Ah Tukur

Starry Night

1

This night is just a scenario painted in dark blue,

where my wishes are disposed in an arbitrary order

shaped by the impulse of my desire

of having on each star a reason for hope,

a motivation to avoid the absolute absence of longing.

2

Which plans rule the movement of the stars?

we receive only a miraculous testimony

of their past existence,

weakly understood by the astronomic wisdoms,

successfully backed up on the encrypted speckles

of the jaguar skin.

As I remain an illiterate about those secrets,

they are carefully entangled in the stellar map,

they are patiently ordered by the cosmic grammar

too far away to my little scope and my lack of sapience,

I just attempt to be aware of their subtle presence.

3

Which rules govern your glances?

I receive your light as a miraculous prophecy,

about our future existence,

I try in vain to decode the message of your smile

hardly hidden by your recurring disdain

once there is no night.

4

I get back to my own seclusion

enclosed into the religion

of useless algorithms and absurd equations.

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Ah Tukur

Forest Road 1

The furniture is outside
and the street came indoors.

My veins are full
of a thick yellow-red liquid
from this sunset.

On the exterior walls,
the great walls,
immense graffitis
are displaying a chant
encoded in
the colourful alphabet
of seven genres
and one million
differences.

One shadow passes by,
like at the shore of a mesmerism,
riding the waves of the instant
it is unable to be grappled
by my weak hand,
is impossible it be defeated
by this strong sun.

She is in a hurry,
with rapid steps
it does scape from the wall
after an unbeatable enlargement
takes its opacity and it goes beyond.

In the interior walls
my eyes keep closed.

While my mind is opened
the sunset is done…

A rumour of fireflies
does ignite inside me.

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Ah Tukur

The wall-openers / There are no walls without doors

0
One wall is a frontier
a definition
an axiomatic construction.

A boundary of uniqueness
a prison to keep in safe,
a division of identity,
a jail to feel in safe.

A wall is a shelter to stay with friends.

Quite often, walls are the name
of bestsellers and commercial hits
with bricks made of notes and coins.

There are no doors without walls,
is the truth for the wall-builders.

I
A wall is a mandatory stop,
deacceleration is named by the physicist
contusion is named by the physician.

Sometimes, walls are the receptors of
solid judgements of angry aerosols
or
transparent claims of lonely hearts
or
semi-solid liquids of the religious faith,
semi-transparents as well.

There are no walls with doors
is the truth of the wall-followers.

II
But, walls are called line, path,
future, past, goal… death,
when named by my people.

We do not resist the obligation
to turn them into ways.

We do not resist the temptation
to turn them into gates,
and we make up our own keys
and our own bridge.

We develop an instinct, an intuition,
a pragmatical faith.

There are no walls but gateways.

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Ah Tukur

Minsky

Dear Marvin,

While going to the darkness
of the immortality
don’t forget about
the tiny work of the former insects,
around an engineered hive,
they are a kind of,
as you said,
society of mind,
little cooperative efforts
labouring day and night.

Don’t forget about
the spontaneous enlightenment
of the Avicennic fireflies,
that ignites their body
perhaps
with the whispering
of any collective truth,
sometimes called
common sense.

If talking with Galileo,
please, please,
don’t forget telling him
about the vision empowerment
given by your microscope.

If talking with Darwin,
don’t forget telling him
about the phylogeny of Snarc,
even if you wish to discuss
the evolution of eyes,
hands, or brains…

But naturally,
if you prefer
to talk about intelligence
even if artificial,
please, don’t forget
discussing
with Tepeu, Gukumatz and the Forefathers,
about the convenience of
pursuing in mood, in wood… in corn,
in vitro, and in silico(n)
experiments to achieve
emotional machines…

Please don’t forget
when handshake Turing:
we will keep stepping towards…

*in silico must be properly written “in silicio”, but the pragmatics of the language has imposed over Latin.
**Marvin Minsky (Aug. 9, 1927- Jan. 24, 2016). Prominent computer scientist credited as one of the coiners of the term Artificial Intelligence and main researcher in the field.

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Ah Tukur

Witchery I

Does the real witchery consist on what?

It is not about to take the blood of a beheaded hen
or the bones of a burned dog when still alive
or taking the last breath of a recently born girl
one second before to cut her neck.

Of course, it is not about midnight invocations
while keeping in the trap blooding pigs,
smashed lizards or ripped frogs.

It is not related to dress with the skins neither of guts or wolves,
those are weak resemblance of evil,
the former, because is cowardly surrender to the killer
after being took off from the hills and the holly stones,
the later, due it is in danger of extinction
just because of it likes to eat cows and sheeps.

