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Eugene Mar 2018
Tag-araw na naman at tuwing sasapit ang buwan ng Marso, Abril at Mayo ay malimit pumunta sa isang hindi pamilyar na lugar ang magkakabarkadang sina Potsi, Tapsi, at Seksi.

Ang pagpunta sa baybayin o beach ay nakagawian na nilang gawin taon-taon. Ito rin ang kani-kanilang paraan upang pansamantalang makalayo sa napaka-abalang lugar sa Kamaynilaan.

"Pots, Sek, saan naman ang destinasyon natin ngayong taon? Malapit na ang holy week. Kaya dapat mayroon na tayong napagkasunduan," tanong ni Tapsi.

Tapsi ang palayaw na binigay sa kaniya ng kaniyang magulang dahil paborito niya ang pagkain ng iba't ibang uri ng tapa na may sinangag. Ang totoo niyang pangalan ay Mateo Paulo Sibucay.

Dahil dalawa lang naman silang lalaki, siya ang may pinakaguwapong mukha maliban na lamang kay Seksi na maganda dahil babae ito. Itinuturing din siyang hunk sa kanilang kompanya sa matikas na pangangatawan nito kahit hindi naman siya pumupunta sa gym.

"Perfect ang Laiya, Taps, Pots! Ano agree kayo?" namumungay ang mga mata ni Seksi nang sagutin nito ang tanong ni Tapsi.

Si Seksi, gaya ng palayaw niya ay kakikitaan naman ito ng kakaibang kaseksihan sa katawan. Malakas man itong lumamon ay hindi naman ito tumataba. Mahilig siya sa mga matatamis at paborito niya ang pagkain ng iba't ibang uri ng keyk. Ang tunay naman niyang pangalan ay Katarina Sek Javellana.

"Basta may mabibilhan ng pagkain kapag nagutom ako, okay na okay sa akin ang lugar, Taps at Sek," sagot naman ni Potsi habang may hawak-hawak na dalawang jolly hotdog sa kaniyang mga kamay.

Kulang na lamang ay mabilaukan ito dahil panay ang lamon nang lamon nito kahit may nginunguya pa sa bunganga. Siya ang mataba sa kanila pero ayaw niyang tinatawag niyang tawaging mataba. Mas gusto niya ang salitang chubby dahil cute daw ito sa pandinig niya. Ang tunay naman niyang pangalan ay Pocholo Travis Sigalado.

"Nakakahiya ka talaga, Potsi. Mabilaukan ka oy!" wika ni Tapsi.

"Heto, tissue o! Sahurin mo ang mga nahuhulog. Sayang din iyang pagkain. Alalahanin mo na maraming mga bata ang nagugutom sa kalsada," sabay abot naman ng tissue ni Seksi kay Potsi.

"Kaya nga sinisimot ko ang pagkain kasi sayang 'di ba?" ngunguso-ngusong sagot ni Potsi habang nagpapatuloy sa pagnguya sa kaniyang kinakain.

"Saan ba ang Laiya, Sek?" ani Tapsi.

"Sa Batangas lang naman siya. Mga isa't kalahati hanggang dalawang oras ang biyahe mula sa Maynila. Set na natin?" nakangiting sagot naman ni Sek habang ang dalawang hinlalaki ay naka-senyas ng aprub.

"Sa Black Saturday tayo pumunta para madami tayong makikitang mga tanawin!" gulat naman ang dalawa sa sinabi ni Potsi at pansamantala pang nagkatitigan sina Sek at Tapsi. Pagkatapos no'n ay nagsipagtawanan sila.

"Agree ako diyan sa Sabado de Gloria. Teka, 'di ba sa susunod na linggo na iyon?" ani Tapsi.

"Okay lang iyon, handa na rin naman tayo palagi e. Kaya walang problema. Sasakyan ko na lang ang gagamitin natin para makatipid tayo sa gasolina," si Potsi na ang sumagot matapos uminom ng mountain dew.

Tumango na lamang ang dalawa dahil alam naman nilang sa kanilang tatlo ay si Potsi ang laging handa. Minsan nga ay si Potsi na ang taya sa kanilang summer outing taon-taon e.

"At kung may problema kayo sa budget, ako na rin ang bahala ha? He-he," tatawa-tawang sabi ni Potsi na ikinatawa na rin naman ng dalawa.

"Maasahan ka talaga, Potsi! Gusto mo order pa kami ng pagkain sa iyo?"

Masayang nagtatawanan ang magbarkada sa Jollibee nang mga oras na iyon dahil sa kaibigan nilang si Potsi. Pare-pareho na rin naman silang may mga trabaho. Kaya wala nang problema sa kanila ang pera.

#TravelFriendsGoals ang motto nilang tatlo. Si Tapsi ay isang Real Estate Broker agent habang si Seksi naman ay isang Fashion Model at si Potsi ay isang Food Blogger. Lahat sila ay iisa ang hilig--ang maglakbay at libutin ang mga natatagong lugar sa Pilipinas.

*

Lumipas ang isang linggo, araw ng Sabado ay maagang umalis mula sa Quezon City ang magkakaibigan. Gamit ang sasakyan ni Potsi na Toyota Revo ay bumiyahe na sila. Si Potsi ang nagmamaneho, si Seksi naman ang tumitingin sa mapang dala niya habang si Tapsi ay panay ang kuha ng litrato sa sarili sa likuran ng sasakyan.

"Hindi ka ba nagsasawa sa mukha mo, Taps? Guwapong-guwapo ka sa sarili a!" tanong ni Potsi habang tumitingin-tingin sa rear-view mirror ng sasakyan. Nginitian na lamang siya ni Tapsi.

"Hayaan mo na 'yang broker nating kaibigan. Alam mo namang siya lang ang may magandang mukha sa inyong dalawa. Ha-ha," asar ni Sek kay Potsi.

"Anong guwapo? E kung pumayat ako 'di hamak na mas may hitsura ako kay Taps!" depensa naman ni Potsi.

"Oo na, Pots. Mas guwapo ka naman sa akin ng kalahating paligo lang naman kapag pumayat ka 'di ba? Bakit kasi ayaw mo akong samahan sa gym para makapag-work-out ka na rin at mabawasan ang bilbil mo?" ani Tapsi kay Potsi.

"Gusto mo ibaba kita sa gitna ng kalsada, Taps? At saka, hindi ko na kailangan mag-gym. Food is life. Enjoy life, enjoy goya sabi ng commercial ni Kim Chiu," naiinis na nagpapatwang sagot naman ni Potsi habang nakatuon pa rin ang atensiyon sa kalsada. Lihim na lamang na natawa si Seksi sa dalawang kaibigan.

"Ikaw naman, hindi na mabiro. Alam mo namang love kita e lalo na nang malaman kong love mo abs ko! Ha-ha," pang-aalaska na naman ni Tapsi.

"Mukha mo! Mas marami akong abs sa iyo, tabs nga lang at malalaki pa! Ha-ha," napuno na naman ng tawanan ang loob ng sasakyan. Asaran kung asaran. Iyan ang nakasanayan na nila.

Lumipas ang isang oras na biyahe ay nakatulog na sina Tapsi at Seksi habang si Potsi ay gising na gising ang diwa dahil habang nagmamaneho ay panay ang dukot nito sa baon niyang mga pagkain malapit sa kaniya.

Dumaan pa ang isang oras ay napansin ni Potsi na parang may mali sa direksyong tinatahak nila. Agad niyang kinuha ang mapang dala ni Seksi at tiningnan ito. Dahil hindi niya kabisado ang nakapaloob sa mapa, ginising na lamang niya si Seksi.

"Sek! Sek! SEEKKK!" tulog-mantika ang babae, kaya sumigaw na lamang si Potsi na ikinagulat din ni Tapsi sa back seat.

"Sorry. Naliligaw yata tayo. Tingnan mo ang mapa, Sek," agad namang tiningnan ni Seksi ang mapa at sinipat-sipat ang kinaroroonan nila.

"Ihinto mo nga ang sasakyan muna, Pots," sinunod naman nito si Sek at pansamantalang itinigil ang sasakyan.

"Ano, naliligaw na ba tayo, Sek?" binali-baligtad pa ni Seksi ang mapa para lang siguraduhing tama ang tinatahak nilang lugar patungo sa isang sikat na resort sa Laiya, Batangas. Ngunit, may napansin siyang kakaiba.

"Nasa Laiya na nga tayo, guys pero bakit tila napadpad tayo sa isang gubat na ito?" lahat ay napatingin sa itinuro ni Seksi sa mapa at binasa ang nakasulat doon.

"Satur-Death? Ano iyan? Hindi mo ba nakita ang lugar na iyan diyan sa mapa, Sek?" tila may kung anong kakaibang simoy ng hangin naman ang dumampi sa mga balat ng magkakaibigan ng mga oras na iyon matapos sambitin ang katagang Satur-death.

"Patingin nga? Kinilabutan ako sa pangalan e. Satur-death, tunog saturday o sabado tapos may death? Kamatayan? E 'di ba sabado ngayon? Don't tell me may mangyayaring hindi maganda sa atin?" sabay-sabay na nagkatinginan ang tatlo habang nakatigil ang sasakyan sa gitna ng kalsada na hindi pamilyar na lugar. Tahimik ang lugar na iyon at ni busina, tunog o mga sasakyan ay wala kang maririnig o makikitang napapadaan.  

"Ang mabuti pa, bumalik na lang tayo sa kung saan tayo kanina nanggagaling. Baka mali lang talaga ang napasukan natin. Baka shortcut lang ito, guys," nagtatapang-tapangang wika ni Seksi.

"Ang sabi sa pamahiin, kapag naligaw daw tayo, hubarin natin ang mga damit natin," nagpapatawang wika ni Potsi.

"Anong hubarin? Baka ang ibig **** sabihin, baligtarin!" pagkaklaro ni Tapsi.

"Pareho lang naman silang may 'rin' sa dulo e," dagdag pa ni Potsi. Napailing na lamang sina Tapsi at Seksi at naghubad na lamang upang baligtarin ang kanilang damit.

Matapos baligtarin ang damit ay pinaandar na ni Potsi ang sasakyan. Dahan-dahan na lamang niya itong minamaneho upang makabisado ang kalsadang kanilang tinatahak.

Tatlumpung minuto na ang nakalilipas nang matagpuan nila ang isang karatula sa gilid ng kalasda na nakadikit sa isang puno.

"THIS WAY TO LAIYA!"

Agad na nabuhayan ng loob ang magkakaibigan dahil sa nakitang sign board na nang tingnan nila sa mapa ay nakaukit naman iyon.

"Deretso na lang tayo, Potsi at mararating na natin ang mismong resort sa Laiya," iyan na lamang ang nasabi ni Seksi nang mga oras na iyon.

Nang malampasan nila ang karatula ay bigla na lang naging makulimlim ang kalangitan at biglang bumuhos ang ulan. At hindi nila inasahan ang isang palasong bumutas sa kaliwang gulong ng sinasakyan nilang Toyota Revo.

Gulat na gulat ang mukha ng magkakaibigan nang biglang gumewang-gewang ang sasakyan at nabundol ito sa isang puno. Mabuti na lamang at hindi sila napuruhan. Kaunting galos lamang ang kanilang natamo kaya agad din nilang inayos ang mga sarili.

Nang mga oras na iyon, sa side-mirror ng sasakyan ay may napansin si Seksi na papalapit sa kanilang kinaroroonan. Nang ilang metro na lamang ang layo nito sa kanilang sasakyan ay nakita niyang may hawak itong pana at palaso. Pinakawalan niya ito at tumama kaliwang bahagi ng side-mirror.

"BABA! LABAS! Takbo na tayo! May gustong pumatay sa atin. Labas na!" sa taranta ay isa-isang nagsilabasan sa loob ng sasakyan ang magkakaibigan. Napasubsob pa ang mukha ni Potsi sa damuhan pagkababa nito. Agad na inalalayan siya ni Tapsi upang makatayo habang si Seksi naman ay sumisigaw na.

"Takbo! Takbo na! Bilis!"

Walang lingon-lingon ay agad na silang nagsitakbuhan ngunit hindi pa man sila nakakahakbang ay isang palaso ang tumama sa kaliwang binti ni Potsi dahilan upang mapabitaw ito sa balikat ni Tapsi at natumba.

Napahiyaw sa sakit si Potsi. Gulantang naman ang mukha ni Seksi. Nagmadali siyang balikan ang kaibigan at tinulungang makatayo si Potsi dahil malapit na malapit na ang salarin sa kanila.

"Iwan niyo na ako, Taps, Sek!" kitang-kita na sa mga mata ni Potsi ang panghihinat at takot nang mga oras na iyon. Kahit umuulan ay pansin na pansing naluluha na ang kaibigan.

"Hindi ka namin pwedeng iwan dito, Pots! Sama-sama tayo! Sek, bilis iangat natin si Pots. Isa, dalawa, tatlo!" kahit mabigat ay nagawa pa rin nila itong itayo upang makatakbo at makalayo sa kung sino man ang gustong pumatay sa kanila.

Nang muli na silang hahakbang ay hindi nila napansin ang paglapit ng hindi pamilyar na nilalang at itinarak sa likuran ni Potsi ang matulis na palaso. Agad na lumingon sina Tapsi at Seksi sa salarin nang sumigaw nang malakas si Posti.

Doon ay mulagat silang pareho nang isa na namang palaso sana ang tatama at itatarak kay Sek. Mabuti na lamang ay maagap si Tapsi. Binitawan niya si Potsi at agad na sinugod ang salarin.

Parang torong iniuntog ni Tapsi ang ulo niya sa tiyan nito at pareho silang natumba sa magkabilang direksyon. Nang mga sandaling iyon, habang patuloy sa pagbuhos ang ulan ay naaninag ni Seksi ang mukha ng gustong pumatay sa kanila.

May suot itong maskara sa mukha na ang tanging makikita ay ang mga mata lamang niya. Ang mga balat sa leeg, kamay at paa ay parang bangkay na naagnas. Matatalim din ang mga kuko nito sa mga kamay at paa.

Itinuon ni Sek ang atensiyon sa kaibigang si Potsi na nang mga oras na iyon ay tila nawalan ng malay. Niyugyog-yugyog niya ang kaibigan. Pinakiramdaman niya rin ang pulso nito at pinakinggan ang tibok ng puso. Doon ay napagtanto niyang may pag-asa pa si Potsi.

"Taps! Buhay pa si Potsi!" sigaw niya sa kaibigan.

"Tumakas na kayo, Sek! Ako na ang bahala rito! Alis na!" agad na sinugod si Sek ng kaharap at nahagip ng tulis ng palaso ang kaniyang braso dahilan upang makaramdam siya ng hapdi.

Hinila-hila naman ni Sek si Potsi upang dalhin sa ligtas na lugar. Kahit hindi kaya ng kaniyang mga braso ay pinilit niya pa ring hilahin ito.

Samantala, dinampot ni Tapsi ang palasong nabitawan ng may sa kanibal na nilalang at pinatamaan ito sa pamamagitan ng pagtarak ng palaso. Parang gutom na gutom naman ito dahil naiilagan niya ang bawat pagtarak sa kaniya ng palaso.

Animo ay isang baliw na nakakita ng kaniyang laruan ang kaharap ni Tapsi. Hindi naman nagpatalo ang huli. Nang muling itatarak sa kaniya ang palaso ay napigilan niya ito at sinipa sa gitnang hita ang kaharap. Napahawak naman ito sa kaniyang hinaharap. Hindi na rin sinayang ni Tapsi ang pagkakataon upang makaganti.

Agad niyang kinuha ang palasong nabitawan niya at itinarak iyon sa leeg. Makailang beses niyang hinugot-baon ang palaso at itinarak muli sa iba pang bahagi ng katawan nito. Sa leeg, sa mata, sa butas ng tainga maging sa bunganga at ang panghuli sa puso nito.

Hingal na hingal man si Tapsi ay nagawa pa niyang tanggalin ang nakabalot na maskara sa mukha ng kaniyang kalaban at doon nakita ang inuuod-uod ng mukha. Hindi niya nasikmurang pagmasdan kaya nasuka si Tapsi. Kinalaunan ay pinuntahan na lamang niya si Sek na hindi pa rin nakakalayo sa kakahila sa kaibigang si Potsi.

Punong-puno ng dugo ang mga kamay, mukha at kasuotan ni Tapsi nang makita siya ni Sek. Nahuhugasan lamang iyon sa bawat patak at buhos ng ulan.

