Mirandamatics



  MIRANDAMATICS

  by

  David Santamaria

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Mirandamatics

  Copyright © 2011 by David Santamaria

  * * * * *

  MIRANDAMATICS

  A perfect text.

  Miranda: Make me one.

  Rose crowned angel wannabe you, what's up with you?

  Miranda: I understood you. Do you see?

  Yes. It's Mirandamatics. How could Light not see?

  I made a Tweet out of it.

  Miranda: I love you.

  I love you too.

  Miranda: What do you want to do?

  I want to recreate you.

  Miranda: And?

  And almost nothing besides talking, and writing warmth spreading.

  Mary my Spirit says you kissed some another guy.

  Miranda: Just one night. Merci.

  Mary: You are doing a good one for her.

  Lets continue days long.

  Mary: Completely originals.

  How do I wanted to call you by the way, Miranda?

  Melpomene? No. Polyhymnia! Muse of Hymns. Sacred dances.

  Very serious, pensive and meditative says le Kiwi.

  Miranda: I hear you. Motivate me.

  Aren't you that lovely?

  Miranda: That's why.

  You, sat on a grassy, and sunny hill. Very white clouds.

  Flash! Lock gracefully reposed behind your right ear.

  Hello serene. Want croissants and quatrains?

  Yes? Here, crescents and qantas attendees.

  You are there, saying nothing, like a mystery.

  They say you are the pretty flawless one.

  I wish I could sing you a song.

  Oww! My face hurts. I got lazy.

  The wind stepped on me. Sorry, Mary!

  Mary: Ok, I accept apologies.

  There is black crowes singing.

  Stand up and watch them.

  Miranda: I want to marry.

  Will you Mary me?

  Miranda: yes.

  Mary: You don't have that tone anymore.

  God wants you to write a Prophecy.

  Ô world. Superb now. Let the children know.

  Don't you see that they just wait for you to go?

  Let them know, to don't become a sub-specie.

  It is coming, mighty as a song.

  It is already here, heroic as a blow.

  The Sky only needs one like that.

  https://instagram.com/p/i9ZL5jEMFN/

  You know, Miranda, writing makes the one who writes happy. A certain inner equilibrium is needed. Writing Rimbaud like, "alla Anglaise". Even if it's a dark vocabulary maze to me. I am still looking for the one who is not going to tell me: "When you'll have money".

  Miranda: "When you'll have money".

  Mmm, logic. You got me. Better ask for nothing. God knows our needs.

  Miranda: Talk to me.

  About?

  Miranda: about life. And about your Mary.

  Vast subject. Her, God the Holy-Spirit and I were born at the same time.

  Miranda: When is that?

  Infinitely ago. I almost did the tweet a few days ago.

  I am glad you give me the chance to say it.

  She looks like a lot like you. I mean like a Victoria's Secret little top Angel.

  A sweet little face like Lindsay. Legs like Candice.

  The rest, including the attitude like you.

  A voice even more fully feminine than Nancy Calo.

  She is the Absolute Woman. I believe that she loves me.

  Full of Graces, she's magic; better make her proud.

  Mary: Or die.

  It's sad you ladies ask her anything.

  Miranda: We didn't knew. But you make us proud.

  Equality! Meanwhile, I stay alone with the music, and smiley.

  I hear that I got to ameliorate my text every day. Auto-poetry!

  Miranda: That it is. Teach me something.

  Mmm... wait. I guess you don't care about Mirandamatics.

  Oh, you care!? Keep waiting a bit. I find nothing.

  Let me go outside make some blueish Flower of Havana clouds first.

  https://instagram.com/p/jMm8ssEMA8/

  I am back in a little while.

  Mary: With something to teach you.

  Miranda: Something from your past.

