Perception Cauterised

William Alva

Perception Cauterised

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P E R C E P T I O N

C A U T E R I S E D

2da Edition

WILLIAM ALVA

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Second edition: October 2026

© All rights reserved. Perception Cauterised

© William Alva

Published by: William Alva.

Layout: Jose Manuel A. Sanchez. Cover photograph: © Fotolia.es

Covers and cover design: © Jose Manuel A. S. Printing:

ISBN:9798177094878

No part of this publication, including the cover design, may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, whether electronic, chemical, mechanical, optical, by recording, via the Internet, or by photocopying, without the prior permission of the publisher or the author.

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Dedicated to all men who, like me, ask themselves:

What is the meaning of life? To those anonymous souls who are always waiting for light and truth. To the invisible ones who seek ideals of true love.

To my father.

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The Syndrome of Paradigm Perception

Acolytes of the unchanging day

were shattering the human,

overbearing in their assumptions and attitudes,

always seeking to oppress him

for his indigenous race,

for his scant wealth,

and his uprooted culture.

These soliloquies of the power elites

sketch out colorful mockeries,

theorizing responses

in convulsive logic

that leads astray

from the path

and from nobility.

Makeshift ghettos

for those who merely gaze at shop windows,

believing in decrees,

turning away from the morning

and from the faith

of hope

of the native day.

Preconceptions of the ordinary

judge and destroy;

and if it is moral,

they all proclaim you,

with one voice,

boring…

loser,

fanatical.

Why do we believe in gold?

In being more than those people

when we never shall be;

perhaps distinct, yes,

when we do not think solely

of our own life

but of theirs as well.

The customary old-fashioned colleges,

distant universities,

academics far removed from the self,

countries from A to Z;

whoever hoards riches

is the one who does not live

off their neighbor’s treasure.

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Systematosis

Insensitive climates greet the dawn,

tempting us with habitual failings,

common enigmas, common crossroads,

and fools who claim to know life

through an astrological sign,

as though we were inert clay.

Processes fall like dead science

amidst disasters,

in the wrath of giants

who feel themselves to be gods —

giants who dominate the pulse of the day,

giants obstinate in brutal power,

giants who talk to themselves,

giants arguing with those imaginaries,

but the human blood they drink harms them.

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It rains mercilessly on the traveler,

and tomorrow there will be a savage sun;

dying and thirsty he goes,

his mind wanders wearily

thus begins the contagion of bitterness

within us,

when no one listens, when no one answers.

The giant, excited by the blood he drinks,

curses the land of the living;

he hurls his enormous sword at another man and slays him without mercy;

ten thousand more fall,

yet he scoffs and rides upon his dragon.

Afternoons of thought and sustenance

course through the blood, unsettling life,

making us believe in chimerical things;

yet many beings are dust, earth—

sage and awkward, together lifeless—

long endure the afternoons.

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Human enigmas are almost solved,

plus the suffering broken across the earth, wearing down the frail

into the human sea;

innovation grows in insensibility;

the soul’s garment, at times, becomes

a monster.

Tragic nights

plunge the day into vanished phrases;

monologues of libido unfold,

filled with confused serpents;

yesterday you spoke of idealism,

O human guide!

And today, you deride with cruelty;

tomorrow, you shall trifle with the soul.

Sensitive atmospheres shroud the night,

and a voracious sun dies in the distance;

on the streets, weary walkers return

to their familiar homes

with the same routine

as the day before yesterday.

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The crickets chirp ceaselessly;

the birds huddle together,

and humans set out to soar naked

through skies laden with the height of vice,

laden with images, with narcotic hues,

lakes of alcohol.

When shall you say no, young apprentice?

Thoughts rise towards those clouds—

clouds that harbour vertiginous thoughts,

murky thoughts, thoughts like viruses.

Schemed fury surrounds the wayfarers;

once they were brothers, now adversaries;

once they played sweetly in the garden,

and now they annihilate one another;

son of the potentate,

what are you doing to your brother;

you asked yourself, too,

whether it was just to kill,

and yet you slew,

through the notion of a necessary evil,

you were transformed into a vile monstrosity.

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Endless dawns, full of magic,

full of that voodoo sorcerer’s

delusions of grandeur,

it begins to grow cold;

it’s summer, and it’s very cold,

the sickness is palpable;

the air reeks.

Excited and drunk on destruction,

the giants sit barking;

war rages in their hearts;

they slander the people

drooling with power,

oblivious to the growth of the self.

They break system after system;

they grow bored of them;

they discuss irrational logic,

they devise equations to suit their purposes;

they educate to be lauded,

they accustom man to medicine,

sapped by vanity

disgusted by the smug rebels,

they revel in the chaos.

