Su silueta negra, recortada
contra el tulipán onírico.
-------------------------------------------
Suave tejido translúcido,
carótida y crisálida
del bokeh más perfecto de todo oriente.
-------------------------------------------
La sangrienta via amarilla se enreda
persiguiendo la orilla del sodio
con el hálito insomne del cielo.
Ya llega el Caronte cotidiano al puerto,
precedido por el confetti del diésel.
Cambian de mano las monedas,
como quien guarda un año más
la decoración del árbol de navidad.
La cara aún con el asombro dibujado.
Se me han escurrido los manillares
y perdido deliciosamente el control.
En la calle angosta, permeada de rocío,
nada me importa.
Sólo queda el hormigueo instantáneo
al ponerse la corbata.
-------------------------------------------
El pulcro velo de la mirada,
el ser envuelto en fuego y humo
disuelto en el sensual fogonazo
que hemos imaginado para nosotros mismos.
Denim, fuel, tabaco y alcohol.
Siluetas recortadas a medio grano.
Solamente se distinguen los pasos
pero no los viandantes.
-------------------------------------------
El sol que tienes detrás
me impide ver tus preciosos pechos,
y la luna de mis lujurias
me haría cruzar mares y
subterráneos atroces, solo
para morder tu nuca tatuada.
-------------------------------------------
miércoles, 29 de septiembre de 2010
martes, 28 de septiembre de 2010
Me dentengo ante un cruce nocturno
Me dentengo ante un cruce nocturno,
cáliz de químicas dimensiones
proyectando las sombras cónicas
del sabor inventado de las vidas ajenas.
Tarareando con lengua y dientes prietos
el eco prístino de la ciudad y su locura,
los figurantes y sus iridiscencias,
naturales perlas angulares del ser,
comparten sus sombras inconscientes.
Somos raíces empujadas por el viento,
buscando patrones en las fósiles plumas
qie dejan atrás los demas,
posos de verdadera vida atragantada.
Costillas con postillas
por las espuelas del spleen incesante de nuestro tiempo
(yeah! the fucking zeitgeist...)
Miro hacia los lados y veo
la noche perdiéndose en la negra carretera.
Se abre la espita verde, se abre la veda,
y la espiral nos arrastra otra vez.
cáliz de químicas dimensiones
proyectando las sombras cónicas
del sabor inventado de las vidas ajenas.
Tarareando con lengua y dientes prietos
el eco prístino de la ciudad y su locura,
los figurantes y sus iridiscencias,
naturales perlas angulares del ser,
comparten sus sombras inconscientes.
Somos raíces empujadas por el viento,
buscando patrones en las fósiles plumas
qie dejan atrás los demas,
posos de verdadera vida atragantada.
Costillas con postillas
por las espuelas del spleen incesante de nuestro tiempo
(yeah! the fucking zeitgeist...)
Miro hacia los lados y veo
la noche perdiéndose en la negra carretera.
Se abre la espita verde, se abre la veda,
y la espiral nos arrastra otra vez.
la máquina expendedora
A veces querría
una vida simple,
que quepa,
como una barra de pan,
en una simple bolsa,
y se pueda llevar de la mano
a cualquier parte.
Otras veces querría,
una vida mojada,
llena de pliegues,
como un paragüas
tras una lluvia ligera,
y se pueda llevar de la mano
a cualquier parte.
A veces querría
una vida como de piel
erizada, eléctrica.
Otras, la vida fría
de un amanecer de invierno,
surcado por rastros
de aviones y luceros crápulas.
Tampoco está mal
la vida salina
de siesta pegajosa
arrullada por el mar.
Alguien debería inventar
la máquina expendedora de vidas.
una vida simple,
que quepa,
como una barra de pan,
en una simple bolsa,
y se pueda llevar de la mano
a cualquier parte.
Otras veces querría,
una vida mojada,
llena de pliegues,
como un paragüas
tras una lluvia ligera,
y se pueda llevar de la mano
a cualquier parte.
A veces querría
una vida como de piel
erizada, eléctrica.
Otras, la vida fría
de un amanecer de invierno,
surcado por rastros
de aviones y luceros crápulas.
Tampoco está mal
la vida salina
de siesta pegajosa
arrullada por el mar.
Alguien debería inventar
la máquina expendedora de vidas.
lunes, 27 de septiembre de 2010
viernes, 24 de septiembre de 2010
A la noche parecía faltarle un sabor,
la síntesis no era perfecta.