"Kailangan na nating makaalis dito, Taps. Kailangan maisugod si Potsi sa ospital!"

"Saan tayo hihingi ng tulong e, nakita mo namang mukhang halimaw ang nakalaban ko, Sek,"

"Si Potsi, Taps. Anong gagawin natin? Marami ng dugo ang nawala sa kaniya,"

"Hindi ko alam pero sana tumila na ang ulan nang makita na natin ang dinadaanan natin para makahingi tayo ng tulong. Tulungan mo na akong buhatin si Potsi. Siguro naman--"

Hindi pa natatapos ni Tapsi ang kaniyang sasabihin nang maramdaman niyang may matulis na bagay ang tumusok sa kaniyang batok na tumagos sa kaniyang lalamunan.

Sigaw naman nang sigaw si Sek at hindi na malaman ang gagawin. Nakita niyang may papalapit naman sa kinaroroonan nila. Kailangan na niyang iwanan ang mga kaibigan at iligtas ang kaniyang sarili para makapagtago.

Sa isang malaking puno sa 'di kalayuan ay doon nagtago si Sek. Tanging mga mata na lamang niya ang nagmamasid sa kung ano ang puwedeng gawin ng mga ito sa kaniyang mga kaibigan.

Katulad ng napatay ni Tapsi ay ganoon din ang mga hitsura ng kani-kanilang balat at mukha. Katulad sila ng mga kanibal na gustong pumatay ng tao. Isang babaeng may mahahabang buhok ang may hawak na tabak ang walang kaabog-abog na tumabas sa leeg ni Tapsi.

Gustuhin mang sumigaw ni Sek ay hindi niya magawa. Tinakpan na lamang niya ang kaniyang bunganga at parang gripong sunod-sunod naman sa pag-agos ang kaniyang mga luha nang makita ang sinapit ng kaibigang sina Tapsi at Potsi.

Gamit ang tabak ay isa-isa naman nilang pinagtataga ang katawan ni Potsi. Pinutulan nila ito ng braso at ibinigay sa isang maliit na batang sabik na sabik na kainin ito habang ang isang may katangkarang lalaki ay panay ang sipsip at dila nito sa ulong-pugot ni Tapsi.

Duwal na duwal na si Sek nang mga oras na iyon at agad na nagsuka. Sa kasamaang palad ay matalas ang pandinig nila at narinig siya ng isang matangkad na lalaki at inamoy-amoy ang paligid upang malaman ang kinaroroonan niya. Pigil-hininga naman si Sek at isiniksik ang sarili sa punong pinagtataguan niya. Takip-takip na rin niyang muli ang kaniyang bibig upang pigilan ang kaniyang paghikbi.

Nakiramdam pa si Sek sa kaniyang paligid kung naroroon pa ang mga halimaw. Tanging ang pintig na lamang ng kaniyang puso ang kaniyang narinig nang mga sandaling iyon kaya naman ay marahan siyang tumingin sa direksyon kung saan naroon ang kaniyang mga kaibigan.

Isang mata pa man lang ang kaniyang nailalabas nang biglang bumulaga sa kaniya ang isang inuuod na mala-demonyo ang mukhang nakangiti sa kaniya at hinawakan siya sa buhok.

Nagpupumiglas si Sek at pilit na tinatanggal ang kamay nito sa buho. Pero isang malakas na suntok sa sikmura ang kaniyang natikman. Agad siyang kinaladkad habang nakahawak pa rin ito sa kaniyang buhok at dinala sa kinaroroonan ng kaniyang mga patay na kaibigan.

Napatakip na lamang sa kaniyang bibig si Sek nang mapagmasdan ang sinapit ng kaniyang mga kaibigan sa kaniyang harapan.

Hawak-hawak pa rin ng lalaki ang kaniyang buhok ay agad na itinutok sa kaniyang leeg ang matulis na tabak. Pigil hininga at lunok-laway na lamang ang nagawa ni Sek nang unti-unting hinihiwa ang balat sa kaniyang leeg hanggang sa maabot ng tabak ang ugat nito. Sabay-saba
1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o
it didn’t take a lot a look a few words a few more looks bam not that any girl stuck around and so it was on to the next nothing is precious everything is possible forget what you know leave the road behind invent dance new dance cough spit breathe dance verbs multiplying gazillions of verbs stars what is it about art in my mind i hear all these things i was going to express all these itches scratch pick scabs get drunk write poetry dance ******* in your mouth ******* in my mouth salty sea surfing waves Caravaggio Courbet Turner Goya Ad Reinhardt Rothko Rimbaud Johnny Unitas Walter Payton Annie Proulx Patty Berglund Hannah Wilke Kim Gordon dark clouds rainbows meteor showers lantern licorice amethyst bone

in the end it’s you and your maker ashes to ashes dust to dust Mom questions it’s 4:30 PM December in Chicago and pitch black i don’t understand it’s not supposed to be this dark this cold she imagines a past that never existed events never occurred

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

it will be daylight soon and i am unprepared so terribly unfit for a new dawn suddenly realize tomorrow is today

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

when people die in masses is it any less lonely more comforting than when you die individually or is dying solitary for everyone

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

redemption is a powerful force but what if existence actually does not present second chances and we must live with the consequence of our mistakes

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

if there is an afterlife do i have any say in it or are we all merely lost baggage tossed from airport to airport

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

what if travelers at airports were met with welcoming arms shared stories food instead of suspicion body scanners separation boarding seating procedures

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

i built a magnificent sandcastle with wide open rooms interesting views spacious bathrooms huge kitchen secret places winding stairways auspicious towers swinging rope bridges welcoming gates but the tide washed it all away

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

i cry yet know not why am i a ***** i must take the goose by the neck whatever that means

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

speaking personally i’m never interested in the last bite only the first bite the middle tastes rather bland all chewing gulping automatic consumption talking swallowing stifling gases

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

horses mate with donkeys then out comes mules yet mules cannot propagate nature is so strange mysterious what is it about the attraction between donkeys and horses

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

2 gorgeous petite charming sweet young girls are subletting my place in Tucson i imagine ménage à trios or relationship with either one of them then realized how improper my thoughts will i ever learn

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

Reiko likes hanging out naked if the door is locked and they’re in for the evening she strips Reiko is one of those women who look better without clothes the curls under her arms are growing in dark thick her bush is filling out even her **** is hidden by silky brown hairs he cannot stop checking her out she pretends not to be aware as she trims her toenails he leers **** your cooch looks tasty Odys i like that you can speak crude to me he murmurs you really like that she answers yes i really like that he sees himself in her he is deep in sleep wakes by her hand pulling his hand down to her ***** bone he stirs confused in half sleep as she continues tugging his hand Odysseus realizes what Reiko wants it is 3 AM he touches her there warm distended begins to massage wetness gushes moves down bed puts face there she presses pumping grinding whispering repeatedly i want to *** so bad his mouth tongue breath work her hands grip his head push unyielding muscles stiffen arch shudder continues licking until her body lies still crawls up kisses her forehead hair bodies spoon fall to sleep in the morning he comments you were a naughty little girl last night Reiko grins answers i had an orangutan attack he questions an orangutan attack she confesses yeah they both laugh he has never known a woman so fierce urgent to ****** Reiko has a man’s libido she reminds him of himself they mimic each other hearing Reiko speak Odysseus’s own words back at him and visa versa convey how demanding insecure insensitive each can be to other they do not simply speak but mimic each other Reiko ‘s voice drops to low pitch as she grabs his buns kids hey Reiko Lee what do you think about us wiping each other’s butts we could become more intimate with our bodies Odysseus raises his voice sounding feminine replies Schwartzpilgrim you’re gross take a hike it is hilarious yet intuitive therapy that maintains level playing field neither allows other to be too weak or dominant

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

it is Sunday snowing blizzard freezing cold outside Odysseus sits on floor watching Bear’s football game at Reiko’s she sits naked paging through Art Forum magazine across sofa from him he hears her crunching on bag of barbecue potato chips during half time he reaches touches her bush runs fingers through her ***** hairs twirling them in his fingers she spreads her legs wide open he smells her hair breath perspiration ****** *** feet feels both repelled and attracted he is lost in fascination gently tugs on her lips slides finger inside massages probes her opening she directs him to kneel stands above him her arms at waist her pelvic bone in his face she orders **** it **** it good he follows her instruction **** my ***** she commands as she holds his head in hands her long skinny body thrusts hips forward Reiko presses gently pumping then more furious rough into Odysseus’s face ooohhh i’m going to shoot a load baby swallow my *** she shoves ***** bone into his face bangs his nose hard yet he remains ******* her legs thighs stomach muscles tremble oh oooohhhhh ohh Odys did you see that i came just like a guy oh Odys i loved that he wipes mouth laughs

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

a person’s sexuality is always in question how one interprets his or her own ****** persona relative to another person’s personality response ratio how one’s power measures reacts to another’s vulnerabilities strengths Odysseus and Reiko fit well together switching roles in impulsive volley he loves her masculinity the unpredictable equation of their love he teases Reiko Lee i’m so attracted to the tomboy in you i want to **** you off and let you **** me come over here and stick that fat hard **** in my pink little **** hole all the frustration rage pain pent up inside you i want you to harness that hurt and slam it into me and shoot your load all over me **** me good Reiko Lee she looks at him strange says you’re a weird bird Schwartzpilgrim how weird do you think he asks her voice takes on a creepy overruling tone Odys, you want me to fist-******* he snaps shut up Reiko Lee get out of here she runs fingers through hair breathes out through nose taunts Odys let me ******* a ***** and ******* in the *** Odysseus’s voice grows loud Reiko Lee you’re crossing the line just because i mention some crazy thought doesn’t mean i’m actually into such weirdness don’t try to take what i say to some sound conclusion i enjoy experimenting but i’m one hundred percent male i like to test limits because i’m secure in my manhood spicing our *** life with ***** fantasies is one thing but don’t overstep i got the **** and you got the ***** let’s keep it that way don’t mess with me she replies ok ok Odys i didn’t mean to offend you

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

often he personifies the lead and she interprets the willing or amendable he requests many ****** urges she for the most part eagerly fulfills yet knowing his desires run over the top he considerately concedes to her sensibility he asserts rule number 1 Reiko Lee please let me have my way with you ok please try to not refuse me she smiles consents ok Odys and i want the same from you he insists rule number 2 repeat after me i’m addicted to your ***** i’m codependent on your **** she repeats i’m addicted to your ***** Odys i’m codependent on your **** he challenges rule number 3 at least one ******* a day agreed? She answers yes Odys agreed later he thinks about their conversation approaches her Reiko Lee sometimes i need more than one ******* a day maybe one in the morning and one after you get home from work i need your adoring attention down there will you do that for me please she shoots sarcastic look at him what are you a cow that needs milking everyday all right Odys whatever you desire he gratefully acknowledges Reiko Lee you’re so good to me thank you next morning he says Reiko Lee when i think about you the first image that comes to mind is your eyes i love your eyes more than any other part of you she comments oh yeah more than my **** hole? he flinches surprised oh god i can’t believe you said that you are so outrageous Reiko Lee you have got the sexiest **** hole i’ve ever seen i love adore revere your hairy **** hole when are you going to let me get some of that she remarks we’ll see Schwartzpilgrim in due time the following morning he notices bathroom door is wide open peering inside he sees her sitting on toilet she looks up smiling as he nears he questions which are you doing peeing or ******* she answers why do you need to know he requests lift up and let me watch she raises her thighs knees legs curling toes on toilet seat her **** muscles pucker then a brown extent begins appearing from her hole her vaginal lips flare urethra presses as short spurt of ***** accompanies discharge the ***** length drops into bowl followed by smaller piece Odysseus perceives the action produced by her body as intimate natural expression occurring without contrivance manipulation he studies the form as if it were a sculptural object descended into water to bottom of bowl Reiko reaches for roll of toilet tissue he interrupts **** she answers let me wipe myself first it reeks in here you mean watching me taking a **** turns you on you are one sick monkey he says shut up and **** she follows his instruction after several minutes he pulls out of her mouth jerks off while she watches he shoots wildly on her chin neck chest she rubs his ***** on her ******* they both break out in laughter she says come on let’s take a shower together she begins speaking sentence he finishes it she says Odys i’m not comfortable with more than he breaks in one ******* a day i understand Reiko Lee she expresses thank you Odys one is enough agreed he replies ok ok

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

a week passes Saturday evening she comes from work to his place with stressed look on her face she falls back into wall on floor with her legs stretched out she asks got anything to eat he answers a couple of beers in the fridge her brow furrows as she speaks in low tone Odys i’m guessing there’s something seriously wrong with you he questions wrong with me huh what she comments your physique is weird your shoulder blades and rib cage stick out you’ve got a sunken sternum he answers yeah i know it’s not really a problem more like natural peculiarities she says yeah well you’ve got other peculiarities he asks oh yeah like what she remarks i’ve never known or heard of a man who gets hard as often as you it’s deviant you’ve got some kind of disorder you need to go see a doctor he admits i know i got a problem my libido is out of control it’ll calm down it’s been a long time since i felt so hot for someone do you really think it’s serious enough to go see a doctor she answers serious enough to insist you bone me once a day he laughs Reiko Lee you had me going she grins get over here you ***** ******* and **** me good Reiko’s favorite way to ****** is with her legs closed tight she lies beneath while his ******* presses in pumping her thighs buttocks squeeze stomach muscles tense whole body jerks spasms as she reaches ****** Odysseus’s favorite position is with Reiko on top he likes her rhythms and control

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

when Michael Vick was found guilty for dog fighting mauling cruel killing i wanted him dead dead dead but he is a brilliant quarterback and i was wrong who am i to understand another person’s background judge them maybe there is redemption

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

if another war comes it’s China we must fight to hate fear them run hide

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

it’s a long twisted road down a dark cold hole many are too damaged others work toward salvation yet some unscathed by all this filth

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

on the brighter side death gets a bad rap by mortals think positive perhaps death is graduation to whatever at worst death is release from life’s disappointments expectations responsibilities burdens betrayals pain horrors

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

i remember when Dad was dying all these new people who i still remember entered my life for a brief time it seems like the same thing is happening now

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache

Mom i’m right here behind you don’t be scared i’m watching out for you

these old bones rattle and shake tremble and quake quiver and ache
Raj Arumugam Aug 2011
The Clothed Maja, sister of The **** Maja (both painted by Goya, and both enjoyed by Raj Arumugam), speaks:*
  

Hey, you boys…yeah, you…
OK, all of you good boys, if you like…
come see me in my white dress and golden shoes;
see me reclined in my luxurious couch…
Look here…I’m in this room…
Oh, you adorable, silly boys;
I’ve been hearing you the last hour
as you searched one room after another
and all you grown men giggling like little boys…
while I’ve been waiting here all the while…
And you’re Frank? And you?
Sean? What a **** name you’ve got baby…
Oh, hmmmm…you should be…O Patrick,
you think I’m cool?
I was made by Goya, how can I not be?
And come on other boys at the door, don’t be shy…
Ravi, Kesav, Eliot,  jp –
my, my, what a short name you got;
you can get it long too? ...jp…lovely name…
and Jack Chappell, and Sean Critchfield –
and why didn’t cheeky Raj come?
Oh, leave him, he’s probably just best left ogling
at ***** shunga pictures
from Hokusai…

So welcome boys all…
Yes, yes, you can come close
You can’t resist the scent can you?
O, my name? Just call me Maja -
Maja pretty and well-dressed
and I just love good company and wine
and pleasure and fun
…what?
You guys think I’m sweet, and seductive?
Oh, that’s nice of you…
**** too?
Oh, boys! Oh, you boys!
If you think I’m ****
Oh wait till you see my sister, my double –
Oh, yes she’s always reclining in a bed too
unlike that stodgy Mona Lisa
Well, my sis didn’t want to come
but really, I’ll tell you a secret -
my sis, she doesn’t wear clothes -
and she hasn’t been in clothes since 1800!
Oh, you guys got to go?
Reluctant, but you must go?
Yeah, you can always see me – just google Goya
and I’ll always be there
and my sister?
Oh, you naughty boys, that’s who really want to see,
don’t you?
and that’s the reason for your sudden hurry?
Well, she’s always placed beside me –
I’m always The Clothed Maja and she the Naked one…
See you soon, guys –
see you at Goya...
Hey, come back here boys –
the least you can do is to kiss me goodbye…
The maja invites all the guys here at hello poetry...well, the girls, you can be around and see what these guys are up to... ...another fun poem based on Goya's The Clothed Maja, ca. 1803....and The **** Maja, ca. 1800
Dear Future Wife,




I know that it wasn’t easy going through the tides of life. It will never be easy. You might find yourself looking for someone who would fulfil the emptiness that you would feel inside. It is my strongest hope that you won’t entertain anyone who would try to take your heart. I would like you to focus on your studies at this point. I know that studying could sometimes be boring or somewhat hard, but I trust you with this one. You can do it.



