Alza, toro de España: levántate, despierta.
Despiértate del todo, toro de negra espuma,
que respiras la luz y rezumas la sombra,
y concentras los mares bajo tu piel cerrada.
Despiértate.
Despiértate del todo, que te veo dormido,
un pedazo del pecho y otro de la cabeza:
que aún no te has despertado como despierta un toro
cuando se le acomete con traiciones lobunas.
Levántate.
Resopla tu poder, despliega tu esqueleto,
enarbola tu frente con las rotundas hachas,
con las dos herramientas de asustar a los astros,
de amenazar al cielo con astas de tragedia.
Esgrímete.
Toro en la primavera más toro que otras veces,
en España más toro, toro, que en otras partes.
Más cálido que nunca, más volcánico, toro,
que irradias, que iluminas al fuego, yérguete.
Desencadénate.
Desencadena el raudo corazón que te orienta
por las plazas de España, sobre su astral arena.
A desollarte vivo vienen lobos y águilas
que han envidiado siempre tu hermosura de pueblo.
Yérguete.
No te van a castrar: no dejarás que llegue
hasta tus atributos de varón abundante
esa mano felina que pretende arrancártelos
de cuajo, impunemente: pataléalos, toro.
Víbrate.
No te van a absorber la sangre de riqueza,
no te arrebatarán los ojos minerales.
La piel donde recoge resplandor el lucero
no arrancarán del toro de torrencial mercurio.
Revuélvete.
Es como si quisieran arrancar la piel al sol,
al torrente la espuma con uña y picotazo.
No te van a castrar, poder tan masculino
que fecundas la piedra; no te van a castrar.
Truénate.
No retrocede el toro: no da un paso hacia atrás
si no es para escarbar sangre y furia en la arena,
unir todas sus fuerzas, y desde las pezuñas
abalanzarse luego con decisión de rayo.
Abalánzate.
Gran toro que en el bronce y en la piedra has mamado,
y en el granito fiero paciste la fiereza:
revuélvete en el alma de todos los que han visto
la luz primera en esta península ultrajada.
Revuélvete.
Partido en dos pedazos, este toro de siglos,
este toro que dentro de nosotros habita:
partido en dos mitades, con una mataría
y con la otra mitad moriría luchando.
Atorbellínate.
De la airada cabeza que fortalece el mundo,
del cuello como un bloque de titanes en marcha,
brotará la victoria como un ancho bramido
que hará sangrar al mármol y sonar a la arena.
Sálvate.
Despierta, toro: esgrime, desencadena, víbrate.
Levanta, toro: truena, toro, abalánzate.
Atorbellínate, toro: revuélvete.
Sálvate, denso toro de emoción y de España.
Sálvate.

Los mozos de Monleón
se fueron a arar temprano,
ay, ay,
para ir a la corrida,
y remudar con despacio,
ay, ay.
Al hijo de la "Velluda",
el remudo no le han dado,
ay, ay.
-Al toro tengo que ir
aunque vaya de prestado,
ay, ay.
Permita Dios, si lo encuentras,
que te traigan en un carro,
las albarcas y el sombrero
de los siniestros colgando.
Se cogen los garrochones,
se van las navas abajo,
preguntando por el toro,
y el toro ya está encerrado.
A la mitad del camino,
al mayoral se encontraron,
-Muchachos que vais al toro:
mirad que el toro es muy malo,
que la leche que mamó
se la di yo por mi mano.
Se presentan en la plaza
cuatro mozos muy gallardos,
ay, ay.
Manuel Sánchez llamó al toro;
nunca lo hubiera llamado,
ay, ay,
por el pico de una albarca
toda la plaza arrastrando;
ay, ay.
Cuando el toro lo dejó,
ya lo ha dejado sangrando,
ay, ay.
-Amigos, que yo me muero;
amigos, yo estoy muy malo;
tres pañuelos tengo dentro
y este que meto son cuatro.
-Que llamen al confesor,
pa que venga a confesarlo.
Cuando el confesor llegaba
Manuel Sánchez ha expirado.
Al rico de Monleón
le piden los bues y el carro,
ay, ay,
pa llevar a Manuel Sánchez,
que el torito lo ha matado.
ay, ay.
A la puerta de la "Velluda"
arrecularon el carro,
ay, ay.
-Aquí tenéis, vuestro hijo
como lo habéis demandado.
ay, ay.