Salí a buscar la alquimia en un bar,
sofisticado, retroiluminado,
buscando en un cóctel
la perfección de flores lejanas,
pero los neones no eran los adecuados,
ni el piano hablaba mi idioma.
Expectativas demasiado altas
para una simple pátina de asfalto seco.
Busco en reflejos impertinentes
los trenes que fueron en ciudades lejanas,
y me froto los ojos
hasta hacerme algo de daño por el cansancio,
pero nada ha cambiado.
Si acaso, el hielo se ha derretido un poco más,
pero las luces siguen siendo las equivocadas.
la síntesis no era perfecta.
Salí a buscar la alquimia en un bar,
sofisticado, retroiluminado,
buscando en un cóctel
la perfección de flores lejanas,
pero los neones no eran los adecuados,
ni el piano hablaba mi idioma.
Expectativas demasiado altas
para una simple pátina de asfalto seco.
Busco en reflejos impertinentes
los trenes que fueron en ciudades lejanas,
y me froto los ojos
hasta hacerme algo de daño por el cansancio,
pero nada ha cambiado.
Si acaso, el hielo se ha derretido un poco más,
pero las luces siguen siendo las equivocadas.
lunes, 20 de septiembre de 2010
La mañana se despereza llena de potencialidades.
Tan repleta que no nos damos cuenta.
Tras el desayuno, la infancia del sol nos desliza
hasta un mediodía, perezoso como siesta
de pueblo estival sureño.
Adivinamos ya entonces una madurez repleta,
cálida, sin gestos adustos y preñada de energía.
El templo de las infinitas posibilidades.
Entramos en la casa con los pies descalzos.
Suave, la tarde va deshaciendose de sus infinitos rayos,
como un ocaso apacible.
Nada en ella nos indica si nos resistiremos o no
al sueño inevitable.
Cada día un ensayo, y cada uno de ellos,
múltiples vidas, y digo yo,
¿para qué tanto ensayar?
¿Cuál es ese estreno, función mayor, que merece
tanta tramoya y desvelo?
Mejor vivamos cada momento en su justo valor,
que no hay balanza tan precisa y enorme.
Tan repleta que no nos damos cuenta.
Tras el desayuno, la infancia del sol nos desliza
hasta un mediodía, perezoso como siesta
de pueblo estival sureño.
Adivinamos ya entonces una madurez repleta,
cálida, sin gestos adustos y preñada de energía.
El templo de las infinitas posibilidades.
Entramos en la casa con los pies descalzos.
Suave, la tarde va deshaciendose de sus infinitos rayos,
como un ocaso apacible.
Nada en ella nos indica si nos resistiremos o no
al sueño inevitable.
Cada día un ensayo, y cada uno de ellos,
múltiples vidas, y digo yo,
¿para qué tanto ensayar?
¿Cuál es ese estreno, función mayor, que merece
tanta tramoya y desvelo?
Mejor vivamos cada momento en su justo valor,
que no hay balanza tan precisa y enorme.
miércoles, 15 de septiembre de 2010
Jóvenes pegan polvos a pelo
Jóvenes pegan polvos a pelo
intentando doblegar aún más
el ya domado junco de la existencia.
La sinrazón los vigila, enamorada,
desde los arcenes del éxtasis.
Son noches de lunas llenas parejas,
deslizándose famélicas,
en rodares celestes muy venidos a menos.
Como las estrellas no se veían,
había que inventarlas,
en los resquicios que nos dejaran.
Y en esas andamos, con la vara de medir rota
y el torso prematuramente marcado.
intentando doblegar aún más
el ya domado junco de la existencia.
La sinrazón los vigila, enamorada,
desde los arcenes del éxtasis.
Son noches de lunas llenas parejas,
deslizándose famélicas,
en rodares celestes muy venidos a menos.
Como las estrellas no se veían,
había que inventarlas,
en los resquicios que nos dejaran.
Y en esas andamos, con la vara de medir rota
y el torso prematuramente marcado.
viernes, 10 de septiembre de 2010
Your faces
your faces, pierced
with leper's toothpicks.
I placed myself in a field
far from all schools
and stenches, off the coast
in imaginary seas,
cold and blue and full of tempest.
There, romance ends,
hit by lightning and
dice are rolled by thunder,
cast away
to the lighthouse
of the modern conscience.
Iron away the creases
of cognitive dissonance.
Your faces, sown
together with hiv'ed needles.