I’m writing this letter for a purpose. I would like to tell you some things before I marry you or before you become my girlfriend or even before I meet you. I would like to start this message by thanking you in advance. Thank you for choosing me out of the billions of men who are better and more handsome than me. I know that I never deserved somebody like you, and it’s kind of unfair for me because when we would be together, I know that we would look like beauty and the beast. You’d be beauty and I’d be beast.



Thank you for the patience that you will have with me for the next 10 to 70 years. I appreciate how you would make me smile and laugh and even cry at times. It wouldn’t be hard to be with me, because I beat a girl in terms of emotions. Thank you for being faithful with me. I just want you to know that I would not look for anyone else but you. You’re the one I am praying for every night before I go to sleep and every morning before you get up from bed.



It may not be my season yet to be in love. I promise you that I will wait. I will not rush anything with you. Forgive me if I wouldn’t give you flowers and chocolates for valentines while we are still students. I promise you that I will give you something more than that at the right time. I would reserve my hands for you, you and my mother will be the only women who would be able to grasp my very hands while walking. I would reserve myself for you. There would be lots of temptations, but beloved, I promise you that the only one who would control our relationship is God.



It would not be easy being with me. It will never be. But I thank you for choosing me. Forgive me if I can’t be as handsome as the celebrities you watch in movies. I may not be handsome, but I promise to love you with all I am until my final breath.



I’m Excited



I’m excited to be your boyfriend and experience butterflies in my stomach whenever I’m with you.

I’m excited to give you gifts every occasion.

I’m excited to text you the words “I love you” every morning.

I’m excited to see you walking on the altar.

I’m excited to hear the words “You may kiss the bride”

I’m excited to be your husband.

I’m excited to forestall you in waking up just to cook for you.

I’m excited to have dogs (we’ll name them Bacon and Goya)

I’m excited to start a family with you.

I’m excited to roam the world with you.



But while our story is not yet clashing to each other in His book, my excitement would not stop me from waiting. I will wait for you. I promise. I love you.



Your Future Husband
Jean Cocteau es un ruiseñor mecánico a quien le ha dado cuerda Ronsard.

Los únicos brazos entre los cuales nos resignaríamos a pasar la vida, son los brazos de las Venus que han perdido los brazos.

Si los pintores necesitaran, como Delacroix, asistir al degüello de 400 odaliscas para decidirse a tomar los pinceles... Si, por lo menos, sólo fuesen capaces de empuñarlos antes de asesinar a su idolatrada Mamá...

Musicalmente, el clarinete es un instrumento muchísimo más rico que el diccionario.

Aunque se alteren todas nuestras concepciones sobre la Vida y la Muerte, ha llegado el momento de denunciar la enorme superchería de las "Meninas" que -siendo las propias "Meninas" de carne y hueso- colgaron un letrerito donde se lee Velázquez, para que nadie descubra el auténtico y secular milagro de su inmortalidad.

Nadie escuchó con mayor provecho que Debussy, los arpegios que las manos traslúcidas de la lluvia improvisan contra el teclado de las persianas.

Las frases, las ideas de Proust, se desarrollan y se enroscan, como las anguilas que nadan en los acuarios; a veces deformadas por un efecto de refracción, otras anudadas en acoplamientos viscosos, siempre envueltas en esa atmósfera que tan solo se encuentra en los acuarios y en el estilo de Proust.

¡La "Olimpia" de Manet está enferma de "mal de Pott"! ¡Necesita aire de mar!... ¡Urge que Goya la examine!...

En ninguna historia se revive, como en las irisaciones de los vidrios antiguos, la fugaz y emocionante historia de setecientos mil crepúsculos y auroras.

¡Las lágrimas lo corrompen todo! Partidarios insospechables de un "régimen mejorado", ¿tenemos derecho a reclamar una "ley seca" para la poesía... para una poesía "extra dry", gusto americano?

Todo el talento del "douannier" Rousseau estribó en la convicción con que, a los sesenta años, fue capaz de prenderse a un biberón.

La disección de los ojos de Monet hubiera demostrado que Monet poseía ojos de mosca; ojos forzados por innumerables ojitos que distinguen con nitidez los más sutiles matices de un color pero que, siendo ojos autónomos, perciben esos matices independientemente, sin alcanzar una visión sintética de conjunto.

Las frases de Oscar Wilde no necesitan red. ¡Lástima que al realizar sus más arriesgadas acrobacias, nos dejen la incertidumbre de su ****!

El cúmulo de atorrantismo y de burdel, de uso y abuso de limpiabotas, de sensiblería engominada, de ojo en compota, de retobe y de tristeza sin razón -allí está la pampa... más allá el indio... la quena... el tamboril -que se espereza y canta en los acordes del tango que improvisa cualquier lunfardo.

Es necesario procurarse una vestimenta de radiógrafo (que nos proteja del contacto demasiado brusco con lo sobrenatural), antes de aproximarnos a los rayos ultravioletas que iluminan los paisajes de Patinir.

No hay crítico comparable al cajón de nuestro escritorio.

Entre otras... ¡la más irreductible disidencia ortográfica! Ellos: Padecen todavía la superstición de las Mayúsculas.

Nosotros: Hace tiempo que escribimos: cultura, arte, ciencia, moral y, sobre todo y ante todo, poesía.

Los cubistas cometieron el error de creer que una manzana era un tema menos literario y frugal que las nalgas de madame Recamier.

¡Sin pie, no hay poesía! -exclaman algunos. Como si necesitásemos de esa confidencia para reconocerlos.

Esos tinteros con un busto de Voltaire, ¿no tendrán un significado profundo? ¿No habrá sido Voltaire una especie de Papa (*****) de la tinta?

En música, al pleonasmo se le denomina: variación.

Seurat compuso los más admirables escaparates de juguetería.

La prosa de Flaubert destila un sudor tan frío que nos obliga a cambiarnos de camiseta, si no podemos recurrir a su correspondencia.

El silencio de los cuadros del Greco es un silencio ascético, maeterlinckiano, que alucina a los personajes del Greco, les desequilibra la boca, les extravía las pupilas, les diafaniza la nariz.

Los bustos romanos serían incapaces de pensar si el tiempo no les hubiera destrozado la nariz.

No hay que admirar a Wagner porque nos aburra alguna vez, sino a pesar de que nos aburra alguna vez.

Europa comienza a interesarse por nosotros. ¡Disfrazados con las plumas o el chiripá que nos atribuye, alcanzaríamos un éxito clamoroso! ¡Lástima que nuestra sinceridad nos obligue a desilusionarla... a presentarnos como somos; aunque sea incapaz de diferenciarnos... aunque estemos seguros de la rechifla!

Aunque la estilográfica tenga reminiscencias de lagrimatorio, ni los cocodrilos tienen derecho a confundir las lágrimas con la tinta.

Renán es un hombre tan bien educado que hasta cuando cree tener razón, pretende demostrarnos que no la tiene.

Las Venus griegas tienen cuarenta y siete pulsaciones. Las Vírgenes españolas, ciento tres.

¡Sepamos consolarnos! Si las mujeres de Rubens pesaran 27 kilos menos, ya no podríamos extasiarnos ante los reflejos nacarados de sus carnes desnudas.

Llega un momento en que aspiramos a escribir algo peor.

El ombligo no es un órgano tan importante como imaginan ustedes... ¡Señores poetas!

¿Estupidez? ¿Ingenuidad? ¿Política?... "Seamos argentinos", gritan algunos... sin advertir que la nacionalidad es algo tan fatal como la conformación de nuestro esqueleto.

Delatemos un onanismo más: el de izar la bandera cada cinco minutos.

Lo primero que nos enseñan las telas de Chardin es que, para llegar a la pulcritud, al reposo, a la sensatez que alcanzó Chardin, no hay más remedio que resignarnos a pasar la vida en zapatillas.

Facilísimo haber previsto la muerte de Apollinaire, dado que el cerebro de Apollinaire era una fábrica de pirotecnia que constantemente inventaba los más bellos juegos de artificio, los cohetes de más lindo color, y era fatal que al primero que se le escapara entre el fango de la trinchera, una granada le rebanara el cráneo.

Los esclavos miguelangelescos poseen un olor tan iodado, tan acre que, por menos paladar que tengamos basta gustarlo alguna vez para convencerse de que fueron esculpidos por la rompiente. (No me refiero a los del Louvre; modelados por el mar, un día de esos en que fabrica merengues sobre la arena).

¡La opinión que se tendrá de nosotros cuando sólo quede de nosotros lo que perdura de la vieja China o del viejo Egipto!

¡Impongámosnos ciertas normas para volver a experimentar la complacencia ingenua de violarlas! La rehabilitación de la infidelidad reclama de nosotros un candor semejante. ¡Ruboricémonos de no poder ruborizarnos y reinventemos las prohibiciones que nos convengan, antes de que la libertad alcance a esclavizarnos completamente!

El cemento armado nos proporciona una satisfacción semejante a la de pasarnos la mano por la cara, después de habernos afeitado.

¡Los vidrios catalanes y las estalactitas de Mallorca con que Anglada prepara su paleta!

Los cubistas salvaron a la pintura de las corrientes de aire, de los rayos de sol que amenazaban derretirla pero -al cerrar herméticamente las ventanas, que los impresionistas habían abierto en un exceso de entusiasmo- le suministraron tal cúmulo de recetas, una cantidad tan grande de ventosas que poco faltó para que la asfixiaran y la dejasen descarnada, como un esqueleto.

Hay poetas demasiado inflamables. ¿Pasan unos senos recién inaugurados? El cerebro se les incendia. ¡Comienza a salirles humo de la cabeza!

"La Maja Vestida" está más desnuda que la "maja desnuda".

Las telas de Velázquez respiran a pleno pulmón; tienen una buena tensión arterial, una temperatura normal y una reacción Wasserman negativa.

¡Quién hubiera previsto que las Venus griegas fuesen capaces de perder la cabeza!

Hay acordes, hay frases, hay entonaciones en D'Annunzio que nos obligan a perdonarle su "fiatto", su "bella voce", sus actitudes de tenor.

Azorín ve la vida en diminutivo y la expresa repitiendo lo diminutivo, hasta darnos la sensación de la eternidad.

¡El Arte es el peor enemigo del arte!... un fetiche ante el que ofician, arrodillados, quienes no son artistas.

Lo que molesta más en Cézanne es la testarudez con que, delante de un queso, se empeña en repetir: "esto es un queso".

El espesor de las nalgas de Rabelais explica su optimismo. Una visión como la suya, requiere estar muellemente sentada para impedir que el esqueleto nos proporcione un pregusto de muerte.

La arquitectura árabe consiguió proporcionarle a la luz, la dulzura y la voluptuosidad que adquiere la luz, en una boca entreabierta de mujer.

Hasta el advenimiento de Hugo, nadie sospechó el esplendor, la amplitud, el desarrollo, la suntuosidad a que alcanzaría el genio del "camelo".

Es tanta la mala educación de Pió Baroja, y es tan ingenua la voluptuosidad que siente Pío Baroja en ser mal educado, que somos capaces de perdonarle la falta de educación que significa llamarse: Pío Baroja.

No hay que confundir poesía con vaselina; vigor, con camiseta sucia.

El estilo de Barres es un estilo de onda, un estilo que acaba de salir de la peluquería.

Lo único que nos impide creer que Saint Saens haya sido un gran músico, es haber escuchado la música de Saint Sáéns.

¿Las Vírgenes de Murillo?

Como vírgenes, demasiado mujeres.

Como mujeres, demasiado vírgenes.

Todas las razones que tendríamos para querer a Velázquez, si la única razón del amor no consistiera en no tener ninguna.

Los surtidores del Alhambra conservan la versión más auténtica de "Las mil y una noches", y la murmuran con la fresca monotonía que merecen.

Si Rubén no hubiera poseído unas manos tan finas!... ¡Si no se las hubiese mirado tanto al escribir!...

La variedad de cicuta con que Sócrates se envenenó se llamaba "Conócete a ti mismo".

¡Cuidado con las nuevas recetas y con los nuevos boticarios! ¡Cuidado con las decoraciones y "la couleur lócale"! ¡Cuidado con los anacronismos que se disfrazan de aviador! ¡Cuidado con el excesivo dandysmo de la indumentaria londinense! ¡Cuidado -sobre todo- con los que gritan: "¡Cuidado!" cada cinco minutos!

Ningún aterrizaje más emocionante que el "aterrizaje" forzoso de la Victoria de Samotracia.

Goya grababa, como si "entrara a matar".

El estilo de Renán se resiente de la flaccidez y olor a sacristía de sus manos... demasiado aficionadas "a lavarse las manos".

La Gioconda es la única mujer viviente que sonríe como algunas mujeres después de muertas.

Nada puede darnos una certidumbre más sensual y un convencimiento tan palpable del origen divino de la vida, como el vientre recién fecundado de la Venus de Milo.

El problema más grave que Goya resolvió al pintar sus tapices, fue el dosaje de azúcar; un terrón más y sólo hubieran podido usarse como tapas de bomboneras.

Los rizos, las ondulaciones, los temas "imperdibles" y, sobre todo, el olor a "vera violetta" de las melodías italianas.

Así como un estiló maduro nos instruye -a través de una descripción de Jerusalén- del gesto con que el autor se anuda la corbata, no existirá un arte nacional mientras no sepamos pintar un paisaje noruego con un inconfundible sabor a carbonada.

¿Por qué no admitir que una gallina ponga un trasatlántico, si creemos en la existencia de Rimbaud, sabio, vidente y poeta a los 12 años?

¡El encarnizamiento con que hundió sus pitones, el toro aquél, que mató a todos los Cristos españoles!

Rodin confundió caricia con modelado; espasmo con inspiración; "atelier" con alcoba.

Jamás existirán caballos capaces de tirar un par de patadas que violenten, más rotundamente, las leyes de la perspectiva y posean, al mismo tiempo, un concepto más equilibrado de la composición, que el par de patadas que tiran los heroicos percherones de Paolo Uccello.

Nos aproximamos a los retratos del Greco, con el propósito de sorprender las sanguijuelas que se ocultan en los repliegues de sus golillas.

Un libro debe construirse como un reloj, y venderse como un salchichón.

Con la poesía sucede lo mismo que con las mujeres: llega un momento en que la única actitud respetuosa consiste en levantarles la pollera.

Los críticos olvidan, con demasiada frecuencia, que una cosa es cacarear, otra, poner el huevo.

Trasladar al plano de la creación la fervorosa voluptuosidad con que, durante nuestra infancia, rompimos a pedradas todos los faroles del vecindario.

¡Si buena parte de nuestros poetas se convenciera de que la tartamudez es preferible al plagio!

Tanto en arte, como en ciencia, hay que buscarle las siete patas al gato.

El barroco necesitó cruzar el Atlántico en busca del trópico y de la selva para adquirir la ingenuidad candorosa y llena de fasto que ostenta en América.

¿Cómo dejar de admirarla prodigalidad y la perfección con que la mayoría de nuestros poetas logra el prestigio de realizar el vacío absoluto?

A fuerza de gritar socorro se corre el riesgo de perder la voz.

En los mapas incunables, África es una serie de islas aisladas, pero los vientos hinchan sus cachetes en todas direcciones.

Los paréntesis de Faulkner son cárceles de negros.

Estamos tan pervertidos que la inhabilidad de lo ingenuo nos parece el "sumun" del arte.

La experiencia es la enfermedad que ofrece el menor peligro de contagio.

En vez de recurrir al whisky, Turner se emborracha de crepúsculo.

Las mujeres modernas olvidan que para desvestirse y desvestirlas se requiere un mínimo de indumentaria.

La vida es un largo embrutecimiento. La costumbre nos teje, diariamente, una telaraña en las pupilas; poco a poco nos aprisiona la sintaxis, el diccionario; los mosquitos pueden volar tocando la corneta, carecemos del coraje de llamarlos arcángeles, y cuando deseamos viajar nos dirigimos a una agencia de vapores en vez de metamorfosear una silla en un trasatlántico.

