About the translator: Oswaldo Perez Cabrera is a Mexican journalist, Writer and translator. He says:
We are an artistic, multicultural and multimedia group. We are a resistance group- our revolution is through art. A movement was born. Vorticism. We are against all kinds of repression, racism, censorship, manipulation of the media that dries your brain like the drugs that transit freely through your neurones while your leader smokes a joint on a stationary tank over a street called revolution, while the money wraps the world in unmeasurable poverty, while Indians are an endangered species, while brothers making holes in brothers and the ozone layer crumbles down flooding the atmosphere with unbearable white noises. Hunger becomes a cannibal maybe because we became predators of souls. Screaming souls trying to break free from closed books, maybe because pigmentation decides who dies tied to a filthy log in a muddy catacomb, children are eaten by our neighbours, greedy hands raping our fragile values and we hide our Gods in a dark place while a screen of smoke clouds our manipulated vision; our red watered vision; and Hope is just a big industry where the profits are the roductions of idiots and war is the Machiavellian means to a twisted end. Polychromatic bullets dissolving dreams and bestial presidents finish with cattle while hiding your thoughts in a black box. Dryness until our land resembles a lunarscape. Rivers of filth running through our minds. We are fading on the rotten ethnicities of fascism. The sonic youth revolting against the murder of your ideas. Sonicvortex. We are here to make you a little happier. We are the filter cleaning our brains into purifying winds. We are the whirlwind that expands changing everything around us. We are the mirror reflecting the memories of an ancient peace. Very ancient. We are the kaleidoscope feeding on pluralism and ideas of co-operation. We are the collage launching and uniting the rain of ideologies. Linking the complex highways of thoughts. Sharing in furious calm. We are the freedom expressing through art. We need your voice of toleranceWe are art trying to change our magnificent home. We think we can change the world, eradicate poverty, educate through art. Our surrealistic tool. Our peaceful weapon.
We are sonikvortex.
Cycloramas
The morning is dressed in white, the acid snowflakes
penetrating the frozen atmosphere.
The prostitute sheltered by an old wooden board has
assured her daily bread swallowing all the white from
the man in the brown suit.
A paraplegic Vietnamese wants to explain to her love
in the Middle East that nobody paid for the damages;
in all these years.By noon, the white has gray hues mixing with the thin
air.
The policeman sheltered by his metallic batch beats up
a Centro American assuring his daily dosage of
sadistic adrenaline.
The dense gases will make necessary to wear physical
masks over our Tuesday‚s mask.
I will not be able to kiss you.By the afternoon the gray weakens leaving the way to a
brown overloaded of contaminants.
The earth trembles as if a giant orgasm erases us from
the map covering us with dust and dirt,
nothing remains between the soil and the sky.
A kilometric spot darkens the ocean liquidating
species doomed to disappear.
What‚s left to undo?The night with tuxedo reminds us that cold and dark
are good allies.
The vagabonds walk through the concrete looking for
something edible or at least „smokable‰ to fool their
organism.
Famine is another killer that does not respect time
and does not care what color is ruling outside.
Trapped in the sphere.Midnight is the absence of color, a deep black that
asphyxiates our trust.
The noctambulant creatures go out incarnating your
worst fears. The fears are consequence of the flesh
and blood beings.
Violence has moved in definitely to our
technologically rotten lives.
Lives of lost reasons.The dawn starts to paint again a rainbow of turbid
colors that will be changing with time.
The waves of the atmosphere are paved with
manipulation bitumen and adorned with a cover of
happiness.
A prayer to the sentenced, to the disappeared, to the
executed, to the tortured, to the marginated, and to
the fear of all of us.The color of the life‚s cyclorama is of gray-injustice
even though sometimes has hues of happiness colors.
War seems to be designed like a mechanism of
self-defense of our planet, exterminating our
overpopulations.
The balance of life is leaned towards sadness with
kilograms of advantage over joy.