Flor de jazmín y toro degollado.
Pavimento infinito. Mapa. Sala. Arpa. Alba.
La niña finge un toro de jazmines
y el toro es un sangriento crepúsculo que brama.
Si el cielo fuera un niño pequeñito,
los jazmines tendrían mitad de noche oscura,
y el toro circo azul sin lidiadores,
y un corazón al pie de una columna.
Pero el cielo es un elefante,
y el jazmín es un agua sin sangre
y la niña es un ramo nocturno
por el inmenso pavimento oscuro.
Entre el jazmín y el toro
o garfios de marfil o gente dormida.
En el jazmín un elefante y nubes
y en el toro el esqueleto de la niña.

bartram viscarpratoria.
meldienn te le'an
de aas arfrentenmia.

frey ah deranmos.

tor toranmiasenkredermonoto kri.

chass ta lasanma toro.

toro toro.

shas ve ter
toro toro.

El más antiguo toro cruzó el día,
sus patas escarbaban el planeta.
Siguió, siguió hasta donde vive el mar.
Llegó a la orilla el más antiguo toro
a la orilla del tiempo, del océano.
Cerró los ojos, lo cubrió la hierba.
Respiró toda la distancia verde.
Y lo demás lo construyó el silencio.

Dedicated to William Shakespeare, Gene Roddenberry,
Lewis Carroll and Franz Joseph Haydn.*

The power scythe roared and quivered;
Had he chops, he would have licked them -
So rabid was he to taste the fray.

Verdure clad stalks by the thousands
Eschewed all feint of
Futile resistance -
Falling like spineless wimps
Before the carbon breathed Leviathon's
Cyclonic advance.

Pausing only to quaff
A long draft of energy potion,
Toro relentlessly carved a swath
Across the battle ground -
Vorpally snicker-snacking his way
Toward the mission's
inexorable termination.

A single command
Brought the roaring vortex to a halt.
Victorious, sans medals or ceremony,
Captain Toro was debriefed
And escorted back
To his lonely barracks
To sleep, perchance to dream
Of past and future triumphs
In the jungle wilds at the confluence
Of Prairie and Missouri Avenues.

*August,  2007

Estoy en túnel
Como estoy en boda, detrás
De un velo *****
La oscuridad me abraza: mi novia nueva

Pero veo una luz
Y ¡Corro! ¡Corro!
Corro a la luz
Pero cuando llego a la luz
Veo

¡Matador! ¡Matador!
Mi verdugo, vestido en luces
Una esponja para las hurras
De una gente sanguinaria
Veo tu cara y sé: voy a morir hoy
Pero si voy a matar es una cosa diferente

Para ti nuestro intercambio solo es un juego
Para mi es una guerra
Si gano será una victoria pírrica
Donde seré la pérdida sola:
Vivirás para siempre en memoria
Yo habré sido solo carne de res

Te esconderás detrás
De tus amigos montados:
Sus banderillas me hacen
Parecer como puercoespín
Y seré débil cuando me peleas finalmente:
El protagonista es un cobarde.
Y yo soy el carácter solo quien sabe la verdad:
La verdad muere conmigo

Mis cuernos no son armas o herramientas
Son símbolos del orgullo de la familia mía
Un orgullo te diezmas cuando me tomas para deporte
Lucho con mi orgullo, mi hoja más afilado

Toso y toso y toso
Pero no puedo desbancar tu espada
Mi espalda es una cadena rota
Mi orgullo untado en la arena:
Vomito mi sangre para una vez más
Para ensuciar tus manos
Porque en los ojos de tu familia eres limpio
Y eso no puede estar
Más lejos de la realidad

Entonces, muero
Debajo de las luces
Escuchando de las gritas de ¡TORO!
¡Toro!
toro…