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Metaphorical, ravenous chaos,

you feed on the innocent remnants,

of lineages and of those without inheritance;

what mighty winds speak

as they rage round us.

This I know: that we are never alone

this I know: that a psalm is our sword

until the trials pass,

until the jaws of the destroyer are shattered,

my soul is crushed.

Shall it awaken?

Yes. It will awaken.

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This I know: that we are never alone

this I know: that a psalm is our sword

until the trials pass,

until the jaws of the destroyer are shattered,

my soul is crushed.

Shall it awaken?

Yes. It will awaken.

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Limbic

Luminous huts, people in rapture

in the pronounced days of satire —

they yearn to imbibe truth

yet cannot,

for the skin constricts

upon their foreheads.

Memory often disguises itself

as rage; thoughts snarl

they recall the unspeakable,

they roam through squares,

of pleasure, with the hues,

and sheen of that time.

Alerts spin in the streets

in the neighborhoods of the head

in the mountains of the brain,

I see it from above —

from an uninspired sky

I can see it.

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This cathedral, brimming with prose,

has new idols, fashioned as always

by the fear of the absolute,

ruled by the dread,

men go without love.

One wishes to flee and cannot

the wicked schizoid vaunts of me;

I strive to carve a way out

and the panes of glass that compose

the somber palace,

they glisten as if they were

halos of phosphorescence,

unsettling my fleeting naïveté.

In the squares of that park,

summer has withered the verdure

I see only a few trees,

I hope they remain forever,

Yet it shall not be so.

Where do my emotions perish?

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Megara

I have heard nothing of it;

there is but a single copy of the same;

it’s like speaking of diaphanous poetry

when the earth sways with iniquity,

and I do not think that verse

about the skin is what I yearn to read.

In the northern realm of literature,

I have sought to learn from the wise,

yet wisdom was not to be found

in the volumes, nor will in their wills,

nor joy in their desires,

and at times I disdain them.

I have not said ‘yes’ to everything,

nor have I said ‘no’ many times;

I seek not to impede the good,

the good that heals wounds

when raging fires besiege the dwellings.

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Those children, gifts from heaven,

smile and play beyond Theognis,

beyond that heartless conspirator

of poetry;

instead of guiding minds,

he further corrupted the innocent light.

How can we disarm the wicked?

How much depravity snorts the air!

they furtively conceal evil with laws,

they overthrow governments

so they can swoop down like vultures to feast

upon the vulturine remains

of this century.

They devise formulas, ignoring variables;

unethical entities,

cities of vice;

they throw wide open the doors to stupidity,

to the deranged who converse with the wall

to judge humanity.

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There are always forms of wickedness;

some hoard science and stars,

others erect castles upon the rocks

on slopes pointed towards the sun,

which they deem impregnable,

when all shall be melted;

there are always forms of evil–

look at the history of humankind

and say, ‘this one yes, this one no.’

What shall those born today eat?

There is money to spare in some homes,

homes to spare in some hands,

ill decisions to spare.

You, human, who conceive of philosophy;

you who seek truth,

you who speak of chaos,

you who feel like a new Acropolis,

you who deem yourself wise,

you who pray in a temple,

you who fashion colour

who possesses vineyards,

who tames oxen —

when shall you truly love?

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The focus of a long tunnel

I saw you fly into a rage;

you seemed to be sleeping peacefully,

you were trembling in your dreams;

that perfectly ordinary day,

with a blue sky and flowers

by the wayside, you seized a knife

and I shuddered with fear.

You spoke of a bit of everything, nonstop –

the sea and the storm –

you glared with hatred,

with fury in your dilated pupils,

and like a child, you played alone;

the world made another being ill.

How to conquer the world

without being harmed, without harming

the world that flirts without naïveté,

its vain rotations greying,

deliberately always turning

here and there.

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The vastness of the sea dazzles my soul;

sun gleams on an endless expanse of water;

human fishers probe into that ebb and flow, eclogues flow,

hoarding mystery in the clouds

like angels with swords

from the vast sea, and vengeful winds

whirl, filled with intense fury;

they brandish their weapons

to shatter the one who became

their foe; hurricanes sweep

in from the sea

and advance towards the land of dreams.

How can one beg in this world

if people are so unkind?

The damage affected the nerve tissue;

whilst others walk the streets,

parading like corpses.

How can one explain unusual reactions

when dreams become obsessive?

On that rainy day,

with a sky thick with clouds,

you could not go out —

yet you did.

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Fear Hadrón

Tranquility almost lost its purpose;

it vanished like a distant isle.

Where is that king

who spins conspiracies?