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The horrowshow Milkbar

also known now as the best mesto

for my droogs and me,

where, “What’s it going to be then, eh”

is the question repeated

by malchicks and devotchkas …

any random nochy with a thirst

for twenty-to-one, or any other

way to filly out the bezoomny

we feel trapped in the old mozg.

 

Bog himself knows the starry lewdies

try everything they can to escape

their grazzy cheepooka. They

have different ways of lying

about the jeezny, my brother.

 

But if you viddy their glazzies

after a few rounds of their

favorite poisons, behind their guffs

and ha ha ha creeches

you’ll hear from their poogly rot

what sounds like a hound and horny

excuse for why they wake up every

morning to ookadeet their domy and drat

for the measly hem-korm in their pockets …

why they rabbit until their plots

fall apart and are left with nothing

but to itty or take in

the last unending spatchka.

 

It’s why we’re showing mercy, my brother,

and a beautiful thing, kleb and krovvy,

when we take these broken vecks

out back to bend ’em at their altar

in the darkness of the alley

and smash them in the litso —

make a mark in the rassoodock,

so it plays like a shoomny sneety,

like a scene we’d see at the sinny.

 

It’s the only way to prod a bratty.

 

* Inspired by a student who invited me to read and discuss A Clockwork Orange with him.

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On one of the days

of that week of creation

(the sources aren’t sure

if it was the 3rd or the 6th)

the angels were told

to bow down before Adam

for man was God’s favorite

invention; made as he was

in his own image

from the mist and the mud …

how could this tiny

material thing, be greater

than those who’d known only

Heaven?

And this is when

the angels conspired to whisper

forever into the ears of men,

lies about the nature of nature

and the terrible predicament

that we are all in.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2018. All rights reserved

 

 

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Ten years ago this month, I started posting here at WordPress. It was (and still is) just a way to share some of my “creative” work with the world. It has been an inconsistent, nonsensical, non-sequitur of a blog, but I am glad that I started it. Most of the things I find interesting or entertaining, still end up just as ideas in one of my many notebooks. I am not a working artist or writer, but more of a scribbler, a doodler who occasionally stumbles across something interesting that might be worth sharing.

Most of it isn’t good enough to share, of course. It’s just me entertaining myself.

But I didn’t want the TENTH ANNIVERSARY of this blog to go without any posts, so I turned to my notebooks to see if there was anything worth sharing. I’ll let you decide if there was anything interesting. What I found was:

 

 


Happy suns, angels and mystics?

A sketch of “Slenderman”

I made for my oldest son, when he was into that sort of thing

“Voynich manuscript sketches”

Drawings inspired by the supposedly mysterious and undeciphered book. My intention was to color them in, but I got bored with the idea and moved on.

AND Drawings made just messing with a fountain pen.

“madre y muerte”

“mi familia”

“terror from the sky”

I love having a creative outlet that is also a kind of electronic repository for my thoughts and ideas. Long after I am gone (if net non-neutrality doesn’t wipe me out) this blog will exist as advertised: “the journal of a man living outside the demographic sweet spot”.

Thank you to anyone and everyone who has ever stopped by, accidentally or otherwise. I never imagined I would still be posting ten years from when I started. But I am glad that I started.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.tenth

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Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.

Pen on paper, Inspired by Kandinsky’s Little Pleasures, No. 179

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I want you to know

that this started

as a suicide note,

 

that I wanted to end it

by slitting my throat …

 

cortando la lengua

ahogado en sangre

 

kicking and punching

because I was angry –

 

buscando salida o comida

pa’l hambre

 

before I had realized

how this

was coming along.

 

That the words I was

writing transformed

into poem

 

palabras perdidas

de mi corazon –

perdona mi arte

si no tiene razon

 

when by

language and meter

it turned into song

 

filling some hole

that was born and

kept growing

 

nunca sabia

si venia o me iba

 

before I had learned

what was worth

knowing … and by

writing discovered

where the muses

were going

 

tormentas privadas

y como me joden

 

that language

could save me

enslave me to living …

force the forbidden

I keep hiding and

hidden

 

me salvan … palabras,

alarmas y espadas,

siembrada sin planes

que encuentro en mi alma

 

inside me

whatever it is I

awoke that drives me

also derides me …

it’s haunting, but lively

 

idiomas que usan

qualquier instrumento

buscando sentido

y razon pa’l momento

 

and despite it

I keep writing

along

 

like beating a drum

turning the silence

into a hum

of a rhythm to come

flowing and stirring

the smoke and the rum

 

asking me questions

of where I was from

making me look

at what I’ve become

 

the meshing of parts

that somehow you think

is less than the sum

 

the stranger himself

the prodigal son

a brother and father

con un corazon

 

and nobody knows

where it is I belong

they haven’t discerned

if I’m right or I’m wrong

if I’m noise or I’m song

 

But I want you to know,

that while you

may not always love me

yo siempre te quiero

y no puedo, sin ti.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.

 

 

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for Alex, who said he hates me

 

 

It weighs heavy on me,

the things that you say

when you’re angry.

 

How mean you get in a hurry.

How blurry your love seems

at times. Your tongue becomes poison;

betrays our lives together …

we’ve been just fine. But

at times like these, I’m lost.

 

It’s the cost of being your Father,

not your friend. I know.

For now at least, my love,

I will take your slings and arrows,

ignore the million cuts –

 

I’ll tend instead to other seeds

I’ve planted … and hope for you,

strong roots, water, air and plenty of room,

And of course, a great bloom.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.

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birds

Digital collage for a friend

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2017. All rights reserved.

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