Ningún Stradivarius comparable en forma, ni en resonancia, a las caderas de ciertas colegialas.

¿Existe un llamado tan musicalmente emocionante como el de la llamarada de la enorme gasa que agita Isolda, reclamando desesperadamente la presencia de Tristán?

Aunque ellos mismos lo ignoren, ningún creador escribe para los otros, ni para sí mismo, ni mucho menos, para satisfacer un anhelo de creación, sino porque no puede dejar de escribir.

Ante la exquisitez del idioma francés, es comprensible la atracción que ejerce la palabra "merde".

El adulterio se ha generalizado tanto que urge rehabilitarlo o, por lo menos, cambiarle de nombre.

Las distancias se han acortado tanto que la ausencia y la nostalgia han perdido su sentido.

Tras todo cuadro español se presiente una danza macabra.

Lo prodigioso no es que Van Gogh se haya cortado una oreja, sino que conservara la otra.

La poesía siempre es lo otro, aquello que todos ignoran hasta que lo descubre un verdadero poeta.

Hasta Darío no existía un idioma tan rudo y maloliente como el español.

Segura de saber donde se hospeda la poesía, existe siempre una multitud impaciente y apresurada que corre en su busca pero, al llegar donde le han dicho que se aloja y preguntar por ella, invariablemente se le contesta: Se ha mudado.

Sólo después de arrojarlo todo por la borda somos capaces de ascender hacia nuestra propia nada.

La serie de sarcófagos que encerraban a las momias egipcias, son el desafío más perecedero y vano de la vida ante el poder de la muerte.

Los pintores chinos no pintan la naturaleza, la sueñan.

Hasta la aparición de Rembrandt nadie sospechó que la luz alcanzaría la dramaticidad e inagotable variedad de conflictos de las tragedias shakespearianas.

Aspiramos a ser lo que auténticamente somos, pero a medida que creemos lograrlo, nos invade el hartazgo de lo que realmente somos.

Ambicionamos no plagiarnos ni a nosotros mismos, a ser siempre distintos, a renovarnos en cada poema, pero a medida que se acumulan y forman nuestra escueta o frondosa producción, debemos reconocer que a lo largo de nuestra existencia hemos escrito un solo y único poema.
Ileana Payamps Aug 2017
I am from VapoRub,
From Goya
And morisoñando.
I am from the traffic
And loud horns,
From the Caribbean heat,
And the city lights,
From the buildings
And the towers.
I am from the palm trees
And the coconut trees,
Dancing bachata
And merengue
In the beach,
From yaniqueque
Y plátano,
From tostones
And fish.
I am from Sunday gatherings
And loud family members,
From Jose, Maria, and Primos,
And the hardworking
Payamps clan.
I am from the
Madera’s baseball team,
From Canó, Sosa, y Ortiz,
From the long summer rides
To ***** Cana
And Samana’s beach.
From “work hard
Cause life is not easy”
And “family before friends.”
From Christianity
And Saturday morning sermons,
From God is good
And He brings joy.
I am from Santo Domingo
And Monción,
From Santiago
And Spanish ancestors,
From mangú con salami,
From rice and beans.
From the grandpa
Who owns the village
Surrounded by
Chickens, cows, and bulls,
From the business owner
And the well known uncles
In my hometown.
I am from the only flag
With a bible.
From the red, blue
And white.
From the most beautiful
Island in the Caribbean,
From Quisqueya y
Libertad.
I am from the
Dominican Republic,
The country that holds
The people I love and
Miss the most.
I am from the
Little Paris box
I keep next to my bed,
Filled with precious
Gifts and letters
That make me feel
A little closer
To them.
a little background
Raj Arumugam Sep 2014
Goya's not gone
his nightmares and realities still shadow us -
the Los Desastres de la Guerra
still palpitate in our desert lands and hills
beating like hearts the Aztecs offered the sun;
and the barbarism of an axe over heads still thrives -
and barbarians can never hear the plea of a mother

Tampoco
tells us of women and girls ***** in war
and Oh, the Fight with Cudgels
looms large over our skies
and the horror of Saturn devouring his son
pervades the earth
and the Black Paintings
run amok in the form of men shrouded in black

Ah, Picasso is there too in our madness:
Guernica bares its teeth and monstrosities
on the horrors of our own time...Goya's and Picasso's paintings mirror the ugly realities of our world and of human beings...this is my second and final poem on this subject - it is a disgusting subject
Catrina Sparrow Jan 2015
perhaps
if there were spaces
     gaps left in the english language

places meant for characters left to be invented

maybe
if there were phrases
     and definitions
yet to be coined

i could finally tell the whole truth
about me
     and the monsters in my head
i was super ******, and reading an article on mentalfloss about words from around the earth that have no direct translation to english. hauntingly beautiful, really. anyway, this started bouncing 'round my head, and after two shots of whiskey, i dubbed it worthy of being written down.
mj Jul 2018
I'm sorry
for being in a pit of despair.

I'm sorry
for not knowing how to repair.

I want to rest
but the devil knows
something
I cannot tell.

It haunts me
to the ends of the world.

It is completely
devouring my soul.

I am weary.
I need to rest.

I'm so sorry
for not being able to tell.
Poem based on one of Francisco Goya's "Black Paintings". Originally painted on the walls of his house, it was not meant to be published for the public eye. Years after his death, 14 dark paintings were recovered from the walls. They depict Goya's turmoil for his faith in the Spanish society as well as for his own deterring mental and physical state. While "Saturn Devouring His Son" is a depiction of the Roman myth of Saturn fearing his sons overtaking him, it also reveals the insanity of Goya, and how he engraved it into the confines of his own home.
Raj Arumugam Jul 2012
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
I can read…donkey as I am,
I can read
Where did I learn to read?
they taught me at home,
they taught me at school
they taught me at the camps and retreats
and at all the Assemblies and Gatherings
and at various Thought Adjustment Programs
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
I can read…donkey as I am,
I can read and I can recite
They trained me well to recite
and to memorize and to regurgitate
and to repeat and repeat and repeat
at the Houses of Prayer
the Holy Ones stood before us
and they trained us, they drilled us
thousands and thousands of us
and millions and millions of us
and through years and years
and centuries and centuries
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw*
No variation, no change, just -
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw

I can read, I can recite, I can repeat
they trained us well at Animal Farm –
word for word, repeat and repeat and repeat
and when in doubt, we have our Great Leaders
Pigs for Pigs, Goats for Goats, Turkeys for Turkeys
and Donkeys for Donkeys
who will speak for us
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw

I can read, I can recite, I can repeat
so must you, if you should be pure,
if you should be saved
if you should see the Truth
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw

I can read, I can recite, I can repeat
*Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw
companion picture: Hasta su abuelo, Caprichos by Francisco Goya (1746 - 1828)
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.   classical music is so outdated, when it comes to exposing children to it, for them, to then, later in life, reap the benefits of "increased" intelligence... oh look... they took down xenomorph's satan's presence video... the one with all the great artwork, including exponents of Goya and Dürer, and... Adolphe-William Bouguereau's masterpiece: Dante and Virgil (the onlookers)... shame, really...  because who said that children can't keep count, when listening to psy-trance electronic music, attempting to keep count, rather than understand violin, brass, or woodwind melodies? not me... there's an upper echelon, of music, sure, it's a hyper-inflation of African drum culture... but it's there... and, like me... some ******* just need to be pulverized by the beat.

problem with the alternative to rolling tobacco -
akin to chesterfield brand...
    when compared to golden virginia?
the tobacco is drier -
                  you need to squeeze it between
your fingers, to get some juices flowing...
and i've heard a lot of ******* in my days...
but that rolling papers,
are somehow different to the cigarette wrap,
as the reason why...
   a rollie will die off if not smoked,
but a cigarette will not?
     it's not the papers...
   it's the to(e)-ba(h)-khh-khh-co(e)...
high quality rolling tobacco is fresher...
slightly moist...
    akin to golden virginia...
   but a brand like chesterfield?
   dry like **** about to give you
          an imitation circumcision...
you actually have to squeeze the ****
brown **** to get an adequate
rolling technique going...

never mind that though...
  **** me! i've been looking for this scenario
since time immemorial...

(current year, England...
   when was it permitted,
for a neighbour, to tell another neighbour,
where, and when, he can smoke
a cigarette on his property?
when?!
         i have the neighbourly decency
to not walk ****-naked into my garden,
subsequently scratching my ***,
and then jerking off anything
but chicken in full view...
  but where, i can smoke a cigarette?
this is England...
             i compromised -
   but she can't have, the *******, night!)

ah... the su doku observation!
i've been looking for it for years...
   no. 10,044

0  0  0  1  2  7  0  0  8
0  8  0  5  6  9  0  2  4
0  0 ­ 0  4  8  3  0  0  7

     the common problem with
people solving this puzzle,
is that they start thinking of...
   fractions: namely?
   only two alternatives, rather than three...

i've seen my father's notation
sometimes, 1 / 5              i.e. or
    9 / 3
                      etc.
in the English, catholic, teaching methods
concerning basic mathematics of
Pythagoras - you were required
to find, 3 points...
  to draw a straight line (just to make sure) -
well...
        unless that third point
a liquor store, going AB      BA...
      sure...
              but drawing a straight line?
never mind

0  0  0         0  0  1    |  0  0  8      via      (  x  )
0  0  0   i.e. 0  5  9    |  0  2  4                 (  y  )
0  0  0         0  0  0    |  0  0  7                 (  z  )

i needed a matrix answer... and i fiddled
one out!

( 5  9  9  5 )
( 1  1  1  1 )
( 9  5  5  9 )

              there simply can't be an alternative
to where 1, is supposed to be placed
on the grid...

0  0  0         0  0  1    |  0  0  8
0  0  0   i.e. 0  5  9    |  1  2  4
0  0  0         0  0  0    |  0  0  7

i've surprised myself -
       which is even more gratifying...
than i'm slightly tipsy -

0  0  0
0  0  0
0  0  0           (what's that?
                     spatial coordination,
for said, example).

have to coin a phrase for this discover...
ah... the su doku third coordinate,
of a straight line... #howlin'wolf'sblues:
could been a spoonful' of sugar...
ah... **** never gets old.
Martin Narrod Jul 2018
Some types of blood arrest this mouth.
Yes, some types of lips breathe fire and shout.
Some types of women shuck men of their gain, then some women run hurriedly back to their beaches again.
Some people catch anons between their legs. Others swallow vespers BeSpoke by the lust that they crave. Then envelop Gonzo love on the tip of their quill, if only boiling themselves for five minutes to ensure themselves potable.

I live for the taste of rust. I sit in the second-to-last seat on the back-left side of the bus. And I greet her legs with my aching skin, touch my fingertips to my lips to prove that I’m alive to myself.

If her scent was obeyed by royalty. I’m traversing the world if only once more as I’m praying that she’ll see me. I’m praying for our faces to believe in we. And her taste is the bang that is big from the beginning of time, one twist of the fresh zest of a lime, while the years are turned back into the furnace of time. I’m craving faces and loves I once saw. I need to feel the skin tailored for the female gods. I’m certainly loud and catering forth, I turn up the pre, and force the gain and amp up. If only to be noted again, in a bed with my goddess together we’d spend, every moment together in eternity. Immortality conceived of the beasts we achieve. Trampled by the light and tortured by the sound of ourselves. Please won’t you help me to not be forgotten myself? I’m pursing my lips and shaking my hands, I’m jumping off rooftops and eating mouthfuls of sand. Is our hero here or has she she run? Help me find Britni West, my one true love. She’s in California last I had a taste. It’s only everyone else that I lay chaste. With her I’m on top of the world, I’d quaff her spit and champion her skin. There is nothing nor no one that could come between. She’s the only one that is for me, and I’m the only he she’s told me.
“every man wants to be a tyrant when he fornicates"— marquis de sade (philosophy in the boudoir)
in murky region of my mind flickers shanty town of wickedness and all who burn betray me are tortured murdered buried on outskirts of this moot province not entirely devoted to revenge shadows dart lascivious exchanges shadow economy back alley shenanigans soundproof rooms filled with hunger for beautiful women sole source of my arousal female lust japanese silk braided ropes bowls hoses drop-clothes vibrating toys anticipating mischievous acts town’s folk love esteem me applaud my fiercest turpitude fathers offer their daughters mothers perfume girls with wild flowers in their hair whispering accommodating instructions ultimately i decline their generous offerings opting instead for steadfast soul confidante accomplice closer in age she knows how to mommy my genitals get me off and i the same for her churning simmering caldron of desires dazzling aromas through center of town runs sacred blue river constantly replenishing innocence upon dust filth criminality also many enchanting bridges connecting dark side to bright side in elegant rundown art museum hang several of my paintings next to jackson ******* ad reinhardt anselm kiefer gerhard richter albert pinkham ryder francisco goya susan rothenberg and public library shelves brim with volumes of my writings next to james joyce william faulkner sophocles sylvia plath rainer maria rilke milan kundera franz kafka gabriel garcia marquez thomas bernhard patrick suskind  pablo neruda oriana fallaci annie proulx lydia davis during mornings everyone busies themselves making things practicing yoga swimming cooking friends gather for lunch munch comically gossip about previous night’s dramas in afternoon go back to their interests at sunset all citizenry come together look to west watch fiery orange globe sink beyond purple mountains wonder reflect sniff their fingers as night falls on little village each goes about deciding what to wear then meet for cocktails in local taverns and commotion begins
Lesly Jan 2015
Recuerdo exactamente como si fuese ayer. Recuerdo cuando en los veranos mi padre se iba a jugar al campo de futbol y nos llevaba a mi hermana y yo. Andaba un overol estilo chor morado con flores amarillas al lado y teñís negros. Suena como estilo feo y raro pero yo desde peque me vestía diferente. Pero se veía bien. Vale. Miraba a mi papa jugar el futbol como si fuese campeón jajá. Cuando el era joven de 18 anos le había dicho que si quería jugar futbol profesional. Pero mi padre decidió que no. No se porque no tomo esa oportunidad? Estuvo buena.. pero años después se caso con mi mama y nacimos nosotros. Mi hermana gemela, yo y mis dos hermanos.

Las Malta Goya's fueron esas bebidas que me encantaba tomar en esos días súper calientes. Al principio no me gustaba mucho. Wakala dije yo! pero no se como explicar este sentimiento pero mi cuerpo deseaba mas. Ahora que tengo 18 anos los sigo bebiendo. Wow. El que lea esto debería de probar Malta Goya. Cuando lo buscas en Google dice que es cerveza sin alcohol. jeje ;)
English Jam Mar 2019
I claw out of the grave like the phoenix
And for my 15 minute lifetime
I burn like the sun, the gas lamp, California, the Holocaust
Before fizzling out again
I live to die  

I awaken on the production line
I breathe in the ash pouring from the apocalyptic clouds
Disappointed, I turn to my grey sarcophagus
The faceless, factory-made, invisible-as-Kether generation
Buried in the grocery store pyramid

Like Goya's dog, I peer blindly, so tiny
Upwards, into the infinite nothing that awaits
The afterlife, the void, Abraham's *****
Death, limbo, desolation row
The nihilistic emptiness from which I rise
Yo, Beremundo el Lelo, surqué todas las rutas
y probé todos los mesteres.
Singlando a la deriva, no en orden cronológico ni lógico -en sin orden-
narraré mis periplos, diré de los empleos con que
nutrí mis ocios,
distraje mi hacer nada y enriquecí mi hastío...;
-hay de ellos otros que me callo-:
Catedrático fui de teosofía y eutrapelia, gimnopedia y teogonía y pansofística en Plafagonia;
barequero en el Porce y el Tigüí, huaquero en el Quindío,
amansador mansueto -no en desuetud aún- de muletos cerriles y de onagros, no sé dónde;
palaciego proto-Maestre de Ceremonias de Wilfredo el Velloso,
de Cunegunda ídem de ídem e ibídem -en femenino- e ídem de ídem de Epila Calunga
y de Efestión -alejandrino- el Glabro;
desfacedor de entuertos, tuertos y malfetrías, y de ellos y ellas facedor;
domeñador de endriagos, unicornios, minotauros, quimeras y licornas y dragones... y de la Gran Bestia.

