: art, music. There is no other than Ching as it has many times the professor and fellow Franco yet so far.
Convened as hundreds of followers, thousands would have been had the chance, "I got to hell itself to celebrate the birthday of Master art. The water that fell on our clothes began to evaporate into the main hall of the palace. You could see the steam illuminated by spotlights and lights redoubled temperature.
And that started well, our earth came to light when an act of official and institutional, not required or necessary, the representative of the culture in Mexico Sergio Vela gave a congratulatory speech. The boos and whistles they leave almost no end.
bluntly, nor overtones of grandeur or poses - classical and some "artists" or "musicians" - Horacio Franco started with a magic flute solo (or should I say lips magic?). The atmosphere was heated again, a lady called air conditioning, most fell silent and began to enjoy the journey. The bop of the flute began to rumble as harmonious a way on the white walls and balconies that many closed their eyes. It is not uncommon to hear a flute solo that great. For something this musician is considered one of the best in the world.
and continued winding off amazing trips in indescribable magic.
If there is magic in music, art in general notes, strokes or letters will lead to discovering worlds I'd never carried. So many close their eyes. With its irreverent punk hairstyle Horacio driving and awareness of many. He looked like a devil with horns, showing us a glimpse of the truth.
heard from her hands and lips to Bach (The infinite, between the earthly and spiritual) to pass anything delicious and breaking abruptly. And is that the Master Horacio Franco, my cousin, broke the barrier of styling and toughness that art presupposes. Same plays Bach and Vivaldi to the Beatles, a danzón or swing. And with several rolas of Beatles, first and always accompanied by the orchestra Capella danzón Cervantes and then a swing and started dancing in my mind and heart, my body would have been if I prestigious place I would have allowed.
When the dance, several youth took to the aisles taking advantage of the necessary intermediate for those seeking air. Sweaty bodies, the smell began to lose effectiveness. Out coats. Remained heat inside: tasty. The art is not in heaven.
And commenting on the action guys excited. And is that what follows Horacio youth as it has demystified that classical music is only for Rucos. This phenomenon rarely seen and more in this Mexico as morally adult. Maybe it's because a large number of this segment of society sees it as one of their own, as a creator of art unpretentious and takes no space to express themselves pose. The youth needs to create, change the world, enjoy and take over areas traditionally targeted at adults are reflected in Horacio Franco and performance. If they wanted to adopt Franco.
The second part of the show was touching and dreamy. The drink, smoking pot or chute were brightly replaced by notes. Travels over all of them without more. Interpretations of Bach (Triossonata in D minor) and Vivaldi (Concerto in D major for flute, violin and bass; Concerto in C major for sopranino recorder, strings and continuo) blew our minds with fun and poetic recreations.
The disaster came to the concert soprapino C major for flute, strings and continuo by Antonio Vivaldi (1678 - 1741) ... Master shouted to myself, feel like giving to dance, take off their clothes and receive music manea more natural, without too much perfume or cosmetic. I would have done but "such a prestigious place," I would not have allowed. Horacio is
hippie screaming and for a moment I felt good. Don Fer
April 2008
Fleece Scarves To Sew
FANZINE VALIANT VOL 1.
Valiant Fanzine, edited by Alfonso Morcillo and John Beat ...
Contributors to this issue: Don Fer, Hector Viramontes, Yahir Alonso Ortiz, Renato Bocchio Linares, Carlos Chameleon, Ricardo Pineda Aguilar and more ... Download it
Gartis click on the cover giving up (on file appears as Valiant1.pdf and Valiant1.zip.zip)
If you want to buy form sends an email to autogestion_creativa@hotmail.com and we'll let you go.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
What Does Staffing Covers
analogy between the prostitute and the writer
'm so free-spirited than traveling long distances at night in my gray horse-mounted four-cylinder completely lunatic, drunk and maybe even a bit dreamy and charismatic. Sometimes I pick up my friends, the whores of the Guerrero or my junkie warriors of the underworld.
I enjoy the cold air that hits my face as the speed increases, cuts it and makes my lips turn cold and raspy. I openly mock law enforcement officers only quasi-face look at me with depression, or mulling guessing maybe my destiny.
