Eric Gamalinda Quotes

I deny the fact that when I kill time, time is actually killing me

There's a strong message of divine righteousness in dictatorships. Every megalomaniac has to believe his actions are sanctioned by God.

I'll remember your apocalypse if you'll remember mine
It will be a holiday of the senses

People who think they have the full support of God, any god, think they're invincible. They will do anything and not even think twice about it.

Let her remain where she is. A constellation away.

Today, as I look back on those years, I realized there is nothing to understand, that everything is clear to everyone all along.

Love is a fragile, useless thing. It decomposes easily in the tropic heat.

Fuck words, nothing spoken
comprehends the defiantly ephemeral.
I take my incompleteness with the rest, an exile
in any language.

The homosexuals fist fuck in the steam room
while the janitor isn't looking. He calls
and never speaks but you can hear Oahu rain.
Press your ear against the glass and heart another
life
not happening, the soundless blur of snow
on the plasma screen.

Forgetting: that, too, was the heart's slow way of healing, but it could only be done alone. Love and loss turns us into the most solitary of creatures, their mysteries can never entirely be shared.

In spaces too small for light
to crawl I'll hide everything I own.
I'll keep you there for safety.
I'll build a shelter for your
fears. I'll be your own
suicide bomber, a
satellite in the
dwindling
orbits, a
mortal
Om.

He was a poet -oh all men are when they're in love.

I love the excesses of beauty,
there is never enough sunlight
in the world I will live in,
never enough room for love.

The monsoon came, six months
of infinite rain. The towns I once knew
were wiped clean,
and everyone said it was God
revising his poem.

The poems turned up everywhere. Soon the lady of the house went into fits of hysteria when she kept discovering this attack of poetry in the most unlikely places - under doors, in the mother-of-pearl latticework of windowpanes, under jars, stones, flowerpots, loaves of bread, and even delivered by homing pigeons, around whose rose-coloured claws the young matador lovingly wound poems in which he declaimed his love in the quaint language whose provenance was unknown to the world and still evoked images of the uninterrupted empires of Visigiths, the unbridled lust of the Huns and the intransigence of the Berbers. The young maiden recognized only a few words, but to her they were fragments of a secret music: zirimiri, fine rain; senaremaztac, husband and wife; nik behar diren guzian eginen ditut, I shall do everything necessary ...