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You know they had to do it
I mean, you could see it from the start
You could see it wouldn't last long
They set the apple 'fore the cart

He was redneck country
Driving trucks and wearing jeans
She was old school classical
Jane Eyre type, a girl of means

Her family were descendants
His was only kin
He liked country fiddle
While she liked violin

She liked Bach and Handel
Vivaldi and Corelli
He liked Jones and Jennings
and thought Corelli was spaghetti

She spokes in terms of red and white
Meaning wine...and which to choose
To him one word was missing
And that word was the blues

Polar opposites at best
There was no other way to say
We couldn't see them ever lasting
One hour...'nor a day

She would listen to her Mozart
He...to Ronnie Dunn
They couldn't see it till it ended
We saw it from day one

Two divergent kinds of style
It was wrong right from the start
And in the end, when it was over
She had a truly, Baroque - n heart
Samber Sep 2012
“Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being “in love” which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two. - Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.
nov 1, 09
you had me standing with chattering teeth in the novemeber chill. the first time i had spoken to you in weeks. i was holding myself together so well. and then i broke. like you knew i would. hell we both knew it.
red box.hat.scent.shirts.skin.warmth.silence.depth.heart.wrecking.
we­re held to the touch of wrong. the sweet eyes of hidden truth. you have now set me up twice but i like being taken advantage of when its you taking.i am the perfect descripiton of your sweetest downfall, your only downfall.i want this all to come. come straight into me again like you always did. i mean i saw you smile when you wanted to walk away. but something in you made you stay.you could have broken my grip in half but instead you laughed at the jokes you wished you didnt have to hear. and i know this never happened. we never happened.ever. so im writing about a night that didnt exist.your hands slipping over skin.trembling under the brush of your hand.shaking all over like it was happening all over again.
“everything is so ****** up now. what do we have to lose now? everythings all ****** up.”
“am i just going crazy cuz i miss you?”-atmosphere.
i think you were impressed by the outcome of my words.
Lino Althaner Dec 2011
Transeúnte**


No vale la pena lo que veo.
Las vitrinas
las mujeres de pintadas cabelleras
los objetos del deseo
sus perfumes se alían con el humo del progreso.
Aromas de cloaca en las esquinas.

Y tus pasos pasajero
condenado a transitar estas aceras.
Tú te has vuelto a su medida.
Transeúnte yo diría
que eres uno con ellas.
El reloj da la hora incorrecta.

Da la hora al transeúnte
que bien sabe adonde va
aunque ignora para qué
él que nace en el engaño
él que insiste circulando en la mentira
una vez en la grande

y después en la pequeña y repetida.
Este rostro sin alma
¿sabe acaso a quién sirve?
esa boca sin verbo
¿sabe acaso quien la mueve?
¿Transeúnte no lo sabes?

¿Has notado transeúnte tus cadenas?
¿Has oído de la cumbre?
¿Has oído del abismo?
¿Has oído de la fuente
del agua de la vida?
¿No la tienes al alcance de la mano?

Ya lo sé:
la ciudad te ha hecho así
la ciudad que eres tú y que soy yo.
Aprendiste y la ciudad está contenta.
Eres tú lo que aprendiste.
¿Ya no sientes transeúnte tus cadenas?

Porque sabes pasajero
la vida y la ciudad son más extrañas
mucho más de lo que piensas
en su caso más llenas de encanto
pero también más terribles.
¿No te sientes solitario?

Transeúnte ¿me estás escuchando?
¿No te sientes extranjero?
Ciudadano si yo te dijera
que muy bajo las aceras
cubierta por siete cortezas
las más duras las más densas

allí aguarda la perla
en el núcleo de tu alma
en el centro de la tierra.
Pero dime transeúnte si me entiendes:
yo quisiera proponerte hacer un cielo
un cielo hacer de estas calles

hacer hombres de las bestias
de nosotros ciudadanos
hacer buscadores de la perla.
Yo quisiera hacerte un cielo
con mucho silencio
a lo más con música de Händel

de Vivaldi de Bach o de Corelli.
Un cielo sin tanta agitación
con calles lavadas por una sonrisa
que nunca se aleja.
¿Te entusiasma transeúnte?
¿Hacer oro de la piedra te entusiasma

y del círculo un cuadrado
y del agua del Mapocho agua de la vida?
Nos veríamos cambiados
nuestros pasos sanarían las aceras.
¿Un cielo te parece inalcanzable?
Un cielo parecido al paraíso.

¿Transeúnte
ciudadano pasajero
transeúnte te entusiasma mi proyecto?
during a starless, sleepness night
   when thoughts and feelings
   are confused yet strong
I hear
Corelli's measured, jubilating voices
praising God

and sense
a master's pride
   immodest
   in its musical perfection
   of transcendental adoration
reach out through centuries

the voice of human suffering
expectant of salvation
yet defiant
sounding victorious
even in its most humble moment
of timed defeat

the beauty of power
born of fragility

— The End —