And I get to where bullet holes. There is no other way to describe the worlds but are always visible and tangible underground.
at something that I keep my eye seems to divine which side doors open to give a slight push to explore what lies behind: naked bodies, sweaty, smelly copulating, fusing their cells through their encouragement and vital liquid.
She holds my hand hastily, find a room where an intruder comes in terror: a black rat feet long fed his fangs showing angry about our daring curiosity. We left a little comforting warm bed and full of bugs.
And our bodies lie down next to each other to look at the ceiling where I see what should be the surface ... very far away. Inhale and exhale cigarette smoke coca mixed with marijuana that we share: we are kissing through it.
She strips showing her white and cadaverous body from lack of light. My heart beats fast excited but stops suddenly to hear is sixty dollars.
and opens her legs and a foul odor rises from the center of creation. Penetrate her with my erect member and a gas soon begins to invade the environment, I see it, smell it and I gather that is lethal. The buffeting by insolent action, run the room. I get high just a whore does not deserve to die.
When I leave I realize that the nocturnal creatures, those devils indulgent vices watching me. Trying to flee disappeared from her luminous eyes but one of them I can see, with a kick to me heels scraping on the ground tomb, is mounted over me and kisses me warmly on the mouth touching my body and trying to envision a hole, something which can get the magic it brings. After struggling a while I inserted a thin line of white powder through the nose ... when the vacuum is that I am ready.
And I go to the surface, back into the air. But I still feel like I need more, always need more. The memory of her on my bed, overwhelmed me, revives me to go snooping around below.
After a few beers in another hole and a distance not too the largest meeting in a corner near Tepito and since I see in the distance, I know it perfectly symbolizes my pleasure, my perversion more entertaining and today will exploit together some gold mines ... or maybe silver.
asked me if I'm going to hit again, I said I did not know and she with eyes of infinite sadness can I say yes, but I'm not willing to hurt, I do not see his blood shed on our white sheets almost underground . I know she likes to hit it and tell me why charge me sixty dollars, says that one day I'll kill her and I answer emphatically, No! A whore should not die.
and go to another hole where instead of fanged rats, starving dogs look at us with mournful eyes ... And I lie down beside her and hug them and tell them everything will be better and I do as she rushes me with his hand to follow her. I feel like a tear down my cheek.
Once inside our room it hits my face and I like it. Out of his bag what I imagine will be a gun, but oh! surprise are amphetamines and cocaine.
I like you, he says. E
exchange: she gets me and I offer substances member me which I find hard to get. And so we take drugs and dream copulate.
When I wake up crying she looks at me and says I'm cute and sweet words I say fuck should not die. After a moment he snapped, but an asshole as I can. And I implore you desperate to kill me. I want this to be the last time, I want to rest with the smell permeated my body for eternity.
Hit me until I was unconscious and then with a dagger drawn my heart and give to the dogs in the hallway - I say. She asked in astonishment to me that I work ... I am a writer, I answered almost in tears.
Meditate a while, an eternity, his eyes look at me with mock indulgence, takes my hand and release the evil laugh loudest and have heard and then almost shouting: A writer must not die! A writer must not die!
When I turn to look at your eyes is gone.
Don Fer. February 2008
'm so free-spirited than traveling long distances at night in my gray horse-mounted four-cylinder completely lunatic, drunk and maybe even a bit dreamy and charismatic. Sometimes I pick up my friends, the whores of the Guerrero or my junkie warriors of the underworld. I enjoy the cold air that hits my face as the speed increases, cuts it and makes my lips turn cold and raspy. I openly mock law enforcement officers only quasi-face look at me with depression, or mulling guessing maybe my destiny.
And I get to where bullet holes. There is no other way to describe the worlds but are always visible and tangible underground.
at something that I keep my eye seems to divine which side doors open to give a slight push to explore what lies behind: naked bodies, sweaty, smelly copulating, fusing their cells through their encouragement and vital liquid.
She holds my hand hastily, find a room where an intruder comes in terror: a black rat feet long fed his fangs showing angry about our daring curiosity. We left a little comforting warm bed and full of bugs.