We are the Magick Rose
divination services.
We specialize in ouija consulting,
and tarot outsourcing.
Oh man, the poisons we were selling,
back in the day.
Kites for solar winds
and what not.
Your eyes, in hooks
like greedy fishes.
Brick by brick, the enthralling
enclosure we build.
Blind bald workmen in benches,
carpenters of decay.
Oak-framed and mummified.
Las sirenas marcan la hora
del bocadillo.
The amazing persistence
of life, even in the face
of utter dismay.
If only my shirts could remain
that starched half as long...
This surely brought about
the hammered nausea that
got us here.
The second canto is born among cottons,
but it never caught on.
The mob had fallen in the wrong hands.
Their hats, blunt and rounded,
like an old moral code,
lay trodden on the floor,
like an old moral code, too.
Confusiond, unacknowledged,
and disarrays, the banners
of the fray
sported most often today in our cities.
The invocation:
Pazuzu, snakepenis,
blow the dust that covers
our foreheads.
(a desperate calling, when you don't know
anymore who to turn to).
We demand from them not only
to show us the way, but also
to pave it for us.
In return, we give you our freedom,
which we didn't know what to do with
for starters.
CHOIR:
Metal clocks vibraphone away
the passage of time.
The martian air distorts their sound
as the lemonade evaporates.
(with black metal keyboards)
Terraced houses and mortgages.
Daydreaming by the watercooler.
The middle-class and their
many metamorphoses.
We will meet at the hotel
and the end of the world.
In its vast halls, we'll mourn
the literature lost.
Erotic Napalm Arcadia.
Stones from the islamic moon
to reconfigure you.
(END CHOIR)
The last fuck before the war
begins, or ends.
It doesn't matter.
When the war ends we are
all also drafted for service anyway.
Now the war is clean, since
the leaves are swept in autumn
- that's municipality for you -
and the tea is iced in the scorch.
The ties are finely pressed
and the voice hardly ever rises.
No bullets. Just boredom.
Gott und Vaterland?
There are no more such things.
Give the young wolves booze and pills.
Their sap drunk by demons
altogetherly different from ours.
They no more interested than me
in inheriting a stale chair.
Forever doesn't exist anymore
in our planned procurement.
CHOIR:
Welcome relativism.
Embrace the new faith.
Can you fight a war if you are ecked out?
Enter the chaos.
(In a pinstriped suit, of course)
(END CHOIR)
We used to drink a lot.
At least that way, some escape
still belonged to us.
I think it all boils down to escaping.
The recurring dream.
Now it's all fitness and vegan.
When did it all began?
Yes, I think it was the meddling
and their stupid marxist ideas.
Thieving cunts.
Flowers before the flag,
and abuse crushed by boots.
The salarymen of repression advance.
Genocidal mood for a pittance.
Minimum wage earners with guns and gas.
Indentured soldiers
with ample powers and tazers.
Their hands on the naked hips of the people.
Puppets in hiding, anxious to fornicate.
Getting some leverage from the seats
of intolerance.
Angry voices could be perceived through the air
those days.
The picture shows a pack of old dogs
jealously watching over their spoils.
The rest are just tired warriors.
The had too much food through the years.
In the barricades they all started
(much boasted origins, ha!).
They never looked back,
bloated coffers for ever more.
Even the poor ravens starved,
for their greed was so much
that corpses were not left around.
Meanwhile, the layman of the day,
spent many waking hours
daydreaming the neo-rural fanfare
of escapism.
They wanted back to the status
of the noble and proud owner-farmer,
as if that had ever existed.
The man king in his own plot,
the plot that had been taken from him
with different ruses.
CHOIR:
And then a heavy curtain of silence,
deafening, muting birdsong
like an avalanche when the thaw threatens.
The common man found himself
in an old hut. His back was sore.
His son plucked a leather instrument.
He looked longingly at the sword
hanging behind the door,
the faithful blade that yearned for the summer
more that the cold-blooded animal,
hidden away in the sleep of the soil.
The man relished the strength of his muscle
and the gory ruthlessness of his gods.
The winter was crude, but hey, we have mead.
Suddenly, the traffic lights came into his reverie,
crashing in like a burning train.
The fallen man also had a back sore,
from so much sitting and pondering, pensive,
where honour had gone.
There is still hope in this man.
Others have lost the ability to wonder what.
Their necks where the weakest,
I pity their children, for they won't see
the lightning.
Goodbye to heaven.