Fui, de Sind-bad, marinero; pastor de cabras en Sicilia
si de cabriolas en Silesia, de cerdas en Cerdeña y -claro- de corzas en Córcega;
halconero mayor, primer alcotanero de Enguerrando Segundo -el de la Tour-Miracle-;
castrador de colmenas, y no de Casanovas, en el Véneto, ni de Abelardos por el Sequana;
pajecillo de altivas Damas y ariscas Damas y fogosas, en sus castillos
y de pecheras -¡y cuánto!- en sus posadas y mesones
-yo me era Gerineldos de todellas y trovador trovadorante y adorante; como fui tañedor
de chirimía por fiestas candelarias, carbonero con Gustavo Wasa en Dalecarlia, bucinator del Barca Aníbal
y de Scipión el Africano y Masinisa, piloto de Erik el Rojo hasta Vinlandia, y corneta
de un escuadrón de coraceros de Westmannlandia que cargó al lado del Rey de Hielo
-con él pasé a difunto- y en la primera de Lutzen.

Fui preceptor de Diógenes, llamado malamente el Cínico:
huésped de su tonel, además, y portador de su linterna;
condiscípulo y émulo de Baco Dionisos Enófilo, llamado buenamente el Báquico
-y el Dionisíaco, de juro-.

Fui discípulo de Gautama, no tan aprovechado: resulté mal budista, si asaz contemplativo.
Hice de peluquero esquilador siempre al servicio de la gentil Dalilah,
(veces para Sansón, que iba ya para calvo, y -otras- depilador de sus de ella óptimas partes)
y de maestro de danzar y de besar de Salomé: no era el plato de argento,
mas sí de litargirio sus caderas y muslos y de azogue también su vientre auri-rizado;
de Judith de Betulia fui confidente y ni infidente, y -con derecho a sucesión- teniente y no lugarteniente
de Holofernes no Enófobo (ni enófobos Judith ni yo, si con mesura, cautos).
Fui entrenador (no estrenador) de Aspasia y Mesalina y de Popea y de María de Mágdalo
e Inés Sorel, y marmitón y pinche de cocina de Gargantúa
-Pantagruel era huésped no nada nominal: ya suficientemente pantagruélico-.
Fui fabricante de batutas, quebrador de hemistiquios, requebrador de Eustaquias, y tratante en viragos
y en sáficas -algunas de ellas adónicas- y en pínnicas -una de ellas super-fémina-:
la dejé para mí, si luego ancló en casorio.
A la rayuela jugué con Fulvia; antes, con Palamedes, axedrez, y, en época vecina, con Philidor, a los escaques;
y, a las damas, con Damas de alto y bajo coturno
-manera de decir: que para el juego en litis las Damas suelen ir descalzas
y se eliden las calzas y sustentadores -no funcionales- en las Damas y las calzas en los varones.

Tañí el rabel o la viola de amor -casa de Bach, búrguesa- en la primicia
de La Cantata del Café (pre-estreno, en familia protestante, privado).
Le piqué caña jorobeta al caballo de Atila
-que era un morcillo de prócer alzada: me refiero al corcel-;
cambié ideas, a la par, con Incitato, Cónsul de Calígula, y con Babieca,
-que andaba en Babia-, dándole prima
fui zapatero de viejo de Berta la del gran pie (buen pie, mejor coyuntura),
de la Reina Patoja ortopedista; y hortelano y miniaturista de Pepino el Breve,
y copero mayor faraónico de Pepe Botellas, interino,
y porta-capas del Pepe Bellotas de la esposa de Putifar.

Viajé con Julio Verne y Odiseo, Magallanes y Pigafetta, Salgan, Leo e Ibn-Batuta,
con Melville y Stevenson, Fernando González y Conrad y Sir John de Mandeville y Marco Polo,
y sólo, sin De Maistre, alredor de mi biblioteca, de mi oploteca, mi mecanoteca y mi pinacoteca.
Viajé también en tomo de mí mismo: asno a la vez que noria.

Fui degollado en la de San Bartolomé (post facto): secundaba a La Môle:
Margarita de Valois no era total, íntegramente pelirroja
-y no porque de noche todos los gatos son pardos...: la leoparda,
las tres veces internas, íntimas, peli-endrina,
Margarita, Margotón, Margot, la casqui-fulva...-

No estuve en la nea nao -arcaica- de Noé, por manera
-por ventura, otrosí- que no fui la paloma ni la medusa de esa almadía: mas sí tuve a mi encargo
la selección de los racimos de sus viñedos, al pie del Ararat, al post-Diluvio,
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Fui topógrafo ad-hoc entre El Cangrejo y Purcoy Niverengo,
(y ad-ínterim, administré la zona bolombólica:
mucho de anís, mucho de Rosas del Cauca, versos de vez en cuando),
y fui remero -el segundo a babor- de la canoa, de la piragua
La Margarita (criolla), que navegó fluvial entre Comiá, La Herradura, El Morito,
con cargamentos de contrabando: blancas y endrinas de Guaca, Titiribí y Amagá, y destilados
de Concordia y Betulia y de Urrao...
¡Urrao! ¡Urrao! (hasta hace poco lo diríamos con harta mayor razón y con aquese y este júbilos).
Tras de remero de bajel -y piloto- pasé a condueño, co-editor, co-autor
(no Coadjutor... ¡ni de Retz!) en asocio de Matías Aldecoa, vascuence, (y de un tal Gaspar von der Nacht)
de un Libraco o Librículo de pseudo-poemas de otro quídam;
exploré la región de Zuyaxiwevo con Sergio Stepánovich Stepansky,
lobo de donde se infiere, y, en más, ario.

Fui consejero áulico de Bogislao, en la corte margravina de Xa-Netupiromba
y en la de Aglaya crisostómica, óptima circezuela, traidorcilla;
tañedor de laúd, otra vez, y de viola de gamba y de recorder,
de sacabuche, otrosí (de dulzaina - otronó) y en casaciones y serenatas y albadas muy especializado.
No es cierto que yo fuera -es impostura-
revendedor de bulas (y de mulas) y tragador defuego y engullidor de sables y bufón en las ferias
pero sí platiqué (también) con el asno de Buridán y Buridán,
y con la mula de Balaám y Balaám, con Rocinante y Clavileño y con el Rucio
-y el Manco y Sancho y don Quijote-
y trafiqué en ultramarinos: ¡qué calamares -en su tinta-!,
¡qué Anisados de Guarne!, ¡qué Rones de Jamaica!, ¡qué Vodkas de Kazán!, ¡qué Tequilas de México!,
¡qué Néctares de Heliconia! ¡Morcillas de Itagüí! ¡Torreznos de Envigado! ¡Chorizos de los Ballkanes! ¡Qué Butifarras cataláunicas!
Estuve en Narva y en Pultawa y en las Queseras del Medio, en Chorros Blancos
y en El Santuario de Córdova, y casi en la de San Quintín
(como pugnaban en el mismo bando no combatí junto a Egmont por no estar cerca al de Alba;
a Cayetana sí le anduve cerca tiempo después: preguntádselo a Goya);
no llegué a tiempo a Waterloo: me distraje en la ruta
con Ida de Saint-Elme, Elselina Vanayl de Yongh, viuda del Grande Ejército (desde antaño... más tarde)
y por entonces y desde años antes bravo Edecán de Ney-:
Ayudante de Campo... de plumas, gongorino.
No estuve en Capua, pero ya me supongo sus mentadas delicias.

Fabriqué clavicémbalos y espinetas, restauré virginales, reparé Stradivarius
falsos y Guarnerius apócrifos y Amatis quasi Amatis.
Cincelé empuñaduras de dagas y verduguillos, en el obrador de Benvenuto,
y escriños y joyeles y guardapelos ad-usum de Cardenales y de las Cardenalesas.
Vendí Biblias en el Sinú, con De la Rosa, Borelly y el ex-pastor Antolín.
Fui catador de tequila (debuté en Tapachula y ad-látere de Ciro el Ofiuco)
y en México y Amecameca, y de mezcal en Teotihuacán y Cuernavaca,
de Pisco-sauer en Lima de los Reyes,
y de otros piscolabis y filtros muy antes y después y por Aná del Aburrá, y doquiérase
con El Tarasco y una legión de Bacos Dionisos, pares entre Pares.
Vagué y vagué si divagué por las mesillas del café nocharniego, Mil Noches y otra Noche
con el Mago de lápiz buido y de la voz asordinada.
Antes, muy antes, bebí con él, con Emmanuel y don Efe y Carrasca, con Tisaza y Xovica y Mexía y los otros Panidas.
Después..., ahora..., mejor no meneallo y sí escanciallo y persistir en ello...

Dicté un curso de Cabalística y otro de Pan-Hermética
y un tercero de Heráldica,
fuera de los cursillos de verano de las literaturas bereberes -comparadas-.
Fui catalogador protonotario en jefe de la Magna Biblioteca de Ebenezer el Sefardita,
y -en segundo- de la Mínima Discoteca del quídam en referencia de suso:
no tenía aún las Diabelli si era ya dueño de las Goldberg;
no poseía completa la Inconclusa ni inconclusa la Décima (aquestas Sinfonías, Variaciones aquesas:
y casi que todello -en altísimo rango- tan Variaciones Alredor de Nada).

Corregí pruebas (y dislates) de tres docenas de sota-poetas
-o similares- (de los que hinchen gacetilleros a toma y daca).
Fui probador de calzas -¿prietas?: ceñidas, sí, en todo caso- de Diana de Meridor
y de justillos, que así veníanle, de estar atán bien provista
y atán rebién dotada -como sabíalo también y así de bien Bussy d'Amboise-.
Temperé virginales -ya restaurados-, y clavecines, si no como Isabel, y aunque no tan baqueano
como ése de Eisenach, arroyo-Océano.
Soplé el ***** bufón, con tal cual incongruencia, sin ni tal cual donaire.
No aporreé el bombo, empero, ni entrechoqué los címbalos.

Les saqué puntas y les puse ribetes y garambainas a los vocablos,
cuando diérame por la Semasiología, cierta vez, en la Sorbona de Abdera,
sita por Babia, al pie de los de Úbeda, que serán cerros si no valen por Monserrates,
sin cencerros. Perseveré harto poco en la Semántica -por esa vez-,
si, luego retorné a la andadas, pero a la diabla, en broma:
semanto-semasiólogo tarambana pillín pirueteante.
Quien pugnó en Dénnevitz con Ney, el peli-fulvo
no fui yo: lo fue mi bisabuelo el Capitán...;
y fue mi tatarabuelo quien apresó a Gustavo Cuarto:
pero sí estuve yo en la Retirada de los Diez Mil
-era yo el Siete Mil Setecientos y Setenta y Siete,
precisamente-: releed, si dudaislo, el Anábasis.
Fui celador intocable de la Casa de Tócame-Roque, -si ignoré cuyo el Roque sería-,
y de la Casa del Gato-que-pelotea; le busqué tres pies al gato
con botas, que ya tenía siete vidas y logré dar con siete autores en busca de un personaje
-como quien dice Los Siete contra Tebas: ¡pobre Tebas!-, y ya es jugar bastante con el siete.
No pude dar con la cuadratura del círculo, que -por lo demás- para nada hace falta,
mas topé y en el Cuarto de San Alejo, con la palanca de Arquimedes y con la espada de Damocles,
ambas a dos, y a cual más, tomadas del orín y con más moho
que las ideas de yo si sé quién mas no lo digo:
púsome en aprietos tal doble hallazgo; por más que dije: ¡Eureka! ...: la palanca ya no servía ni para levantar un falso testimonio,
y tuve que encargarme de tener siempre en suspenso y sobre mí la espada susodicha.

Se me extravió el anillo de Saturno, mas no el de Giges ni menos el de Hans Carvel;
no sé qué se me ficieron los Infantes de Aragón y las Nieves de Antaño y el León de Androcles y la Balanza
del buen Shylock: deben estar por ahí con la Linterna de Diógenes:
-¿mas cómo hallarlos sin la linterna?

No saqué el pecho fuera, ni he sido nunca el Tajo, ni me di cuenta del lío de Florinda,
ni de por qué el Tajo el pecho fuera le sacaba a la Cava,
pero sí vi al otro don Rodrigo en la Horca.
Pinté muestras de posadas y mesones y ventas y paradores y pulquerías
en Veracruz y Tamalameque y Cancán y Talara, y de riendas de abarrotes en Cartagena de Indias, con Tisaza-,
si no desnarigué al de Heredia ni a López **** tuerto -que era bizco-.
Pastoreé (otra vez) el Rebaño de las Pléyades
y resultaron ser -todellas, una a una- ¡qué capretinas locas!
Fui aceitero de la alcuza favorita del Padre de los Búhos Estáticos:
-era un Búho Sofista, socarrón soslayado, bululador mixtificante-.
Regí el vestier de gala de los Pingüinos Peripatéticos,
(precursores de Brummel y del barón d'Orsay,
por fuera de filósofos, filosofículos, filosofantes dromomaníacos)
y apacenté el Bestiario de Orfeo (delegatario de Apollinaire),
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Nada tuve que ver con el asesinato de la hija del corso adónico Sebastiani
ni con ella (digo como pesquisidor, pesquisante o pesquisa)
si bien asesoré a Edgar Allan Poe como entomólogo, cuando El Escarabajo de Oro,
y en su investigación del Doble Asesinato de la Rue Morgue,
ya como experto en huellas dactilares o quier digitalinas.
Alguna vez me dio por beberme los vientos o por pugnar con ellos -como Carolus
Baldelarius- y por tomar a las o las de Villadiego o a las sus calzas:
aquesas me resultaron harto potables -ya sin calzas-; ellos, de mucho volumen
y de asaz poco cuerpo (si asimilados a líquidos, si como justadores).
Gocé de pingües canonjías en el reinado del bonachón de Dagoberto,
de opíparas prebendas, encomiendas, capellanías y granjerías en el del Rey de los Dipsodas,
y de dulce privanza en el de doña Urraca
(que no es la Gazza Ladra de Rossini, si fuéralo
de corazones o de amantes o favoritos o privados o martelos).

Fui muy alto cantor, como bajo cantante, en la Capilla de los Serapiones
(donde no se sopranizaba...); conservador,
conservador -pero poco- de Incunables, en la Alejandrina de Panida,
(con sucursal en El Globo y filiales en el Cuarto del Búho).

Hice de Gaspar Hauser por diez y seis hebdémeros
y por otras tantas semanas y tres días fui la sombra,
la sombra misma que se le extravió a Peter Schlémil.

Fui el mozo -mozo de estribo- de la Reina Cristina de Suecia
y en ciertas ocasiones también el de Ebba Sparre.
Fui el mozo -mozo de estoques- de la Duquesa de Chaumont
(que era de armas tomar y de cálida sélvula): con ella pus mi pica en Flandes
-sobre holandas-.

Fui escriba de Samuel Pepys -¡qué escabroso su Diario!-
y sustituto suyo como edecán adjunto de su celosa cónyuge.
Y fuí copista de Milton (un poco largo su Paraíso Perdido,
magüer perdido en buena parte: le suprimí no pocos Cantos)
y a la su vera reencontré mi Paraíso (si el poeta era
ciego; -¡qué ojazos los de su Déborah!).

Fui traductor de cablegramas del magnífico Jerjes;
telefonista de Artajerjes el Tartajoso; locutor de la Esfinge
y confidente de su secreto; ventrílocuo de Darío Tercero Codomano el Multilocuo,
que hablaba hasta por los codos;
altoparlante retransmisor de Eubolio el Mudo, yerno de Tácito y su discípulo
y su émulo; caracola del mar océano eólico ecolálico y el intérprete
de Luis Segundo el Tartamudo -padre de Carlos el Simple y Rey de Gaula.
Hice de andante caballero a la diestra del Invencible Policisne de Beocia
y a la siniestra del Campeón olímpico Tirante el Blanco, tirante al blanco:
donde ponía el ojo clavaba su virote;
y a la zaga de la fogosa Bradamante, guardándole la espalda
-manera de decir-
y a la vanguardia, mas dándole la cara, de la tierna Marfisa...