And our bodies lie down next to each other to look at the ceiling where I see what should be the surface ... very far away. Inhale and exhale cigarette smoke coca mixed with marijuana that we share: we are kissing through it.
She strips showing her white and cadaverous body from lack of light. My heart beats fast excited but stops suddenly to hear is sixty dollars.
and opens her legs and a foul odor rises from the center of creation. Penetrate her with my erect member and a gas soon begins to invade the environment, I see it, smell it and I gather that is lethal. The buffeting by insolent action, run the room. I get high just a whore does not deserve to die.
When I leave I realize that the nocturnal creatures, those devils indulgent vices watching me. Trying to flee disappeared from her luminous eyes but one of them I can see, with a kick to me heels scraping on the ground tomb, is mounted over me and kisses me warmly on the mouth touching my body and trying to envision a hole, something which can get the magic it brings. After struggling a while I inserted a thin line of white powder through the nose ... when the vacuum is that I am ready.
And I go to the surface, back into the air. But I still feel like I need more, always need more. The memory of her on my bed, overwhelmed me, revives me to go snooping around below.
After a few beers in another hole and a distance not too the largest meeting in a corner near Tepito and since I see in the distance, I know it perfectly symbolizes my pleasure, my perversion more entertaining and today will exploit together some gold mines ... or maybe silver.
asked me if I'm going to hit again, I said I did not know and she with eyes of infinite sadness can I say yes, but I'm not willing to hurt, I do not see his blood shed on our white sheets almost underground . I know she likes to hit it and tell me why charge me sixty dollars, says that one day I'll kill her and I answer emphatically, No! A whore should not die.
and go to another hole where instead of fanged rats, starving dogs look at us with mournful eyes ... And I lie down beside her and hug them and tell them everything will be better and I do as she rushes me with his hand to follow her. I feel like a tear down my cheek.
Once inside our room it hits my face and I like it. Out of his bag what I imagine will be a gun, but oh! surprise are amphetamines and cocaine.
I like you, he says. E
exchange: she gets me and I offer substances member me which I find hard to get. And so we take drugs and dream copulate.
When I wake up crying she looks at me and says I'm cute and sweet words I say fuck should not die. After a moment he snapped, but an asshole as I can. And I implore you desperate to kill me. I want this to be the last time, I want to rest with the smell permeated my body for eternity.
Hit me until I was unconscious and then with a dagger drawn my heart and give to the dogs in the hallway - I say. She asked in astonishment to me that I work ... I am a writer, I answered almost in tears.
Meditate a while, an eternity, his eyes look at me with mock indulgence, takes my hand and release the evil laugh loudest and have heard and then almost shouting: A writer must not die! A writer must not die!
When I turn to look at your eyes is gone.
Don Fer. February 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Waxing For Men Singapore
Your hands are no longer the same since my face is impregnated with them on my public speaking
Illustration Mae, whom I thank deeply
Illustration Mae, whom I thank deeply Cristian, to whom the letters were crazy.
The clear bottle and contents in it: a honey-colored tequila that is disappearing at the speed of small whistles that I'm smoking pot, bring me swirls emotional gratitude to those who once shared space with me. Alfaro
Saved
remember, an old neighborhood burglar who lived in Vallejo neighborhood north of Mexico City. It was he who taught me Perique coca to get me through the nose. Previously I would smoke and although the feeling is almost the same hit in the neck and eyes does not compare to anything in the world. Also I have fond
moments in my memory of the David Alfaro Sic of the band, amateur painter who died like a dog bled to death in a psychiatric hospital in the state of Morelos to paint the soft walls of his cell with his own blood, to deny the guards paints and a notebook to consider some playful activity and "dangerous."
But today I'll tell you about my friend Christian, who brought sighs of those who were fortunate to see him in his walk through the chaotic and polluted city or screwed people-poor but beautiful and full of light - and a another hole which got after lifting drains covers anywhere.
When I met him I fell in love with her face a tough but indescribable finesse, like a portrait of the Marquis de Sade. Their walk was quiet and moved his hands gracefully when he spoke, without knowing it was lovingly recreated scenes as horrific, sublime, mundane and complex with ten fingers and two palms.