It is not about the failing methods of the ancient Alchemy
when turn the low valued metals into gold,
nor Is about covering the athanor with special dusts and oils,
while singing secret songs and drinking purifying wines.

Unhopefully, it is not about the extremely naïve project of building
a King Midas’ glove, to became in gold all the touched things,
with a charming smiling face and a smell of perfumed flowers,
in order to break down the markets by dumping.

Of course it is not about to get back
the stolen benefits, dignity and hope
to the robbed peasant and workers,
by the accomplishment of a prophecy
while a holly branch of the main tree
from the Sherwood forest
is cut down … slowly.

Obviously, it is not about to be a searcher of knowledge,
nor a defender of the environment and living beings,
nor being burned to crisp
because of talking with the trees or the dolphins
instead to pray to Jesus Christ.

No, witchery, the current, the real witchery is not about that.

It is closer instead to the modern Alchemy,
following the King Sadim teachings,
to turn into feces the touched things,
it is beyond the use of a simple glove,
it is about to practice the expansion of the sadim effect,
all across the globe.

It is focused in touching all nature,
becoming things into commodities,
exporting the pestilence and outrageousness
of the generalized need to reproduce
and be part of the ending history.

It is more related to the normality imposed,
thanks to the sophistry usage of scientific knowledge
to convert Economics in a set of tricky games,
while turning poverty into myopic models,
social well-being into wages obtained by selfish calculations,
human rights into leaned trends and senseless numbers.

The real witchery today is using the number theory
to turn people into ciphers,
counted by the modern sadim followers sorcerers.

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Ah Tukur

Graceful degradation I

I wake-up daily

hoping to leave the shell of flesh and bones,
the prison of good feelings and veins,
made of hair, blood and fat,
the shelter of dead cells and dead thoughts,
thrilled by arterial pulses,
moved by vestibular reflexes,
the house of speckled windows
and the odor of unsanctity.

As a result of the dream residuals
I wish to conduct
my own source of wrong assumptions about life
and right choices about sins.

I wake-up with the mere desire
of being my own governor
of being on charge of my self-possession,
driving my flight
by means of my winged hope,
changing each solid molecule
by just the mist of a remembering.

I wake-up daily
hopig to conduct my graceful anti-self-degradation.

Instead, I just obey the sacred loop,
sleep, awake, live, work, sleep…

I wake-up with the daily commands,
preprogrammed by an unknown coder.

I just obey the instructions:
injecting blood to the nervous systems,
leaving the lucidness of the sleep,
entering into the dark consciousness,
preparing the machinery to simulate
a proper living being,
arranging the library of acts of speech
to negotiate the life
with other domesticated animals,
trying to mimic them
imitating overall their obliviousness
about the holy secret of life.

As the traces of the sacred dreams remains,
I wake-up daily
hoping to conduct my graceful self-degradation.

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Ah Tukur

Comet/Laugh

After the leak,
the immense vacousness,
a silver line
on a deep blue background,
a mutant flash
of your essential light.

[Translation from Spanish:

Cometa/Carcajada

Tras la fuga,
inmensa vacuidad,
línea de plata
en fondo azul profundo,
destello mutante
de tu luz-esencia.]

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Ah Tukur

To be a bee

I would like to be
like a bee
that flies without
nodoby disturbe it
you can stop its life
but can’t stop its fly.

I would like to be
like a bee
with a job among the flowers
the real ones, not like ours
mining the sacred gold
with no destruction at all.

I would like to be
like a bee
that doesn’t work for a wage
its freedom doesn’t fit in a cage
nor its society ruins other worlds
it has justice in facts not in words.

I would like to be
like a bee,
with a temple built with honey
where there is no room for money

I would like to be
like a bee,
that flies where nobody can see.

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Ah Tukur

Domestic Unwittingness

Who is care about the lion’s roar?
who is care about its practicality?
who is care about the pigeon’s cry?
who cares about this simplicity?

 

Who cares about the travel of a butterfly?
after all, it has only one day to live,
after all, it is just a worm that learnt to fly.

 

Who cares about the bomb that exploits tonight?
after all, it happens in a foreign land,
after all, for sure the children will starve and die.

 

Who cares about the language that would disappear?
after all, there are no writings and no one to read
after all, it has not enough appeal.
[doesn’t belong to the Empire]

 

Who cares about the ancient voices from the past?
after all, nowadays the time goes so fast
after all, its knowledge is not from at least but at last.

 

Who cares about the bright of the stars?
after all, we are here and they are so far
after all, nobody pays for seeing the sky.

 

Who cares about the swarms and their symphony?
after all, it is just noise with no harmony
after all, smashing bugs is so funny
who cares about something, in this city?

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