La oscuridad es mi novia nueva

In a tunnel
Like a wedding where I am behind
A black veil
The darkness embraces me: my new bride

But I see a light
I run! I run!
Run towards the light
But as I reach the light
I see

Matador! Matador!
My executioner, dressed in lights
A sponge for the cheers
Of a bloodthirsty people
I see your face and I know: I will die this day
But whether I will **** is another matter

To you our exchange is but a game
To me it is a war
If I win it will be a Pyrrhic Victory
In which I am the only casualty:
You will live forever in memory
I am just beef to you

You hide behind your mounted friends
Their spears make a porcupine of me
I will be weak when you finally fight me:
The hero is but a coward.
I am the only character who knows the truth:
The truth dies with me

My horns are not weapons or tools
They are a symbol of my family’s pride
A pride you slaughter when you take me for sport
I fight with my pride: my sharpest blade

I cough and cough and cough
But I cannot dislodge your sword
My spine is a broken chain
My pride smeared on the sand
I ***** blood for one last time
To ***** your hands
Because in the eyes of your family you are clean
That couldn’t be further from the truth

I die beneath the lights
Listening to the cries of
TORO!
Toro!
toro…

The darkness is my new bride

Don't get wasted,
you'll get stringed.
acting like a god,
is an act of sphinx

**** your mind outings,
until you realized the pages of your sheets.
reap what you sow
and realize you are a bull.

give another cheap shot,
pretend you are the weak, bleed.
sensitivity is a blessing
you never carried.

cut your insecurity,
burn your malicious thinking.
bring your flamboyant buddy,
immaturity is what your bringing

**** your mind outings,
until you realized your pages and sheets.
reap what you sow
and realize you are a bull.

-
I: tonight! at the Oscars!

i really had to watch the whole show
twice, to convince myself of
something;
    the first time i watched it i was
as any usual idiot aspiring to
wow!
                      you know the usual
finesse,
             a bunch of humble people
with diamonds that belong
                                     to hades,
or at least the j. r. r. tolkien dwarves,
       and the masked king
          under the dome of the theatre
or rather:
           when does an actor, not act?
and i thought the mob
    that went to see ballet clapped
too much...
                        boy i had it coming
with this crowd...
                  these one-legged actors
seem to clap more than
    your typical pleb like me at
                       a ballet performance;
but this was only upon first sitting.

2nd sitting? ooh - a cringe (show
a face of constipation with closed eyes
and skidding mouth trying
to usher in the crin-  with a floating
                    -dg         - the d being
subtle) show...
                     the majority of americans
are of german descent, although
they speak english, right?
      and i thought english humour
was bad...
                        upon watching highlights
a 2nd time,
      i started smelling a rat...
         weinstein...
               sure, sure...
                          but who's that young
girl sitting next to guillermo del toro?  
      holding his arm as if clinging
to daddy issues - but hey!
               there's the aqua god hidden
somewhere in that bag of meat
               finely, finely attired!  
yeah... and i have an easter bunny
shoved up my ***,
                    and mother goose too!  
and black, so much black,
                 well, khaki doesn't cut it
really...
              but by watching the highlights
the second time
           it just felt like
     quote from the phantom tailor,
i.e. you hurt my feelings!
   chic? what's chic?
          chick-chicky-poo-brains...
        crass, man, absolutely crass...
     the absolute german joke:
    regarding the best picture
            award from last year...
              it just so happened that
the academy made a mistake between
a BLACK movie, and a musical...
     and in this years "ceremony"
            the hurt feelings had to be
appeased and what: the barbarian horde
expected was - but not on the last
minute whim...
            well, bull in a china shop,
     the closest i can come to the grace
of a balerina, is to curl my toes inward,
  and then stand up and walk the crow
walk... the opposite of how a gorilla
does the same with its hands.

***** please, don't confuse hans zimmer
with: are you sure that
   john williams isn't plagiarising
himself all the time?
           so, i came up with a new category,
the sort of guys
    who choose the music for such
films like baby driver...
                          can't argue that that
film is the ******* purely on the basis
of what soundtrack was behind it...
how about there's an oscar for those
music nerds?