All College girls following him even when he ignored them without the slightest embarrassment: do I keep whores daughters of bitches! I cried when I saw a small group of more than two girls whispered and laughed after her figure.
In my first approach I was surprised that his face had nothing to do with their manners. It was somewhat bizarre speech, its vocabulary bordering on mediocrity and the word that best whores heard him say was. He had a sense resentment towards the opposite sex that made me think he was gay, rebuttable question in more than one occasion.
I went out with Cristian for wives. Seeing that he rejected them came to me as comfort and possible shaft approach. I used them, lied to them and after two or more words of poet fell rendered illegal some still with some hope of getting something from the "other."
One morning while I smoked marijuana Cristian wonder he felt. I stared at him as I could not explain with words and to mime, as he surely would have expressed, I replied that it would be better than experienced. Since that time Cris, as many affectionately called him, never stopped eating the grass that would come to be considered sacred.
Until that time he did not even smoke cigarettes, and took no more did was elucidate and travel through the holes that were made between his fingers for several minutes when he covered his face with them before your eyes moving quickly.
studied their language but we do not see any semblance of it, it bothered me because he thought that one side must be consistent with his attitude and was rather vulgar. Besides at that time I considered myself a Don Juan, a Cortázar, a Machiavelli. My reading and analysis gave me an air of notoriety among the boys of no more than eighteen years with whom I gathered. Therefore
started to lend books which quickly devoured. Once I returned Blindness Test for two days after he had delivered.
- Ugh! Brother, I have not slept but now I understand better the complexity of the human race, "he said.
His speech began to improve their appearance denoting carelessness and fatigue and their addiction to marijuana growing. One thing I elucidated on the other arguing that there was nothing like the expression through the spoken word and the letters and get the keys to the wisdom to understand and use these routes was worth any risk.
One night during the holidays Cris came to my house sweating and confused. I had researched my address and after seemingly endless rounds had given me.
-Uf, brother I have to provide a book for the love of God, "he said
" But there are libraries for that bastard, who do not know, "I replied - Puzzled
Cris made an analogy in which my be visualized as a complex Aleph : as a universe of knowledge, without which he could not live. Almost Borges are the book I cried excitedly. Cristian understood that his dream was obsessed by literature and my face which I asked him to let him play with his hands felt cold and agile on my cheeks, mouth, nose and forehead.
A sunny day at one of our many walks through the school, told me that I saw in a dream always represents several characters from books:
- I've viewed as Don Quixote, as Justina, Chinasky, Pedro Páramo, Chin Chin teporocho, Sal Paradise, Dean Moriarty, Bull Lee, The Lady of the Camellias and even the Raven; and although there are no pictures to everyone always see your face attached to each character harmoniously - he said frantically.
was surprised, I had never taken my freak and to elucidate the extreme. I saw my favorite literary characters as purely metaphysical entities, never materialized. Cris was baffled and more haggard and mad desire to smoke marijuana.
When I smoke I do not read told me, is a train to understanding one thing leads to another, if smoked understand and understand, if not just look at letters without regard to my mind, telling me wholly convincing argument with his deep black eyes fixed on mine. I was freaking out, it raises and guardadamente hated that.
If not previously paid attention to any girl now less. Paradoxically had darkened and who was chasing me but I had already lost interest in anything other than the attitude of Christ toward life. Were complemented by literature.
A wet and rainy evening came to my house crying. He shouted that he saw my face in his hands. Between his fingers, palms, nails, and even dolls my face followed him, never wanted to see them because I was afraid that I killed him using his own limbs. He wore gloves. Cristian
was crazy and her family soon realized. He began to hallucinate and see me in the water I drank, therefore let it consume. Smoked more marijuana and once threw a glass cup to his mother that confused me.
He was held on a farm of six months which came right for me, begging for a book which does not pay, give me back I argued earlier, which never did.
Returning to his apparent daily Cristian threw one day to the tracks meter. The moth was scared, women screamed and promptly pulled a lever by an individual saved the lives of our companion.
never saw him again and never recovered more than a hundred books he had shared with him. My peace was gone also with letters printed sheets bound.
