La golosina del mar
es lamer la sal
en tu propia piel

Regreso

Regresar al Sur
de olivo y puro pino.
La playa de la infancia,
piel tan tierna,
corazón intacto
gozoso como el aire
salado en los pulmones.

Desde esta piedra
veo la sierra,
¡y el mar!
¡el mar también, papá!

Y mi padre se ríe
pero no me entiende.

Sierra, mar y árbol,
pero sobre todo,
mar, mar, mar.

Es difícil

Es difícil explicar,
apenas,
qué atracción sangrante
ejercen sobre mi
lejanas almenas
y salinas que se extienden
hacia el horizonte.

Recuerdo que la carretera
trazaba una amplia curva,
igual que recuerdo un sol cegador,
padre amable,
lejano pero reconfortante,
como un hermano mayor
que te da seguridad
desde su privilegiada situación.

Recuerdo también
la calmada excitación
de un verano baldío pero intenso,
cuan lejos hemos abandonado
las preocupaciones absurdas
de la blasfemia y el fango
de los días venideros.

Recuerdo que con el calor
las ventanas estaban cerradas,
y los coches aparcados
parecían fatigados,
en una especie de hábil suspensión;
cortinas veladas,
ojeras tapadas
bajo gafas de sol.

Bajo un arco amurallado,
testigo de miles de días,
unos chicos jugaban al fútbol
por el puro placer.
Ajenos.
Alegría y yo mero espectador.

No recuerdo las conversaciones,
apenas veo la personas,
aunque en mi alma
la certeza es fuerte
como la sensación pura y limpia
que tanto añoro
en mi pequeño refugio distante.

Snapshot of the world

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These are not my skies

These are not my skies,
this is not my rain
pouring down.

Yours is your own walk
to walk alone
under the sun that you alone
choose to follow.

We'll sleep in the same tents,
but under different moons,
only maybe in dreams touching,
or maybe not.

Fish and chips

Fish and chips
at Dyoniosios,
on cold thursday night,
back from the club,
waiting from the bus
in the shivering fog,
laughing like there's no tomorrow
coke-fuelled
and undrunk,
with the music fading away
in the head,
not looking at the sky
even once.

Old proverbs and adages

He who will ask,
answers will find,
or so they say,
in from the ether or
some highly purveyor
or from deep your inner core,
but it's all a lie.

Tangled in the medusa's hair
of our dilemmas,
wilfully breaking away
from all anchor and harbour
in our haste for departure
going nowhere fast.

No one seems to be asking
no more,
for they hate what they
do not understand,
what they cannot wrap
their little minds around.

In Praise Of Socialism

First they tried propaganda,
and it did not work,
so they tried famine
and repression,
and still it did not work.

They did not get their
dear revolution.

So they tried agrarian,
and they tried industrial,
and intellectual too,
and none of it worked.

They did not get their
dear revolution.

They only managed to kill
their own people,
which is what they
probably wanted in the first place.

And so, they tainted
the centuty with blood
and gulags,
and genocides
and famine and lies,
for the sake of a revolution
that did not want to come forth.

Now they changed tack
in their will to fuck,
repression coming
now in waves
of multiculturalism,
language subvertion,
left-enviromentalism
and terrorism,
all of which is approved of
for all of it
is socialism.

HH.RR. Management

Lose your liver to coffee
and stupid projects.

Embitter your soul
to spreadsheets and meetings.

Alone.
Turn around.
There is noone.
I mean,
they are there,
but not to you.

Even the faulty router
blinks at you
unacknowledglingly.

You're a toner-weak xerox
on the road to oblivion