Fui amanuense al servicio de Ambrosio Calepino
y del Tostado y deMatías Aldecoa y del que urdió el Mahabarata;
fui -y soylo aún, no zoilo- graduado experto en Lugares Comunes
discípulo de Leon Bloy y de quien escribió sobre los Diurnales.
Crucigramista interimario, logogrifario ad-valorem y ad-placerem
de Cleopatra: cultivador de sus brunos pitones y pastor de sus áspides,
y criptogramatista kinesiólogo suyo y de la venus Calipigia, ¡viento en popa a toda vela!
Fui tenedor malogrado y aburrido de libros de banca,
tenedor del tridente de Neptuno,
tenedor de librejos -en los bolsillos del gabán (sin gabán) collinesco-,
y de cuadernículos -quier azules- bajo el ala.
Sostenedor de tesis y de antítesis y de síntesis sin sustentáculo.
Mantenedor -a base de abstinencias- de los Juegos Florales
y sostén de los Frutales -leche y miel y cerezas- sin ayuno.
Porta-alfanje de Harún-al-Rashid, porta-mandoble de Mandricardo el Mandria,
porta-martillo de Carlos Martel,
porta-fendiente de Roldán, porta-tajante de Oliveros, porta-gumía
de Fierabrás, porta-laaza de Lanzarote (¡ búen Lancelot tan dado a su Ginevra!)
y a la del Rey Artús, de la Ca... de la Mesa Redonda...;
porta-lámpara de Al-Eddin, el Loca Suerte, y guardián y cerbero de su anillo
y del de los Nibelungos: pero nunca guardián de serrallo ni cancerbero ni evirato de harem...
Y fui el Quinto de los Tres Mosqueteros (no hay quinto peor) -veinte años después-.

Y Faraute de Juan Sin Tierra y fiduciario de
Paul d'Aubin Mar 2017
« Des Hommes prophétiques en face de leurs époques face à la souffrance causée par les périodes de réaction et de reflux »

(Relation d’une conférence donnée le 13 janvier 1940 à Toulouse par Silvio Trentin sur le principal Poète romantique Italien Giacomo Leopardi)

Prélude à une commémoration

C'est à la bibliothèque interuniversitaire de l’Université de Toulouse-Capitole alors que je me plongeais avec ferveur dans la lecture des ouvrages sur les « fuorusciti » (appellation donnée aux exilés politiques Italiens) que je découvris un opuscule de 118 pages, issue d'une conférence prononcée à Toulouse, le 13 janvier 1940 devant le « Cercle des intellectuels Républicains espagnols » par Silvio Trentin. Cette conférence fut prononcée avec la gorge nouée, devant un public d'intellectuels espagnols et catalans, la plupart exilés depuis 1939, et quelques-uns de leurs amis toulousains non mobilisés.
L'intense gravité du moment ne les empêchait pas de partager une ferveur commune ce haut moment de culture la culture Européenne intitulée par Silvio Trentin : « D’un poète qui nous permettra de retrouver l'Italie Giacomo Leopardi »
L'émotion fut grande pour moi car cet ouvrage me parut comme le frêle esquif rescapé d'un temps de défaites, de souffrances, rendu perceptible par le crépitement des balles de mitrailleuses, des explosions d’obus s'abattant sur des soldats républicains écrasés par la supériorité des armes et condamnés à la défaite par le mol et lâche abandon des diplomaties. Silvio Trentin avait gravé dans sa mémoire des images récentes qui n'avaient rien à envier aux tableaux grimaçants de nouveaux Goya. Il avait tant vu d'images d'avions larguant leurs bombes sur les populations terrifiées et embraser les charniers de Guernica. Il venait de voir passer les longues files de civils, toujours harassés, souvent blessés, emportant leurs rares biens ainsi que les soldats vaincus mais fiers de «la Retirada ». Il venait de visiter ces soldats dont parmi eux bon nombre de ses amis de combat, parqués sommairement dans des camps d'infortune.
Ces Catalans et Espagnols, qui s'étaient battus jusqu'au bout des privations et des souffrances endurées, étaient comme écrasés par le sentiment d'avoir été laissés presque seuls à lutter contre les fascismes, unis et comme pétrifiés par un destin d'injustice et d'amertume.
Mais ces premiers déchainements impunis d'injustices et de violences avaient comme ouverts la porte aux «trois furies» de la mythologie grecque et une semaine exactement après la conclusion du pacte de non-agression germano-soviétique, signé le 23 août 1939, par Molotov et Ribbentrop, les troupes allemandes se jetaient, dès le 1er septembre, sur la Pologne qu'elles écrasaient sous le nombre des stukas et des chars, en raison ce que le Général de Gaulle nomma ultérieurement « une force mécanique supérieure».
Une armée héroïque, mais bien moins puissante, était défaite. Et il ne nous en reste en guise de témoignage dérisoire que les images du cinéaste Andrei Wajda, nous montrant de jeunes cavaliers munis de lances se rendant au combat, à cheval, à la fin de cet été 1939, images d'une fallacieuse et vénéneuse beauté. Staline rendu avide par ce festin de peuples attaqua la Finlande, un mois après, le 30 septembre 1940, après s'être partagé, avec l'Allemagne hitlérienne, une partie de la Pologne. Depuis lors la « drôle de guerre » semblait en suspension, attendant pétrifiée dans rien faire les actes suivants de la tragédie européenne.

- Qu'est ce qui pouvait amener Silvio Trentin en ces jours de tragédie, à sacrifier à l'exercice d'une conférence donnée sur un poète italien né en 1798, plus d'un siècle avant ce nouvel embrasement de l'Europe qui mourut, si jeune, à trente-neuf ans ?
- Comment se fait-il que le juriste antifasciste exilé et le libraire militant devenu toulousain d'adoption, plus habitué à porter son éloquence reconnue dans les meetings organisés à Toulouse en soutien au Front à s'exprimer devant un cercle prestigieux de lettrés, comme pour magnifier la poésie même parmi ses sœurs et frères d'armes et de malheurs partagés ?
I °) L’opposition de tempéraments de Silvio Trentin et Giacomo Leopardi
L'intérêt porté par Silvio Trentin aux textes de Percy Shelley et au geste héroïco-romantique du poète Lauro de Bosis qui dépeignit dans son dernier texte le choix de sa mort héroïque pourrait nous laisser penser que le choix, en 1940, de Giacomo Leopardi comme sujet de médiation, s'inscrivait aussi dans une filiation romantique. Certes il y a bien entre ces deux personnalités si différentes que sont Giacomo Leopardi et Silvio Trentin une même imprégnation romantique. Le critique littéraire hors pair que fut Sainte-Beuve ne s'y est pourtant pas trompé. Dans l'un des premiers portraits faits en France de Leopardi, en 1844, dans la ***** des deux Mondes, Sainte-Beuve considère comme Leopardi comme un « Ancien » : (...) Brutus comme le dernier des anciens, mais c'est bien lui qui l'est. Il est triste comme un Ancien venu trop **** (...) Leopardi était né pour être positivement un Ancien, un homme de la Grèce héroïque ou de la Rome libre. »
Giacomo Leopardi vit au moment du plein essor du romantisme qui apparaît comme une réaction contre le formalisme de la pâle copie de l'Antique, de la sécheresse de la seule raison et de l'occultation de la sensibilité frémissante de la nature et des êtres. Mais s'il partage pleinement les obsessions des écrivains et poètes contemporains romantiques pour les héros solitaires, les lieux déserts, les femmes inaccessibles et la mort, Leopardi, rejette l'idée du salut par la religion et tout ce qui lui apparaît comme lié à l'esprit de réaction en se plaignant amèrement du caractère étroitement provincial et borné de ce qu'il nomme « l’aborrito e inabitabile Recanati ». En fait, la synthèse de Giacomo Leopardi est bien différente des conceptions d'un moyen âge idéalisé des romantiques. Elle s'efforce de dépasser le simple rationalisme à l'optimisme naïf, mais ne renie jamais l'aspiration aux « Lumières » qui correspond pour lui à sa passion tumultueuse pour les sciences. Il s'efforce, toutefois, comme par deux ponts dressés au travers de l'abime qui séparent les cultures et les passions de siècles si différents, de relier les idéaux des Antiques que sont le courage civique et la vertu avec les feux de la connaissance que viennent d'attiser les encyclopédistes. A cet effort de confluence des vertus des langues antiques et des sciences nouvelles se mêle une recherche constante de la lucidité qui le tient toujours comme oscillant sur les chemins escarpés de désillusions et aussi du rejet des espoirs fallacieux dans de nouvelles espérances d'un salut terrestre.
De même Silvio Trentin, de par sa haute formation juridique et son engagement constant dans les tragédies et péripéties quotidienne du militantisme, est **** du secours de la religion et de toute forme d'idéalisation du passé. Silvio Trentin reste pleinement un homme de progrès et d'idéal socialiste fortement teinté d'esprit libertaire pris à revers par la barbarie d'un siècle qui s'ouvre par la première guerre mondiale et la lutte inexpiable engagée entre la réaction des fascismes contre l'esprit des Lumières.
Mais, au-delà d'un parcours de vie très éloigné et d'un pessimisme historique premier et presque fondateur chez Leopardi qui l'oppose à l'obstination civique et démocratique de Silvio Trentin qui va jusqu'à prôner une utopie sociétale fondée sur l'autonomie, deux sentiments forts et des aspirations communes les font se rejoindre.

II °) Le même partage des désillusions et de la douleur :
Ce qui relie les existences si différentes de Giacomo Leopardi et de Silvio Trentin c'est une même expérience existentielle de la désillusion et de la douleur. Elle plonge ses racines chez Giacomo Leopardi dans une vie tronquée et comme recroquevillée par la maladie et un sentiment d'enfermement. Chez Silvio Trentin, c'est l'expérience historique même de la première moitié du vingtième siècle dont il est un des acteurs engagés qui provoque, non pas la désillusion, mais le constat lucide d'un terrible reflux historique qui culmine jusqu'à la chute de Mussolini et d'Hilter. A partir de retour dans sa patrie, le 4 septembre 1943, Silvio Trentin débute une période de cinq jours de vie intense et fiévreuse emplie de liberté et de bonheur, avant de devoir replonger dans la clandestinité, en raison de la prise de contrôle du Nord et du centre de l'Italie par l'armée allemande et ses alliés fascistes. Bien entendu il n'y a rien de comparable en horreur entre le sentiment d'un reflux des illusions causé par l'échec historique de la Révolution française et de son héritier infidèle l'Empire et le climat de réaction qui suit le congrès de Vienne et la violence implacable qui se déchaine en Europe en réaction à la tragédie de la première mondiale et à la Révolution bolchevique.


III °) Le partage de la souffrance par deux Esprits dissemblables :
Silvio Trentin retrace bien le climat commun des deux périodes : « Son œuvre se situe bien (...) dans cette Europe de la deuxième décade du XIXe siècle qui voit s'éteindre les dernières flammèches de la Grand Révolution et s'écrouler, dans un fracas de ruines, la folle aventure tentée par Bonaparte et se dresser impitoyablement sur son corps, à l'aide des baïonnettes et des potences, les solides piliers que la Sainte Alliance vient d'établir à Vienne. »
C'est donc durant deux périodes de reflux qu'ont vécu Giacomo Leopardi et Silvio Trentin avec pour effet d'entrainer la diffusion d'un grand pessimisme historique surtout parmi celles et ceux dont le tempérament et le métier est de penser et de décrire leur époque. Silvio Trentin a vu démocratie être progressivement étouffée, de 1922 à 1924, puis à partir de 1926, être brutalement écrasée en Italie. En 1933, il assisté à l'accession au gouvernement d'****** et à l'installation rapide d'un pouvoir impitoyable ouvrant des camps de concentration pour ses opposants et mettant en œuvre un antisémitisme d'Etat qui va basculer dans l'horreur. Il a personnellement observé, puis secouru, les républicains espagnols et catalans si peu aidés qu'ils ont fini par ployer sous les armes des dictatures fascistes, lesquelles ne ménagèrent jamais leurs appuis, argent, et armes et à leur allié Franco et à la « vieille Espagne ». Il a dû assurer personnellement la pénible tâche d'honorer ses amis tués, comme l'avocat républicain, Mario Angeloni, le socialiste Fernando de Rosa, son camarade de « Giustizia e Libertà », Libero Battistelli. Il a assisté à l'assassinat en France même de l'économiste Carlo Rosselli qui était son ami et qu'il estimait entre tous.

IV °) Sur le caractère de refuge ultime de la Poésie :
Silvio Trentin laisse percer la sensibilité et l'esprit d'un être sensible face aux inévitables limites des arts et techniques mises au service de l'émancipation humaine. A chaque époque pèsent sur les êtres humains les plus généreux les limites inévitables de toute création bridée par les préjugés, les égoïsmes et les peurs. Alors la poésie vient offrir à celles et ceux qui en souffrent le plus, une consolation et leur offre un univers largement ouvert à la magie créatrice des mots ou il n'est d'autres bornes que celles de la liberté et la créativité. C'est ce qui nous permet de comprendre qu'au temps où l'Espagne brulait et ou l'Europe se préparait à vivre l'une des époques les plus sombres de l'humanité, la fragile cohorte des poètes, tels Rafael Alberti, Juan Ramon Jiménez, Federico Garcia Lorca et Antonio Machado s'engagea comme les ruisseaux vont à la mer, aux côtés des peuples et des classes opprimées. Parmi les plus nobles et les plus valeureux des politiques, ceux qui ne se satisfont pas des effets de tribune ou des honneurs précaires, la poésie leur devient parfois indispensable ainsi que formule Silvio Trentin :
« [...] si la poésie est utile aux peuples libres, [...] elle est, en quelque sorte, indispensable — ainsi que l'oxygène aux êtres que menace l'asphyxie — aux peuples pour qui la liberté est encore un bien à conquérir] « [...] La poésie s'adresse aussi "à ceux parmi les hommes [...] qui ont fait l'expérience cruelle de la déception et de la douleur».
Le 16 03 2017 écrit par Paul Arrighi
afraid to close your eyes at night
you think of the pieces painted on
the back of your eyelids
less like Van Goghs Starry Night
more like Francisco Goya's Saturn's Sun
the walls of your mind holding black paintings
Quinta del Sordo
you are engulfed in them forgetting your roots
roots that have been torn from the earth
from a hand that now wraps around your waist
pulling, pulling, pulling
you awake and realize the hands are from a girl
who paints cherry blossoms in your mind
instantly you feel warmth rush through you
as you press your tear stained cheek
against hers
for my girlfriend who has really bad nightmares
Feggyr Citack Apr 2018
-on his painting of the dog

It's such a strange place here,
we're always ready to go.
But when we think of leaving,
it seems we just don't know.

Did someone tell us to linger?
Was it death that asked us
to wait for its eager return?

This sulky sullen guard,
this safe and sorry heart
will steadily keep on beating
until the night's black start.

Did someone tell us to pray?
Was it life itself perhaps
that came to us and went away?
mira Mar 2021
after the storm there was nothing;
like he knew he someday would,
he returned to the second day of creation

sky and ocean

a black cloud crept in from the endless horizon
only bringing lightning
and it was too late to cry out -
all that was left
was to turn his face to the sky and wait for rain.
I am the carnage
dripping with emoluments
reeking of duplicity
occupier of cities
torturer of insurgents
ruler by decree of tweets

A grand vision of myself
is forever fixed
in my mind’s eye

I am the zeitgeist
my murmuration
reverberates
through every
media channel
dazzling the
dizzy digerati
diligently tweeting
my precious
prescient
predilections

I descended from
my gilded 5th Ave tower
conveyed by a downward escalator
to save the common mass
from devastation and destruction

sweeping across
magnificent porticos
making grand entrances
through marine guarded gates
the glint of a rising sun
highlights the halo
of my golden coiff
and the fortitude of
my deep red power tie

I survey the global landscape
that fellow elites and I
have assiduously crafted
to loot unfathomable wealth
to indulge our idiosyncratic whims

The perpetual war
Toppled soverns
The viral terrors
The blighted cities
Ineffectual schools
Strangling bureaucracies
Egregious taxation
Omnipotent corporations
Offshored industries
Meager wages
Balooning wealth gap
Industrial stasis
Imminent domaine
Deteriorating health
Withering private life
Fractured families
Ubiquitous addictions
Disempowerment
Disenfranchisement
Stultifying work
Environmental degradation
Consuming violence
Government  spying
Police State repression
All was created by me
For the benefit of me

I alone can fix the carnage
I and like minded confederates
so cleverly created for our sole benefit


I understand the peril of
The Forgotten Man
He is under siege  
Hiding in the bowels
Of violent cities
He is foreclosed in
Shuttering suburbia
He is lost in the changing
Ethnicity of our homeland
He's been abandoned
By the perpetually elected
Politicians beholden to the
Monied interests
He is set adrift    
To wander among
the tombstones
Of a dying America

We are under siege
By Illegals stealing jobs
Victimized by their crime sprees
They live off the public dole
They undermine America
aided and abetted by the liberals
Who like the terrorists
Are waiting to pounce
with blood dripping fangs
to further their
UnAmerican agenda

I am the corruptor
I bought the politicians
Skidded the regulations
evaded taxes
cut corners
pushed every
envelop to
advance the
cause of me
-the devoted profiteer-
the dissolution
of Atlantic City
is the hallmark
of my handiwork

I gorged myself
at the public troughs
Reaping tax abatements
my skilled hand
always extracting
concessions and coinage
from the public purse
a clever businessman indeed

I am the art of the deal
the bankrupter of businesses
prince of crooked commerce
Defaulter on debts
Whelsher on payments
to workers for service due
I am the darling of the
double dealing derring-do

I am drawn to the beautiful
I am enamoured with me
My favorite pastime,
Watching Celebrity
Apprentice reruns
-the highest rated show
of all time… (a curious alt fact)-
more people attended and
watched my inaugural address
then any other president
throughout history….
PERIOD!