Shortly afterwards when I went to visit the hospital informed me that Christian hands was cut with a sharp glass that got nobody knows where saying he would not see a face that haunted him every passing his fingers rapidly in front of his eyes. They are not able to save, is gangrenous, and his wrists would stump pure forever.
reader I know: I have my pass to hell. Don Fer
November 2007
The clear bottle and contents in it: a honey-colored tequila that is disappearing at the speed of small whistles that I'm smoking pot, bring me swirls emotional gratitude to those who once shared space with me. Alfaro
Saved
remember, an old neighborhood burglar who lived in Vallejo neighborhood north of Mexico City. It was he who taught me Perique coca to get me through the nose. Previously I would smoke and although the feeling is almost the same hit in the neck and eyes does not compare to anything in the world. Also I have fond
moments in my memory of the David Alfaro Sic of the band, amateur painter who died like a dog bled to death in a psychiatric hospital in the state of Morelos to paint the soft walls of his cell with his own blood, to deny the guards paints and a notebook to consider some playful activity and "dangerous."
But today I'll tell you about my friend Christian, who brought sighs of those who were fortunate to see him in his walk through the chaotic and polluted city or screwed people-poor but beautiful and full of light - and a another hole which got after lifting drains covers anywhere.
When I met him I fell in love with her face a tough but indescribable finesse, like a portrait of the Marquis de Sade. Their walk was quiet and moved his hands gracefully when he spoke, without knowing it was lovingly recreated scenes as horrific, sublime, mundane and complex with ten fingers and two palms.
All College girls following him even when he ignored them without the slightest embarrassment: do I keep whores daughters of bitches! I cried when I saw a small group of more than two girls whispered and laughed after her figure.
In my first approach I was surprised that his face had nothing to do with their manners. It was somewhat bizarre speech, its vocabulary bordering on mediocrity and the word that best whores heard him say was. He had a sense resentment towards the opposite sex that made me think he was gay, rebuttable question in more than one occasion.
I went out with Cristian for wives. Seeing that he rejected them came to me as comfort and possible shaft approach. I used them, lied to them and after two or more words of poet fell rendered illegal some still with some hope of getting something from the "other."
One morning while I smoked marijuana Cristian wonder he felt. I stared at him as I could not explain with words and to mime, as he surely would have expressed, I replied that it would be better than experienced. Since that time Cris, as many affectionately called him, never stopped eating the grass that would come to be considered sacred.
Until that time he did not even smoke cigarettes, and took no more did was elucidate and travel through the holes that were made between his fingers for several minutes when he covered his face with them before your eyes moving quickly.
studied their language but we do not see any semblance of it, it bothered me because he thought that one side must be consistent with his attitude and was rather vulgar. Besides at that time I considered myself a Don Juan, a Cortázar, a Machiavelli. My reading and analysis gave me an air of notoriety among the boys of no more than eighteen years with whom I gathered. Therefore
started to lend books which quickly devoured. Once I returned Blindness Test for two days after he had delivered.
- Ugh! Brother, I have not slept but now I understand better the complexity of the human race, "he said.
His speech began to improve their appearance denoting carelessness and fatigue and their addiction to marijuana growing. One thing I elucidated on the other arguing that there was nothing like the expression through the spoken word and the letters and get the keys to the wisdom to understand and use these routes was worth any risk.
One night during the holidays Cris came to my house sweating and confused. I had researched my address and after seemingly endless rounds had given me.
-Uf, brother I have to provide a book for the love of God, "he said
" But there are libraries for that bastard, who do not know, "I replied - Puzzled
Cris made an analogy in which my be visualized as a complex Aleph : as a universe of knowledge, without which he could not live. Almost Borges are the book I cried excitedly. Cristian understood that his dream was obsessed by literature and my face which I asked him to let him play with his hands felt cold and agile on my cheeks, mouth, nose and forehead.
A sunny day at one of our many walks through the school, told me that I saw in a dream always represents several characters from books:
- I've viewed as Don Quixote, as Justina, Chinasky, Pedro Páramo, Chin Chin teporocho, Sal Paradise, Dean Moriarty, Bull Lee, The Lady of the Camellias and even the Raven; and although there are no pictures to everyone always see your face attached to each character harmoniously - he said frantically.
was surprised, I had never taken my freak and to elucidate the extreme. I saw my favorite literary characters as purely metaphysical entities, never materialized. Cris was baffled and more haggard and mad desire to smoke marijuana.