Us, with our souls in a box.The incorporeal boy
I know a ghost that wanders the world trying to scare.
The poor is so discontinued that science is
threatening to explain him.
I don‚t understand why bullets can travel without a
passport.
I don‚t understand why bullets can travel faster than
time.
Everybody talks about the new war and we are afraid.
Afraid of the same things we have created.
Afraid of our cause and effect.
Then I don‚t understand why they vituperate nakedness
And vainglory the one that kills in combat.I remember the first time we were alone.
The taste of your tender and trembling lips.
Your breath sped me to a velocity that I didn‚t think
possible.
Life then, opened a thousand possibilities.
The discovery of growing up was invaluable.
But something went wrong. Something always goes wrong.
A tyrant also wanders the world lashing children and
Parching our intrinsic poetry.
Killing our dreams.
That one that has discontinued my friend has many
names.
The ghost now trapped, thinks next to me.
Freedom was always denied for him.
I saw its reflection nested in your immensity color
eyes.
I don‚t know where the uniformed came from.
The mirror of my life was shattered in a thousand
fragments.
Your screams of a girl were the last thing that I
remembered from this tridimentional realm..
I never had you nor never had me.
At the end, I stopped at the cold concrete.
If I could offer something to cross the gate of the
supposed millennium with you.
But now, I walk incorporeally next to my friend
wandering the world in vain taking the risk of being
interpreted by science.
Of being assassinated in a nonexistent existence.
My world aches.
But I still trust that someday we will recover the
innocence that once we massacred on the back and leave
aside the iron and the rust that we don‚t cease to
intrastate in our bodies.
Me, a vagabond child that lost his first love and his
freedom to live.
If reincarnation exists I hope to find a better world.
While I wait with the cold metal in my head for a
train to take me back.WHEN WAR ARRIVED
When war arrived I was already resigned to die. Tired
of fighting against and for dead ideals; tired of the
indifference of people that only when something
disastrous happens in their houses they get worried
about the world and then they want to change it and
they want everybody to look at their disgrace. I am
resigned to see what is there on the other side of
life. When war arrived I was tired of waiting and
praying to a deaf energy. That tiredness that beheads
the soul and makes it hyperactive. Your body produces
a substance that heats you up inside. First produces
anxiety and rage. Impotence overpowers you and you
want to escape to another country. You feel trapped,
chased, hunted, you don‚t know what to do and after
that you resign. You think that destiny will handle
things and what is the point in fighting wars that are
not yours and even if they were, What is the point in
fighting a war for more power? What is the point of
escaping from them? Until they reach you in a
different country. Because even before war arrived I
saw children fighting in these estranged wars I
realized how rotten is the system and I questioned why
should we stayed in this gloomy world; and then you
can realized that the real hell is in this life and I
think that maybe I died and this is my punishment.
That is why I decided to wait for war without any
hurries or fears, without any taboos or mercies; the
war came to show us what the human with a blind soul
is capable to do.In what moment my childhood became an antique.
When the war arrived the sky dressed up in a reddish
orange veil, it cried with tears of blood that were
dripping from the clouds only to filtrate through the
belligerent cracks and the slivered craters created by
the human metal. When the war arrived I was smoking
the roaches of bitterness standing at the foot of my
gnawed door. The trees started to disintegrate
becoming toxic deserts. Sand transformed into
diminutive weapons and the environment finished
becoming hostile. Solitude began to eat up all the
nearby towns where depending on which god is guarding
you, you become an enemy or an ally. But at the end,
the war will arrive for everybody leaving nothing and
no one left to govern.
With war the apocalyptic winds arrived obliterating
everything. Peace, I will find at last. It just
depends on how long it takes to this immense cloud of
dust that approaches at a storming speed and goes
darkening everything in the middle of the day to get
me. I see it coming nearer with a sonic sound that
bursts my tympanums, my skin burns and a blast will
leave my carbonized corpse like a sculpture of dust,
one more monument for the stupidity of men.In what moment our childhood became macabre