II: i never follow the exact recipe -
    this is my body (pepper),
                          this is my blood (salt).

just 'ave a look at this:

ingredient list from
     two different recipes
     (a) epicurius.com
                      (b) pekishme.com
   (c) ... the hybrid

  (no measurements are to be given
in the later revealed hybrid
   as in the following two recipe
sources for a reason...
        i'll admit... the only branch
of chemistry i was good was
       organic: or rather - the i see) -
i've seen too many english women
sticking to "guidelines"
  and have seen at least two
marriages where a woman didn't
understand the concept of
       al dente, that later had to be
cooked to a nice chew in the sauce
after having rested in a seive
   drizzled with oil, prior to being
cooled with cold water to stop cooking...

                   A                                              B
butter          ­                                       fettuccine
breadcrumbs                                    cutterf­ish
fresh basil                                         shrimps
chopped fresh thyme                      clams
mussel                          ­                     white wine
water                                                 double cream
olive oil                                            onions
zucchini   ­                                         garlic
yellow summer squash                  thyme
red bell pepper                                oregano
garlic             ­                                    olive oil
shrimps                                            parmesan cheese
scallops
fettuccine

                                     C      
butter                                                
br­eadcrumbs                                    
                   ­                                         shrimps
                ­                      
mussel                                               white wine
                                                           double cream
olive oil                                            onions
           ­                                                garlic
                                                          ­ thyme
                                                           oregano

                                                        ­   parmesan cheese

fettuccine

and there are problems with reading two
recipes...
         e.g. you can't exactly use wine
and cream and also add
  zucchinil, yellow summer squash                  
& red bell pepper with these mild
sensations that are not balanced
akin to cream and wine (esp. white),
fresh basil? doesn't go with cream...
fresh thyme does go along with meat,
notably, lamb?

    dried thyme & oregano are
a match made in heaven...

      point being,
            the crucial aspect of fusing
recipe (a) with recipe (b)
  is the butter and breadcrumbs...
    you melt the butter and brown
the breadcrumbs in it...
    let them cool, and then sprinkle
them on the dish...
    you can also infuse the addition
of cream with parmesan,
  as you might also add extra on
top...
                 but the point of
recipe (a) crux is the breadcrumbs
mingling with everything
   in recipe (b) - but also with
what's essential in recipe (a) rubric.

III: code.

    for a while i forgot where you begin
writing html...
            blanked man, blanked...
     oh... right... in the notepad
and then you save the file under
   under index.htm
             with a sub-heading ALL TEXT...
but at this point it's really caveman
talk to me, the ones using the language
proficiently have been taught
by pioneers in the field,
            and it's not about wealth
distribution, but about knowledge...
  
e.g.
      <!DOCTYPE html>
<html>                         but why not <\html>?
<body>                         but why not <\body>?

<h1>me being late</h1>
<p>the first word is spelled mama, or gaga?</p>

</body>
</html>

           with those questions in italics
  i can't see no gate opening, nor closing
     subsequently with <h1> and <p>,
               apparently the gates
    are always open and there needs
               to a constant flow through them.

sure, smart, but dumb at the same time;

because i can tell you,
i once had an "I.T" "teacher" in my youth,
charged 20 quid an hour,
and all he managed to "teach" me
was how to change the, ******* screenshot!

it's not exactly true what they say
about teachers... it's not that if you can't
do, you teach... the darker side is:
                       you scam.

IV: ✡.

       there is no such thing as a "secret"
among the rich,
    as there certainly isn't such a thing
as a "conspiracy" among the poor.

V: the croydon cat-killer.

this isn't even an urban myth told
in thailand by hippies...
        let me tell you,
          when you spot a decapitated
cat, lying on the street while
walking at night,
   and you've read about where
this story originated, i.e. croydon
you start to start looking
   for that pathetic sadist...
   thinking to yourself:
           well, and we met, would
you have the ***** to do that to me?
  i'm gagging for a chance encounter,
just to see the ****** breakdown
upon trying to move to an upper
tier of this depraved practice.