I have a proud collection
of trophy wives ….
the purpose of my family
is to affirm and flatter me
I agree with Howard Stern
that Ivanka is a piece of ***
I wish I could date her

As I walk the fantastic
performance stages of my life
I am radically entitled
to gleefully grab *****
insult disgusting subordinates
castigate uppity females
like Rosie and Megyn
while remaining
a titillated ******
visiting teenage
beauty pageant
dressing rooms

I am a committed
serial adulterer
that staunchly upholds
the sanctity of family values

I made my fortune
Extracting rent
trafficking in vice...
gambling and circuses
For the masses
These are my specialties
and I ***** my name
to all licensees
willing to pay me
to brand any
faux luxerient

I alone can fix the carnage
I and like minded confederates
so cleverly created
for our personal benefit

Tax me with requests
for insights to whom
I am and with whom
I do business
I will offer nothing but
the impenetrable
opaqueness

Look into the mirror
Every base impulse
Every fear, prejudice
Resent you discover
You will find me

I am settled into
every ****** crag
Every worry line
searing your brow
Skillfully plained by me

I am a paradox
wrapped in the
enigma of self
aggrandizing deals

I am the
daring deconstructor
of public schools
Rent seeking
holy privatization
will enrich fellow elites
together we shall
gleefully grease the slide
of the dumb down ride
abhorring facts
ideology, opinions
and optics rule

I cultivate a
suspicion of science
Preferring the superiority
of suspicion in service to
A bloated gut feel
as the ultimate arbiter of
The course to pursue

I pledge allegiance
to the ruthless exploitation
Of Mother Earth
Like a juggernaut
I will roll over the
Standing Rock Protectors
And any opposition
to the extraction
And distribution
of fossil fuels
I'll Frack
the republic to pieces
Direct my armies
To conquest oil rich nations
to quench my insatiable thirst
For the fuel of all capitalist tools

health care is not
a universal right
I care only for
The health of my own
and the welfare of
the privileged few
I promise to *******
Many with my Trumpcare

I am the defiler
of sanctuary cities
Disruption is my pleasure
the route of humanity
Tramping through
this burning world
Is welcomed to my hell

I distrust unity
I slice through cohesion
At ribbon cutting ceremonies

I drain The Swamp
And fill it with quicksand
I Enable anger
It's a sign of manliness

I collaborate with
a rising Confederacy
The Altright promises
To undermine the Union
With assault and battery…

My pout crowns
a cunning heart
My scowl is
the router of joy

Purple bunting
Perpetually hangs
On my heart

The blue line
Is not blue enough
the lawless half
Must be cowed
Into submission

I vow to scrub
The institutional memory
Of the Federal system
and all democratic tradition

I exalt  the fantasies
Of the forgotten man
I will fill his long memory
With fables of his foibles
And litanies of my
next great conquest

My Scepter of deception
Anoint the fictions of me
Attesting to my greatness
My craft is vanity

Putin is my model
I empathize with
How he deals with
dishonest journalists

I am empowered by the
Apartheid of Zion
I too am a builder of walls
Celebrant of separatism
Suspicious of the other
I burn the bridges
Severing all connections to them

Duplicity is our new national religion
My thumbs are bloodied by furtive tweets
My mind is pinched by anguish
The weight of myself
Strides across our
denigrated landscape
like Goya's Colossus
I am the carnage  

Music; Led Zeppelin
When the Levee Breaks

Lavallette
1/29/17
jbm
composed after the Women's March
to honor ****** Hair,
the 45th President of the US
Nadine was naïve when she came to me,
So innocent, fresh and sublime,
I found that I had to pinch myself
When she told me she was mine.
She was barely out of her teens back then
While I was over the hill,
She hadn’t a toe in the water then,
But I had been through the mill.

Her gentle face was a study in grace
And her eyes had sparkled blue,
Her hair like a field of waving corn
And her lips had glistened dew,
Her ******* were fresh, pushed under her dress
And her hips a promised world,
I’d watch her sway as she’d drift my way
This seductive, sensuous girl.

I’d lie on the bed after making love
And I’d watch her rise and move,
She’d pose for me in her poetry
Like a picture, hung in the Louvre.
She was never ashamed of her body then
Though she lent it just to me,
The rest of the world was missing out,
It was pure idolatry.

I’d take her walking to see the sites
Where culture lurked in the gloom,
And art then captured her simple heart
As we’d go from room to room,
Rubens, Goya and Cabanel,
Titian, Goya, Courbet,
She said, ‘I want to be seen like that,
Preserved in a youthful way.’

We met the sculptor, Matthias Krohn
At a gallery in Berlin,
His mouth fell open to see Nadine
With her pale and perfect skin.
‘You have a goddess, my friend,’ he said,
‘I must capture her in stone!’
I said, ‘Can I come along and watch?’
‘I must work with her alone.’

I’d drop Nadine at his studio
Each day, and she’d stay ‘til four,
I’d ask her how it was going, and
She’d shrug, wouldn’t tell me more.
‘The sculpture’s facing away from me
I won’t see it ‘til it’s done.’
I could tell by the downcast look of her
That it wasn’t really fun.

‘It’s cold, it gets very cold in there,’
She said, when a month had gone
And that was the first time that I knew
She was posed, no clothing on.
‘I thought he would drape your figure there,
In something filmy, like lawn,
‘I told him I wanted the world to see me
Naked as I was born.’

The months went on, there was something wrong
The sparkle had gone from her eye,
The hair that had been like waving corn
Was now just brittle and dry,
Her lips were pursed in a moody line,
No longer glistened with dew,
I said, ‘Am I doing something wrong…’
‘It’s nothing to do with you!’

I went on the final day with her,
Matthias ushered us in,
‘You’ve come for my greatest masterpiece,’
But all I could see was sin.
The eyes were cynical, looking down,
The lips were curled in contempt,
The ******* were pert like a blatant flirt
Who basked in her element.

I took one look at the parted legs
And reached for my girl, Nadine,
The tears were streaming along her cheeks,
‘You’ve made me appear unclean!’
Matthias shrugged as she rushed on out,
‘It’s true to the girl I saw.’
‘Your evil eyes must have told you lies,
You’ve turned Nadine to a *****!’

She never came back to our home again,
She wandered the streets in shame,
I tried to find her, to track her down
But I heard she was on the game.
I saw her last, get into a car,
Her lips were curled in contempt,
Her hair was brittle, like faded straw
But she looked in her element!

David Lewis Paget
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
commentary of a bunch of photographs uploaded showing the dilemma of the A's in paper size... exhibits a - f show a lesson, well, you remember that old depiction of the idiot of the class, standing on a stool at the front of the class with a heretic's coned hat? well, they revised the hat, now it's a once green eyeshade clerk's hat via interpretation of a cricket cap.

it's quiet easy, words fill never justify the images,
the dunce was just saying: you could make one
toothpick from a Sunday newspaper's double spread,
that's what got him canonised perched on a stool,
no one exacted how many anyway,
like they never teach your the chemical formula for
wood, if what has a H too two Ohs, then wood must
must have something in the strand of including
carbon, a cabaret of elements with carbon the prompter
poking his prickly head once in a while due to
acting tremors and cold sweats of sudden amnesia...
the point being, to further the first point about
the size of newspapers on Sundays and whether there's
such a thing as A0, or an architectural sized paper,
i guess architectural spreads are like breast sizes...
imagine looking at schematics of 30F through 32E
and onto 30D past 38DD... you never see the sagging
in these diagrams, because they're abstracts of
the two hangmen... you see, the bra... did anyone tell
Freud that Anti-Oedipus as proposed by the two French
philosophers mixing up Nietzsche and Marx with
Freud on the side anticipated this Anti? it's the bane
of my existence, English black humour mixed with
giggles at words like: bottom, ****, ****... i don't know
how you can get seriously randy afterwards...
it's atypical English humour, *** jokes... the notion
that Oedipus can't laugh at *** underpins the very
basis of the unconscious, i.e.: that something sinister
is lurking in the depths and reaches back into childhood
and it's subsequent destruction. the opposite of
the theory proposed by Freud (as evolved from the already
mentioned *Gilles Deleuze
) is at the same time frightening,
because it almost presupposes Oedipus' father
in the version of Saturn, best exemplified by
Saturn devouring his Son painted by Francisco Goya...
and the basis of this eventuality due to the woman's
madonna-***** complex: mini-skirt ***** lollipop
but a saintly mother beneath... jooke.
**** it, i deviated from the topic of periscopes but more
importantly of the size of sensible paper, A0 being
the spread of a Sunday Times... architectural scores
must therefore begin with B5...after architecture come
advertisements probably beginning at around
B3 or B2... football stadiums are filled with these passive
sheets of material, and that's talking way down the
alphabet of categorising size... you know, when they
pull down those massive club insignias.
in the end all i can do with a A4 paper is cut a kippah
or make a momentary mask... but with the
sunday spread of newspaper... i can momentarily
turn into a newspaper ghoul, or if you prefer:
a newspaper ghost!
Desde el amanecer, se cambia la ropa sucia de los altares y de los santos, que huele a rancia bendición, mientras los plumeros inciensan una nube de polvo tan espesa, que las arañas apenas hallan tiempo de levantar sus redes de equilibrista, para ir a ajustarías en los barrotes de la cama del sacristán.

Con todas las características del criminal nato lombrosiano, los apóstoles se evaden de sus nichos, ante las vírgenes atónitas, que rompen a llorar... porque no viene el peluquero a ondularles las crenchas.

Enjutos, enflaquecidos de insomnio y de impaciencia, los nazarenos pruébanse el capirote cada cinco minutos, o llegan, acompañados de un amigo, a presentarle la virgen, como si fuera su querida.

Ya no queda por alquilar ni una cornisa desde la que se vea pasar la procesión.

Minuto tras minuto va cayendo sobre la ciudad una manga de ingleses con una psicología y una elegancia de langosta.

A vista de ojo, los hoteleros engordan ante la perspectiva de doblar la tarifa.

Llega un cuerpo del ejército de Marruecos, expresamente para sacar los candelabros y la custodia del tesoro.

Frente a todos los espejos de la ciudad, las mujeres ensayan su mirada "Smith Wesson"; pues, como las vírgenes, sólo salen de casa esta semana, y si no cazan nada, seguirán siéndolo...
¡Campanas!
¡Repiqueteo de campanas!
¡Campanas con café con leche!
¡Campanas que nos imponen una cadencia al
abrocharnos los botines!
¡Campanas que acompasan el paso de la gente que pasa en las aceras!
¡Campanas!
¡Repiqueteo de campanas!

En la catedral, el rito se complica tanto, que los sacerdotes necesitan apuntador.

Trece siglos de ensayos permiten armonizar las florecencias de las rejas con el contrapaso de los monaguillos y la caligrafía del misal.

Una luz de "Museo Grevin" dramatiza la mirada vidriosa de los cristos, ahonda la voz de los prelados que cantan, se interrogan y se contestan, como esos sapos con vientre de prelado, una boca predestinada a engullir hostias y las manos enfermas de reumatismo, por pasarse las noches -de cuclillas en el pantano- cantando a las estrellas.

Si al repartir las palmas no interviniera una fuerza sobrenatural, los feligreses aplaudirían los rasos con que la procesión sale a la calle, donde el obispo -con sus ochenta kilos de bordados- bate el "record" de dar media vuelta a la manzana y entra nuevamente en escena, para que continúe la función...
¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?

En un flujo y reflujo de espaldas y de brazos, los acorazados de los cacahueteros fondean entre la multitud, que espera la salida de los "pasos" haciendo "pan francés".

Espantada por los flagelos de papel, la codicia de los pilletes revolotea y zumba en torno a las canastas de pasteles, mientras los nazarenos sacian la sed, que sentirán, en tabernas que expenden borracheras garantizadas por toda la semana.

Sin asomar las narices a la calle, los santos realizan el milagro de que los balcones no se caigan.

¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?
pregonan los aguateros al servirnos una reverencia de minué.

De repente, las puertas de la iglesia se abren como las de una esclusa, y, entre una doble fila de nazarenos que canaliza la multitud, una virgen avanza hasta las candilejas de su paso, constelada de joyas, como una cupletista.

Los espectadores, contorsionados por la emoción,
arráncanse la chaquetilla y el sombrero, se acalambran en
posturas de capeador, braman piropos que los nazarenos intentan callar
como el apagador que les oculta la cabeza.

Cuando el Señor aparece en la puerta, las nubes se envuelven con un crespón, bajan hasta la altura de los techos y, al verlo cogido como un torero, todas, unánimemente, comienzan a llorar.

¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?Las tribunas y las sillas colocadas enfrente del Ayuntamiento progresivamente se van ennegreciendo, como un pegamoscas de cocina.

Antes que la caballería comience a desfilar, los guardias civiles despejan la calzada, por temor a que los cachetes de algún trompa estallen como una bomba de anarquista.

Los caballos -la boca enjabonada cual si se fueran a afeitar- tienen las ancas tan lustrosas, que las mujeres aprovechan para arreglarse la mantilla y averiguar, sin darse vuelta, quién unta una mirada en sus caderas.

Con la solemnidad de un ejército de pingüinos, los nazarenos escoltan a los santos, que, en temblores de debutante, representan "misterios" sobre el tablado de las andas, bajo cuyos telones se divisan los pies de los "gallegos", tal como si cambiaran una decoración.

Pasa:
El Sagrado Prendimiento de Nuestro Señor, y Nuestra Señora del Dulce Nombre.
El Santísimo Cristo de las Siete Palabras, y María Santísima de los Remedios.
El Santísimo Cristo de las Aguas, y Nuestra Señora del Mayor Dolor.
La Santísima Cena Sacramental, y Nuestra Señora del Subterráneo.
El Santísimo Cristo del Buen Fin, y Nuestra Señora de la Palma.
Nuestro Padre Jesús atado a la Columna, y Nuestra Señora de las Lágrimas.
El Sagrado Descendimiento de Nuestro Señor, y La Quinta Angustia de María Santísima.

Y entre paso y paso:
¡Manzanilla! ¡Almendras garrapiñadas! ¡Jerez!

Estrangulados por la asfixia, los "gallegos" caen de rodillas cada cincuenta metros, y se resisten a continuar regando los adoquines de sudor, si antes no se les llena el tanque de aguardiente.

Cuando los nazarenos se detienen a mirarnos con sus ojos vacíos, irremisiblemente, algún balcón gargariza una "saeta" sobre la multitud, encrespada en un ¡ole!, que estalla y se apaga sobre las cabezas, como si reventara en una playa.

Los penitentes cargados de una cruz desinflan el pecho de las mamas en un suspiro de neumático, apenas menos potente al que exhala la multitud al escaparse ese globito que siempre se le escapa a la multitud.

Todas las cofradías llevan un estandarte, donde se lee:

                      S. P. Q. R.Es el día en que reciben todas las vírgenes de la ciudad.

Con la mantilla negra y los ojos que matan, las hembras repiquetean sus tacones sobre las lápidas de las aceras, se consternan al comprobar que no se derrumba ni una casa, que no resucita ningún Lázaro, y, cual si salieran de un toril, irrumpen en los atrios, donde los hombres les banderillean un par de miraduras, a riesgo de dejarse coger el corazón.

De pie en medio de la nave -dorada como un salón-, las vírgenes expiden su duelo en un sólido llanto de rubí, que embriaga la elocuencia de prospecto medicinal con que los hermanos ponderan sus encantos, cuando no optan por alzarles las faldas y persuadir a los espectadores de que no hay en el globo unas pantorrillas semejantes.