When I smoke I do not read told me, is a train to understanding one thing leads to another, if smoked understand and understand, if not just look at letters without regard to my mind, telling me wholly convincing argument with his deep black eyes fixed on mine. I was freaking out, it raises and guardadamente hated that.
If not previously paid attention to any girl now less. Paradoxically had darkened and who was chasing me but I had already lost interest in anything other than the attitude of Christ toward life. Were complemented by literature.
A wet and rainy evening came to my house crying. He shouted that he saw my face in his hands. Between his fingers, palms, nails, and even dolls my face followed him, never wanted to see them because I was afraid that I killed him using his own limbs. He wore gloves. Cristian
was crazy and her family soon realized. He began to hallucinate and see me in the water I drank, therefore let it consume. Smoked more marijuana and once threw a glass cup to his mother that confused me.
He was held on a farm of six months which came right for me, begging for a book which does not pay, give me back I argued earlier, which never did.
Returning to his apparent daily Cristian threw one day to the tracks meter. The moth was scared, women screamed and promptly pulled a lever by an individual saved the lives of our companion.
never saw him again and never recovered more than a hundred books he had shared with him. My peace was gone also with letters printed sheets bound.
Shortly afterwards when I went to visit the hospital informed me that Christian hands was cut with a sharp glass that got nobody knows where saying he would not see a face that haunted him every passing his fingers rapidly in front of his eyes. They are not able to save, is gangrenous, and his wrists would stump pure forever.
reader I know: I have my pass to hell. Don Fer
November 2007
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Kates Playground Raven Vid
unsung heroes, or maybe not. Ska
He married and had two children with a writer, homosexual consummated Burroughs, with whom he lived for a time in Mexico City (exactly in the Roma, in the Rue de Orizaba)
His place was never on earth, always been without. Spent more time fighting in distant galaxies and chatting - nobody knows beings - always carried by alcohol and pills that are getting into. It was not a writer or painter or super girl. He had no pretensions even met, lived and took the thick part of the beatnik movement as Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Lucien Carr and others.
And I admire and extol the woman who is carried as a source of inspiration, companion of the finest human perversions, and made her own.
just the human race would not exist without these heroines. Joan, who constantly sought the death playing with it (no one gets meth and alcohol on a daily basis without knowing the tragic fate that awaits him) was killed when William Burroughs an attempt to imitate William Tell style put a glass over his head and shot on target: the temple of his wife ... The alcohol, pills and the company of old William served their purpose.
And the fact itself was triggered to fruition ideas and creations insurgent embodied in books that will last forever in the hearts of those who know the works of Burroughs.
Devils and demons! We should sanctify who dares give his life as a source of inspiration for more exquisite and complex that human beings can do: writing. Bless you Joan!
I would not try to kill someone, but I go by the world stealing hearts, scents, smell, breath, sounds, touches, looks to pursue the creation and spiritual comfort me. 
Joan Vollmer
plead insanity when someone asks me about my heroes. I do not like talking about it. I do not really respect tender and ignored by those whom they consider heroes and role models to football clubs, artists, writers, etc.. Or mocking indulgence to which mental melt and economically productive beings of some sort of postmodern fantasy, saviors of the world through vulgar unearthly powers: Superman, Batman, Flash, Rambo ( read the world like the United States ).
My heroes do not have any fame or commercial label, but save as, travel and extol the everyday world seem to have super powers.
I admire and would like to be like the janitor who smoked marijuana the night in a corner near my house to do their job after cleansing and aesthetics. Or that I always find myself wandering in the small pond who more than survive living telling stories about their battles against evil beings beyond which defeats the diary, fear, disease, infection, the police Madriz and violations of crazy that permeate his sleep.