(END CHOIR).
Remember to pick up dinner on your way back,
the harsh buzzed voice said.
(the warrior to his beloved
words he'll never have to guts to speak)
I couldn't be alone. Tell me how I should be.
I hold you. You hold me.
You mitigate my weaknesses.
The blood of another winter
is the background of the family meeting.
Flowers, instruments of vexation,
in their decrepitude installed,
marking the middle of the table,
the brocaded altar of the house.
with leper's toothpicks.
I placed myself in a field
far from all schools
and stenches, off the coast
in imaginary seas,
cold and blue and full of tempest.
There, romance ends,
hit by lightning and
dice are rolled by thunder,
cast away
to the lighthouse
of the modern conscience.
Iron away the creases
of cognitive dissonance.
Your faces, sown
together with hiv'ed needles.
We are the Magick Rose
divination services.
We specialize in ouija consulting,
and tarot outsourcing.
Oh man, the poisons we were selling,
back in the day.
Kites for solar winds
and what not.
Your eyes, in hooks
like greedy fishes.
Brick by brick, the enthralling
enclosure we build.
Blind bald workmen in benches,
carpenters of decay.
Oak-framed and mummified.
Las sirenas marcan la hora
del bocadillo.
The amazing persistence
of life, even in the face
of utter dismay.
If only my shirts could remain
that starched half as long...
This surely brought about
the hammered nausea that
got us here.
The second canto is born among cottons,
but it never caught on.
The mob had fallen in the wrong hands.
Their hats, blunt and rounded,
like an old moral code,
lay trodden on the floor,
like an old moral code, too.
Confusiond, unacknowledged,
and disarrays, the banners
of the fray
sported most often today in our cities.
The invocation:
Pazuzu, snakepenis,
blow the dust that covers
our foreheads.
(a desperate calling, when you don't know
anymore who to turn to).
We demand from them not only
to show us the way, but also
to pave it for us.
In return, we give you our freedom,
which we didn't know what to do with
for starters.
CHOIR:
Metal clocks vibraphone away
the passage of time.
The martian air distorts their sound
as the lemonade evaporates.
(with black metal keyboards)
Terraced houses and mortgages.
Daydreaming by the watercooler.
The middle-class and their
many metamorphoses.
We will meet at the hotel
and the end of the world.
In its vast halls, we'll mourn
the literature lost.
Erotic Napalm Arcadia.
Stones from the islamic moon
to reconfigure you.
(END CHOIR)
The last fuck before the war
begins, or ends.
It doesn't matter.
When the war ends we are
all also drafted for service anyway.
Now the war is clean, since
the leaves are swept in autumn
- that's municipality for you -
and the tea is iced in the scorch.
The ties are finely pressed
and the voice hardly ever rises.
No bullets. Just boredom.
Gott und Vaterland?
There are no more such things.
Give the young wolves booze and pills.
Their sap drunk by demons
altogetherly different from ours.
They no more interested than me
in inheriting a stale chair.
Forever doesn't exist anymore
in our planned procurement.
CHOIR:
Welcome relativism.
Embrace the new faith.
Can you fight a war if you are ecked out?
Enter the chaos.
(In a pinstriped suit, of course)
(END CHOIR)
We used to drink a lot.
At least that way, some escape
still belonged to us.
I think it all boils down to escaping.
The recurring dream.
Now it's all fitness and vegan.
When did it all began?
Yes, I think it was the meddling
and their stupid marxist ideas.
Thieving cunts.
Flowers before the flag,
and abuse crushed by boots.
The salarymen of repression advance.
Genocidal mood for a pittance.
Minimum wage earners with guns and gas.
Indentured soldiers
with ample powers and tazers.
Their hands on the naked hips of the people.
Puppets in hiding, anxious to fornicate.
Getting some leverage from the seats
of intolerance.
Angry voices could be perceived through the air
those days.
The picture shows a pack of old dogs
jealously watching over their spoils.
The rest are just tired warriors.
The had too much food through the years.
In the barricades they all started
(much boasted origins, ha!).
They never looked back,
bloated coffers for ever more.
Even the poor ravens starved,
for their greed was so much
that corpses were not left around.
Meanwhile, the layman of the day,
spent many waking hours
daydreaming the neo-rural fanfare
of escapism.
They wanted back to the status
of the noble and proud owner-farmer,
as if that had ever existed.
The man king in his own plot,
the plot that had been taken from him
with different ruses.
