Artist of the Month – Héctor Castells | Cassandra Voices

Artist of the Month – Héctor Castells


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These poems belong to the Puddle Heroes series, by the hectic fish.


Puddle heroes is a collection of pictures of puddles with people on it, people not necessarily drowned as much as free floating

They are the icons of all the rhymes that follow.

All the photographs have been turned upside down, which is an involuntary tribute to the photographer dyslexia 

The idea behind it is that sometimes reality is better upside down, likely always.

And the idea behind is also that water dignifies, which is something that funerals do as well, for they are the only places in humanity, besides puddles, where people understands silence and go without themselves.

Or their ego.

It is the great thing about working with people reflected: they are egoless for they belong to your imagination.

all verses are written in pencil because sinking the tip of mine on photographic paper is an experience as silent and devoid of ego, as water and poetry are


rubble fish

my heart is a red fish
that eats blue rubble
and loves scrabble,

my heart is the
red playlist
that you yellowed
on crystal sand

on black sundays
when the lord fails to
deliver shelter
and the cripple crumble
long before
the corporate rumble

my tongue skips and rhymes
white canvas and blue velvet
as my keypad chooses the sky
against my tendency to sly

idiot as it is
stupid is it not

the algorithm
keeps playing
songs of love
and wisdom

where Newton shines
in his own rainbows



Coming to an age there’s one tear and my rage.
My skinny tree has blown all its CV’s,
floating leaves with former articles and ex professions;
colliding against empty trays&huge depressions.


once there was a notion
and two degrees.
the spirit of democracy
cost me all amphetamines
& a PhD.

could have been an orchard
with a lemon tree;
thought I knew
I wanted to be free

all my branches are now empty,
cracking slowly as one deep wrinkle.
36 dilemmas and a skinny rope
should be enough to roll down all my hopes

end of September
one more millimetre.
dripping like serum
in cold plastic bags,
early ages are crawling towards
its aftermath


oh my dog,
me life for a Xanax
Yves Tumor song
is a sonic sword;
on its tip, we rattle.

your acid work
keeps on dripping
like a double-bassed
little green devil
on sixteen deafening speakers,
sliding so close
& far away;
in absolute disarray.

this is not my fault.
It’s my fucking fall.

I gently spike the bushes,
its lighters and its promises,
words pouring away
like little green devils

out of control, not aiming
at one single point
but wondering what’s
the whole fucking point
of your endless black pint

the fucking interstellar shithole
CHAT you for hours,
while you dripped
and repeated
all your never-ending routines.

you use to rhyme your words,
in mathematical equations
of love and wisdom,
where I was the cat
and you were the snow

white forests came too early
like some guns
or most of the flowers,
that rarely appear at the start

this is you and me
together in our mayhem
so inescapable and reversed,
like a Friday
in a nasty Monday way

same sugar, identical dopamine;
your bluntness grew fat
as you kept the cheat and the chat,
trading dolphins
for mosquitoes

CHIT FUCK YOU CHAT me no more,

as your sweat drips
my body weakens
once you’d reach your vein
I’d lonely lose my name.

I neglect the errands,
and make amends
with mistakes
by fucking them slowly
up and down,
nice and gently,
in all directions;

it’s equally maddening to think
about the island by your shore,
realizing that I’m here
and I’m not

that you sink
and I don’t

the air shaking,
fucking crunching the barley
its endless swifts
in bloomless fields

spinning in layers
erratic onions:
in every thin line,
lies a fat oblivion.



a little goat sighs above my head.
softly wrapped in Sunday dreams,
her lightened breath
sweeps tomorrow’s beams.

weekend fades another
monday dead.

young ibex
swapped the heat
for two cold feet.
her former curls
got frozen under wool.
now she is like a woman
lying by some pool.
the sudden stop
of skinny orgasms,
kept her kind of cool.

wind quite blows
uncompromised frights.
a bunch of punctured clouds
are gathering to fight

little goat smells the air
and sees the cliff.
It only takes one memory
to get her belly stiff.

dirty rain recalls
the flavour of her pain.
there was no hope
in those remote slopes.

the skylight bleeds
northern thunderlights
are freaking out her tail
creature turning pale

run run run,
little young ibex.
there is no fun
in repressed sex.
far away from your jungle,
there’s an irish psycho
and a triangle.

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