I admire my friends the prostitutes who perform miracles and revitalizing lift souls on the brink of death giving physical pleasure magic who pay and be guided by their land in hotel rooms, milky and smelly. I admire your strength, dedication, vigor, and of course his super powers, I give thanks and raise an altar to the camel that sell substances that purify and expand my mind to raise it to beyond the end where he looks at me with eyes of wonder and divine clairvoyance asking me to go. Joan Vollmer
admire her not because of being the wife of William S. Burroughs - but I must confess that I met through this - but rather by the way he lived: alcohol from young woman, addicted to amphetamines, women who broke traditional patterns of his time moving about freely, following their basic instincts and more wild than a absurd moral cover for the most immoral perversions.
plead insanity when someone asks me about my heroes. I do not like talking about it. I do not really respect tender and ignored by those whom they consider heroes and role models to football clubs, artists, writers, etc.. Or mocking indulgence to which mental melt and economically productive beings of some sort of postmodern fantasy, saviors of the world through vulgar unearthly powers: Superman, Batman, Flash, Rambo ( read the world like the United States ).
My heroes do not have any fame or commercial label, but save as, travel and extol the everyday world seem to have super powers.
I admire and would like to be like the janitor who smoked marijuana the night in a corner near my house to do their job after cleansing and aesthetics. Or that I always find myself wandering in the small pond who more than survive living telling stories about their battles against evil beings beyond which defeats the diary, fear, disease, infection, the police Madriz and violations of crazy that permeate his sleep.
I admire my friends the prostitutes who perform miracles and revitalizing lift souls on the brink of death giving physical pleasure magic who pay and be guided by their land in hotel rooms, milky and smelly. I admire your strength, dedication, vigor, and of course his super powers, I give thanks and raise an altar to the camel that sell substances that purify and expand my mind to raise it to beyond the end where he looks at me with eyes of wonder and divine clairvoyance asking me to go. Joan Vollmer
admire her not because of being the wife of William S. Burroughs - but I must confess that I met through this - but rather by the way he lived: alcohol from young woman, addicted to amphetamines, women who broke traditional patterns of his time moving about freely, following their basic instincts and more wild than a absurd moral cover for the most immoral perversions.
He married and had two children with a writer, homosexual consummated Burroughs, with whom he lived for a time in Mexico City (exactly in the Roma, in the Rue de Orizaba)
His place was never on earth, always been without. Spent more time fighting in distant galaxies and chatting - nobody knows beings - always carried by alcohol and pills that are getting into. It was not a writer or painter or super girl. He had no pretensions even met, lived and took the thick part of the beatnik movement as Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Lucien Carr and others.
And I admire and extol the woman who is carried as a source of inspiration, companion of the finest human perversions, and made her own.
just the human race would not exist without these heroines. Joan, who constantly sought the death playing with it (no one gets meth and alcohol on a daily basis without knowing the tragic fate that awaits him) was killed when William Burroughs an attempt to imitate William Tell style put a glass over his head and shot on target: the temple of his wife ... The alcohol, pills and the company of old William served their purpose.
And the fact itself was triggered to fruition ideas and creations insurgent embodied in books that will last forever in the hearts of those who know the works of Burroughs.
Devils and demons! We should sanctify who dares give his life as a source of inspiration for more exquisite and complex that human beings can do: writing. Bless you Joan!
I would not try to kill someone, but I go by the world stealing hearts, scents, smell, breath, sounds, touches, looks to pursue the creation and spiritual comfort me.
is why today I toast to Joan, for my friends drunk and drug addicts every day with their looks tempting and discoverers, and other superpowers, save me from the evil keeping me in this world.
toast to the women who surrounded me taught me that happiness exists, even momentarily, to overcome fears and anxiety that causes loneliness, for those old tramps who have shared blankets and alcohol me to take care of cold and warm my spirit of the fighters fighters, with their blood bullfighters calm in me the need to see my own sidewalk shed on indecent.
For you, unsung hero, this is what I can offer ...
Don Fer. February 2008
toast to the women who surrounded me taught me that happiness exists, even momentarily, to overcome fears and anxiety that causes loneliness, for those old tramps who have shared blankets and alcohol me to take care of cold and warm my spirit of the fighters fighters, with their blood bullfighters calm in me the need to see my own sidewalk shed on indecent.
For you, unsung hero, this is what I can offer ...
Don Fer. February 2008
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