CHOIR:
And then a heavy curtain of silence,
deafening, muting birdsong
like an avalanche when the thaw threatens.
The common man found himself
in an old hut. His back was sore.
His son plucked a leather instrument.
He looked longingly at the sword
hanging behind the door,
the faithful blade that yearned for the summer
more that the cold-blooded animal,
hidden away in the sleep of the soil.
The man relished the strength of his muscle
and the gory ruthlessness of his gods.
The winter was crude, but hey, we have mead.
Suddenly, the traffic lights came into his reverie,
crashing in like a burning train.
The fallen man also had a back sore,
from so much sitting and pondering, pensive,
where honour had gone.
There is still hope in this man.
Others have lost the ability to wonder what.
Their necks where the weakest,
I pity their children, for they won't see
the lightning.
Goodbye to heaven.
(END CHOIR).
Remember to pick up dinner on your way back,
the harsh buzzed voice said.
(the warrior to his beloved
words he'll never have to guts to speak)
I couldn't be alone. Tell me how I should be.
I hold you. You hold me.
You mitigate my weaknesses.
The blood of another winter
is the background of the family meeting.
Flowers, instruments of vexation,
in their decrepitude installed,
marking the middle of the table,
the brocaded altar of the house.
The Code is Lust
rubbery herald,
fleshy breasty precursor,
announcements
of a softness
against which we are
but defenceless.
undiminished lust is
social retaliation.
The futile attempt
to requite gods
that inhabit only
our corners unlit.
Step by step,
the regression advances,
motionless,
and imperceptible,
as the drakkars before the summer
of rape and pillage.
Drums beating.
The 50 hz hum of sex.
Lust is magnetic.
In an un-physics way of.
The Code is Lust.
fleshy breasty precursor,
announcements
of a softness
against which we are
but defenceless.
undiminished lust is
social retaliation.
The futile attempt
to requite gods
that inhabit only
our corners unlit.
Step by step,
the regression advances,
motionless,
and imperceptible,
as the drakkars before the summer
of rape and pillage.
Drums beating.
The 50 hz hum of sex.
Lust is magnetic.
In an un-physics way of.
The Code is Lust.
miércoles, 8 de septiembre de 2010
martes, 7 de septiembre de 2010
A Canorous Coma
A canorous coma is crossing
us, casting curtains,
and making us dream,
not conjure or cull
the presages of future famines,
the wailing of women
in the low-lying steppes
that all our darknesses are.
Worn out as hardly woven,
bovine sons of Wotan,
what wear has befallen them?
no more weaned in weaponry,
but benighted in their weak,
will-bereft existence.
Former benisons turned to burdens,
the self self-encaged and alone
in sackcloth of its conscience.
us, casting curtains,
and making us dream,
not conjure or cull
the presages of future famines,
the wailing of women
in the low-lying steppes
that all our darknesses are.
Worn out as hardly woven,
bovine sons of Wotan,
what wear has befallen them?
no more weaned in weaponry,
but benighted in their weak,
will-bereft existence.
Former benisons turned to burdens,
the self self-encaged and alone
in sackcloth of its conscience.
miércoles, 1 de septiembre de 2010
detrás de nuestros párpados
A tí, coral puro de vida
que no ha visto la luz
ni conoce cuchillo,
como corazón recién nacido,
te dedico esta, la más
íntima de las ceremonias.
El rito de reconciliación
del azúcar y la piel.
La oscuridad que nos dice
lo solos que estamos
detrás de la cortina húmeda
de nuestros párpados.
A ti, que nunca conocerás
el mugiente tinnitus
que oye el individuo solo.
Quién sabe a dónde
has ido en busca de refugio.
En la lentitud lacustre
del universo,
navegante espontáneo,
desde aquí te dirijo un amor
que quizás se pierda
entre supernovas,
pero que es sincero.
que no ha visto la luz
ni conoce cuchillo,
como corazón recién nacido,
te dedico esta, la más
íntima de las ceremonias.
El rito de reconciliación
del azúcar y la piel.
La oscuridad que nos dice
lo solos que estamos
detrás de la cortina húmeda
de nuestros párpados.
A ti, que nunca conocerás
el mugiente tinnitus
que oye el individuo solo.
Quién sabe a dónde
has ido en busca de refugio.
En la lentitud lacustre
del universo,
navegante espontáneo,
desde aquí te dirijo un amor
que quizás se pierda
entre supernovas,
pero que es sincero.
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