  Countless time, when I was a kid, I saw that road sign saying: Miranda de Ebro, this way, and not that far away, but you will need a car, crío! The Spanish outback used to start just behind my grandparents house. These summer holidays were so magic. But it's not like teaching you something... from my past. Ah! Got one! Listen to this. Someday, there was a "Fiesta" in the village, so, for the youngsters, they released a young bull in the plaza of down below. In that village, we the kids, when it was time to sort teams for some village sized games, used to be from the plaza of arriba, or, like me, from the plaza of abajo. But it was one of these day when we were just kids. So, imagine, the children like me, not taller than the bull, safely watching what was going on from the protective heights surrounding that little plaza, and the older ones, running around the toro! toro! toro!, redding, trying to touch him, to ouch him, running again, hiding behind a parked car, or a tractor cart, catching their breath, hands then on their knees to tame their hearts, all this under the usual scorching sun, and the adult shouting good advices between wise encouragements. The thing is that, made drunk by the corrida, the proud bull broke his right horn, by hitting too hardly something I don't remember. So, suddenly, he was there, in the middle of the plaza, loudly quiet, poor animal, asking himself questions, with the soft pulp of his inner horn, that has the same shape than the horn who used to cover it, bloody, and dangling, embarrassing everybody I'd say firstly but, embarrassing overcoat me says Saint-Mary. And I was that bull. What a shocker! All the glances, of everybody there, with the white of their eyes now supernaturally glowing, a bit heavenly white, a bit magic blue, and watching the bull, and me, at the same time, while I was blushing, stunned like them by that epiphany, like ten seconds long. And them all looking as one with me as I was looking one with the bull. Totally Miraculous. I was there, on the heights, and I was that immobile bull, at the same time. I am sure that all of those who were present that day still do remember this Eternal moment: God teaching me something, and to them too, at the same time; that: they do not see, Son.

  Once upon a time, when you was a girlie, isn't a lizard told you that you'd become rich? See? Everybody knows that God exist. Do not forget. Even if some do need a conversion, it is not that they do not know, it is that they don't want to think about this immutable fact.

  Miranda: I want an important man.

  You mean Neo? Well, I am going to have a new pair of glasses in a couple weeks, but, I still can't afford for glasses that darken when the sun is shinning. Sorry. )

  Miranda: who cares?

  Hey! I just stumbled upon the difference between courage and temerity. Courage is the resolution in doing something, and temerity is the trust in one's ability to take hits without collapsing. Well, more or less, I guess.

  Miranda: Why do you say this?

  I don't know... just saying. You know, I am talking to a Spirit. I am lucky they still respond! I am often alone. I am starting to speak to myself a lot. A Spirit made me notice. Intelligent, emotionally stable, good looking; pick two! Dating tips...

  Miranda: You're hurry.

  You talk more and more like Mary Wisely.

  Miranda: Thank you.

  You are welcome.

  So, it's Wednesday, January 22, 2014, 19h50 Central European Time, when is your new Instagram coming? I am starving. Saint-Mary demanded me a book as beau
tiful as possible. I plan to make it with you. At least tell me that you are reading Talking with Angels! The new world is made of beauty only.

  Miranda: I am. What are you doing?

  I am at The 3 Kings, drinking a Carlsberg and daydreaming these prosaic lines. It was a long time since I came to this bar! I just happen to have started a conversation with Mark, one of the barmen here, a few weeks ago, at the Irish pub The Pale, because he was speaking English, and because I want to move to Los Angeles. He's Irish! I told him that, hey!, I will come to drink a glass. The music is good. And, hey!, quite sexy women my age come here too. A man can dream... I seriously need to fall in love, so I got to believe in it again, or The Sky, with reason, is going to be mad at me; and believe me, in the Sky, they are many.

  (Instagram twitted by @MirandaKerr at 23h09 Central European Time)

  https://instagram.com/p/jfMTHAkMOP/

  Miranda: You are fantastic.

  You are quite fantastic too. Shall I call you Boo?

  Miranda: What are you doing now?

  It is now exactly 0:00am, Thursday 23, and I am watching The Hunger Games: Catching Fire. It appeared today on The Pirate Bay. Good night.

  Thursday evening. Drinking a beer with a spiritual Queen.

  Miranda: Wait for tomorrow.

  Ok.

  4:04am, Friday 24, and you want this to be at least 15 pages long.

  Miranda: Write as one's live.

  Charles Mingus' bassist is walking around the best of.

  Mare or kangooroo could now both as well be you.

  Copper hands experiences night ballads for mads of.

  I better find a twelve foot with a clever Boo.

  Miranda: That's a quatrain.

  I wonder where is this going.

  Miranda: Try a new one.

  How to write poetry without talking about love?

  Damn, it is again a thirteen one over line.

  Trains in a violin for sure got to go above.

  I better start with the last 1 2 3 4 mine.

  Hey, not bad! Heavens... if only you could read me in French. My first book overcoat. When I was infinitely in love. When the Sky gave me a thing or two about poetry. I can't wait to see your next instant square.