The anarchy is the only democracy

The “representative” democracy is a scam, and mystifying it does not help people to realise that it is a stupidity to elect “representatives” that have the power to do whatever they want. None can represent the individual better than the individual himself, and even in his own art his representation might be incomplete. Thus, with more reason, we all must govern in an authentic democracy, govern everyone on everyone, which is equivalent to none governing. The democracy is anacracy, the power of the people is the no power, and only when the no power be powering, there will be authentic democracy. Anarchy is the only democracy.

In defence of the nones

Betwixt the white pointy acute house and the minipalace of granite hundreds of persons whose houses do not express the immigrant spirit nor the working spirit of a remote populace reside. Orphans sad or glad, or mere chaps ignorant of the history of their parents.

Between the Lebanese centre and the Catalonian association, there is a little park anonymous of «prosperous» «ethnic» neighbour communities. But that uncategorisable people, lacking colour, legend or gentilic, enjoys thoroughly the sublime pleasure that only a meadow with tress can provide. The no edifice with its no walls, its no halls, and its no offices; is there a better place for the no somethings?

Cerulean dream

I dreamt thee yesterday:
Pneuma, wind, birds, love…
Two strings and a bandoneon.

Poems with my feather I sketched thee:
Azure ink on thy paper skin.

Euphoric breezes:
Fascinating transmutation;
of platinum windows
and not of crystal.

The tango
enlivened thy magnetism,
singing
our bodies we united,
and with mist
the stars we faded.

«Say no to the impossible»
they adverted me,
but they never met thee.
Neither did I.

Psychedelic perturbation

She

I enter the room, in which she is sitting on a black stool, waiting, with an appearance of curiosity, for what will happen. I told her that I had something important to give her, that I had found. A book, she must imagine, one more of those things, written by meddlesome and irrelevant third parties, to which she dedicates much of her time. She does not know that it is not a book, but I did not want to tell her what it was, because I thought that only by waiting for more of those quotidian objects would she come so close to the room, and wait there until she received something.

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