Después de la vigésima estación, si un fémur no nos ha perforado un intestino, contemplamos veintiocho "pasos" más, y acribillados de "saetas", como un San Sebastián, los pies desmenuzados como albóndigas, apenas tenemos fuerza para llegar hasta la puerta del hotel y desplomarnos entre los brazos de la levita del portero.

El "menú" nos hace volver en sí. Leemos, nos refregamos los ojos y volvemos a leer:

"Sopa de Nazarenos."
"Lenguado a la Pío X."

-¡Camarero! Un bife con papas.
-¿Con Papas, señor?...
-¡No, hombre!, con huevos fritos.Mientras se espera la salida del Cristo del Gran Poder, se reflexiona: en la superioridad del marabú, en la influencia de Goya sobre las sombras de los balcones, en la finura chinesca con que los árboles se esfuman en el azul nocturno.

Dos campanadas apagan luego los focos de la plaza; así, las espaldas se amalgaman hasta formar un solo cuerpo que sostiene de catorce a diez y nueve mil cabezas.

Con un ritmo siniestro de Edgar Poe -¡cirios rojos ensangrientan sus manos!-, los nazarenos perforan un silencio donde tan sólo se percibe el tic-tac de las pestañas, silencio desgarrado por "saetas" que escalofrían la noche y se vierten sobre la multitud como un líquido helado.

Seguido de cuatrocientas prostitutas arrepentidas del pecado menos original, el Cristo del Gran Poder camina sobre un oleaje de cabezas, que lo alza hasta el nivel de los balcones, en cuyos barrotes las mujeres aferran las ganas de tirarse a lamerle los pies.

En el resto de la ciudad el resplandor de los "pasos" ilumina las caras con una técnica de Rembrandt. Las sombras adquieren más importancia que los cuerpos, llevan una vida más aventurera y más trágica. La cofradía del "Silencio", sobre todo, proyecta en las paredes blancas un "film" dislocado y absurdo, donde las sombras trepan a los tejados, violan los cuartos de las hembras, se sepultan en los patios dormidos.

Entre "saetas" conservadas en aguardiente pasa la "Macarena", con su escolta romana, en cuyas corazas de latón se trasuntan los espectadores, alineados a lo largo de las aceras.

¡Es la hora de los churros y del anís!

Una luz sin fuerza para llegar al suelo ribetea con tiza las molduras y las aristas de las casas, que tienen facha de haber dormido mal, y obliga a salir de entre sus sábanas a las nubes desnudas, que se envuelven en gasas amarillentas y verdosas y se ciñen, por último, una túnica blanca.

Cuando suenan las seis, las cigüeñas ensayan un vuelo matinal, y tornan al campanario de la iglesia, a reanudar sus mansas divagaciones de burócrata jubilado.

Caras y actitudes de chimpancé, los presidiarios esperan, trepados en las rejas, que las vírgenes pasen por la cárcel antes de irse a dormir, para sollozar una "saeta" de arrepentimiento y de perdón, mientras en bordejeos de fragata las cofradías que no han fondeado aún en las iglesias, encallan en todas las tabernas, abandonan sus vírgenes por la manzanilla y el jerez.

Ya en la cama, los nazarenos que nos transitan las circunvoluciones redoblan sus tambores en nuestra sien, y los churros, anidados en nuestro estómago, se enroscan y se anudan como serpientes.

Alguien nos destornilla luego la cabeza, nos desabrocha las costillas, intenta escamotearnos un riñón, al mismo tiempo que un insensato repique de campanas nos va sumergiendo en un sopor.

Después... ¿Han pasado semanas? ¿Han pasado minutos?... Una campanilla se desploma, como una sonda, en nuestro oído, nos iza a la superficie del colchón.
¡Apenas tenemos tiempo de alcanzar el entierro!...

¿Cuatrocientos setenta y ocho mil setecientos noventa y nueve "pasos" más?

¡Cristos ensangrentados como caballos de picador! ¡Cirios que nunca terminan de llorar! ¡Concejales que han alquilado un frac que enternece a las Magdalenas! ¡Cristos estirados en una lona de bombero que acaban de arrojarse de un balcón! ¡La Verónica y el Gobernador... con su escolta de arcángeles!

¡Y las centurias romanas... de Marruecos, y las Sibilas, y los Santos Varones! ¡Todos los instrumentos de la Pasión!... ¡Y el instrumento máximo, ¡la Muerte!, entronizada sobre el mundo..., que es un punto final!

¿Morir? ¡Señor! ¡Señor!
¡Libradnos, Señor!
¿Dormir? ¡Dormir! ¡Concedédnoslo,
Señor!
Trevor Gates Jan 2013
Hello.


Good evening and welcome back


This is tonight’s program


The air is ripe


Ripe with social abundance

And whimsical latte grooves
A warmth in the air

It caresses your body, this warmth
It walks by your side, this warmth

It’s there holding your hand

Knowing that you’re alone

Because this isn’t the same warmth of a

person’s hand



But this comfort, this invisible hand, this invisible other



Is the warmth of the free midnight air

The city lights: fluorescent metal plants with flashing neon insects and prowling jungle dwellers
The soft ambient jazz that plays from the dripping rain.
Giving your life the harmony of passion

The melody of joy

But with the rhythms of melancholy

A lone phrase that passes by each composition

Your world goes black and white

Full becomes hollow

Radiant becomes dull

Trust becomes deception

Love becomes hate

Life becomes death


The rain intensifies with translucent color
Reflecting the street illumination of grandeur
and sensual subtlety

Urban poetry doused by mythic ambition
Perplexing the eyes of the unknowing artist
Raising the half full glass to the half empty person

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear


You are that much closer to your reflective self

The part of you that will never leave the gaze of reflective surfaces

There when you look away from your noon time coffee on the café window

There when your mind wonders away from your spouses’ arguing; the mirror behind them

There on the puddles on the asphalt and street corners, asking you with voiceless faces


‘Where are you now?”

“Is this the dream of God subconscious?”

“Is God asleep?  Is this all just a dream of something bigger than us/’

Having a conversation with your reflection can turn out to be quite enlightening.



This program is brought to you by the following sponsors; Oatmeal, tea leaves, voiceover actors, large print books, Lucretius, Bill Shakespeare, handmade leather wallets, chocolate kisses, long hair, motorcycles, Frank Gambale, Daft Punk, Martin Scorsese, Goya, Kevin Smith, Evan Rachel Wood, Jones Soda, Cappuccinos and all the little people (excluding mole people…they know why.)



Please swing by again.
Not really a poem, but a writing exercise I developed.  I treat it as monologue directed to an unknown audience/reader.  Check out the other entries in this series, all of which our motifs for my next book. Reactions and comments are advocated.
Katy D Feb 2015
In the art section of Retiro Park’s book stalls: Picasso hides in the shadows of Goya.
Along the streets of Lavapiés: graffiti strikes a blow against the crimes of Franco.
Atop the boulders of La Pedriza: hikers spread out the city like a tent.
And in the sea-swept climes of Asturias: *we adorn our plates with pulpo.
sweet ridicule Mar 2015
welcome to this dream
I will spin you in c
                        es        ir
                          ­    cl
with me trying to fall asleep
melatonin completely absent from my veins
voices blur in messy paintings
(Goya total sense does make
compared to cinnamon gum
washing
the bitter sweet taste of someone away)
sirens scream too loudly
mesmerizing half of me
slowly spinning
                  spinning
(little me with a top on the porch in the summer sun)
except there's no sun
and this spinning cannot be stopped
life
too tangible now
and I suddenly need
cinnamon gum again.
well...we're all spinning right?
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
a conversatioon with cats is "biased" upon the focus on gesticulation, or rather: a hyper-cipher of expressing a body to encompass language, without a focus on the existence of thought: that can be allowed rain.

a gender neutrality of pronouns?!
pronouns have been "gender neutral"
last time i checked...
   in attempting to give directions:
    it is a pronoun with negative
subjective "insinuations"...
          
that* also being
                               a pronoun...

   the mob rule argument:

       i'd like to "know" what
a "world" view looks like...
          given the specifics...

and some have children, and some have
mediocre language use...
        but who's to lay the brick on brick
and say: that's a castle, not
a mountain...

    i could have loved a woman
once...
          had she not thought i lied to her
and slapped me in the face...
  apparently visiting your
grandparents is taboo...
                     must be a russian thing...
and if she told you:
well i moved from st. petersburg
on the ground that he provided for me,
but i wouldn't move to the outskirts of
london that he slept on floor
while i slept in his bed as he held my
hand to imitate a lullabye

   then i too am riddled with having
to perform the lunacy of prayer,
     invent a god i might require
to invest in rekindling will...
     but still, the narcissus before the still
waters of a lake, imagining mirror,
when peering into a shadow...
  
                  schattenkind...

     an artist is fed by curiosity...
        the many may remember the many
that leave no foot...
            to be trodden on via repeat...
                 ******* Seneca deserved his
fate...
            complaining about the Tao monks
is one thing,
                  but living by stipend
of their maxim is another...

       dancing on hot coals is one thing,
petting a lion another...
       why Aesop conjured the
lion & fox chimera and not the
fox & wolf: now akin to me...

                 pronouns are generally
discriminating, anti-narrative shrapnel
of words...
                but for deity's sake:
why does the devil require a precursor
of a definite article,
   and it can "never" be cited:
                        a god?

                          i once studied the monarch,
the bishop and an orchestra conductor,
you know what i found?
    what, with a static audience?
        even with an opera singer on the fore,
the balancing edge of falling into
a sea of people?
               this clown with a prestigious
monicker?

                     as some might pet a cat like
another might play a guitar.

       can you imagine an orchestra
without a conductor,
   with a frozen audience to "provide"
a rhythm?
            i'm just starting to realise
the need for an orchestra conductor...
      imitation of rhythm...
           i've started reading
   the need for a conductor
   of an orchestra....
                               orientating
yourself using an inanimate object
to make a performance...
          requires a motivational
"tool"...
                    something wiggling
and spaghetti throwing
                      in foci:
     i.e. there's an alleviating point
     to mediate orchestra and audience...
considering the in stasis presence
             of an audience...
              
           sabina zweicker singing
        drachengeboren...

   because who would think an orchestra
conductor a homelessman?

        if he be not a motivational tool?
it would appear that there was
to be a mediator, akin to a football
judge & linear,
        to encompass an team worth
an orchestra, and an audience...
                
     oiled up ****** *****...
                                 and a sinking Venice...  
      my mediocre beginning
culminating in no works of Goya...
        a tuba player and an Etonian choir
of cherubs masked as castratos
        of some obscure Egyptian harem...
labouring a geometry of
people who's shadows do not
              morph into stones of graves...

     however many plagiarisms
of frank zimmerman...
         ah, right... hans... zimmer...
scooters on four-wheel chimps-
worth a Ferarri calling it a
Mediterranean diet's worth of canvas
blockers...
                  
        because language suddenly
had the ontological basis to bias
            play-dough in favour for
a rigid architecture of a chair?

       i won't fly with angel wings,
      but i'll certianly become flustered
with pigeon beaconc worthy of flight...
    
   and they really did overplay
    tchaikovsky in st. petersburg
when celebrating the use of a fountain...
i said to her: they're turning in their graves...
even if dead, i said to her:
  the dead find it hard to fall asleep...

they really did overplay
   tchaikovsky in st. petersburg
while crafting a water fountain
             spectre...
   with the regrettable consequences of
having under-played prokofiev...

as i find the conductor a "primitive" form
of  Cratylus:
        to have spoken deaf...
                             among the hearing;
but there's the need to mediate
    a moving body against
a canvas that does not,
                  in a forum...
                        a place of congregation,
at leat a thinker can be allowed
to be entertained
             by such a, un-fathom-ability.
How did you find your faith?

did you stumble upon it
was it discovered on a beech
was it heroically sought after
in the fissure of a breach?

Did you ever lose faith?

did a great expectation dwindle
was a deep held trust betrayed
did a dear friend disappoint you
ubiquitous suffering and dismay?

Where did you find it?

in the grandeur of a sacred place
in the contours of a beloved face
in the splendor of anointed grace
as balm to salve a deep disgrace?

were you riding a subway
or floating on a pink cloud
were you kneeling in a church
were bombs exploding loud?

was it the embrace of a lover
was it a crisis of deep plight
was it a soul stirring chorus
did you lose an awful fight?

in the glory of a painting
dripping petals of a desert flower
the majesty of mountain glaciers
a surging river filled with power

Could you lose your faith again?
If you did, would you know how to find it?
Where would you look if it happened?
How will you know its faith when you find it?
What does faith feel like?
What do you do when you got it?
What do you do when you get it?
How do you know you got it when you get it?
How do you know you get it when you got it?

Or are you formally faithless in a formal sense?

Signed,
Trying to Keep the Faith

Music Selection:
George Michael, Faith

Art Selection
Caprichos
Francisco Goya


101098
Stamford, CT
jbm
Eric L Warner Sep 2016
I'm sitting in a strange man's house reading, "stranger in a strange land",
     and resisting the idea that I am another on a strain of poor
         marginalized Americans.

I'm a night janitor at an elementary school that goes unnamed.
The kids smile and run past without a second thought.
My boss doesn't ask questions for his own reasons, and I
    just want my story to be heard.

My girlfriend is curled up on the futon behind me, and I'm wondering
     how I got so lucky.
There's a Francisco De Goya **** hanging above this overtly
     post-modern desk, and I'm eating at the soup kitchen tomorrow.
I stay inside most days, wrapped in a blanket, not realizing until too
     late that it's actually warm, and that the AC is turned up way too high.
Thoughts from a few weeks spent working in Kansas while traveling.
everly Aug 2019
tender childhood piraguas
pinchos
borinquen place
bbqs on the sidewalk
ice from the dollar store
gleaming on our necks till the
skin glows green
knee scrapes
Vicks to solve all
problems thoobies and
missing bobby pins under
rugs a neighborhood i’ve never-
yet always known, a glimpse of it and
it takes me back the cousin
always spiking my
Malta the **** that never
leaves the kitchen the smaller
cousins that lived in the park around
the block
the older cousin
that was always on
the phone with a different
boy, and kept a blanket over
the body mirror and refused to
explain why, we’d get a
shipment from our
family de la isla
mangoes
aguacates and
quenepas fly out
the box while everyone
calls dibs and i’m home.
TLPrince May 2020
Morning with Goya

Crimson flames running through the pages
‘Frozen words coming from the depths of lost ages’
Melting darkness slipping under my door
‘There’s still a smell of hatred but unlike before,(unlike before),’
Drops of light dripping from the window
‘Wooden birds swimming round and low’
Gusts of wine swirling in my head
‘Flittering memory of a dead.’
Glasses of colour rising softly in the air
‘Flying pigmees all smily and bare.’
The song of a distant ocean beating in rhyme with the heart of my beloved one
‘The laughter of a dwarf riding the sun’
And the thunder of the road stroke again
I saw great green lightnings of blood and hair
‘The flies in the suitcase of a monkey drawing brains’
‘I once fell in love with a bear’
Happy thoughts scrowling on the kitchen floor
‘The silence of pain ****** someone somewhere near the door’
The last ashes of a prayer vanished suddenly
‘Golden tears washing out slumbers eventually’
The rest of a forgotten dream is disappearing in the world-sink
‘Chains of past sensually dancing, without a blink’
Flittering memory of a dead
Fleeting smoke of a foreign freedom
‘Black horses painting (repeatedly) the top of my head’
‘Switching letters and pencils crossing the day “Lonesome”’

Only way to have your hand waving free
Is holding a gun, (‘just like me’.)
I
Voluntario de España, miliciano
de huesos fidedignos, cuando marcha a morir tu corazón,
cuando marcha a matar con su agonía
mundial, no sé verdaderamente
qué hacer, dónde ponerme; corro, escribo, aplaudo,
lloro, atisbo, destrozo, apagan, digo
a mi pecho que acabe, al que bien, que venga,
y quiero desgraciarme;
descúbrome la frente impersonal hasta tocar
el vaso de la sangre, me detengo,
detienen mi tamaño esas famosas caídas de arquitecto
con las que se honra el animal que me honra;
refluyen mis instintos a sus sogas,
humea ante mi tumba la alegría
y, otra vez, sin saber qué hacer, sin nada, déjame,
desde mi piedra en blanco, déjame,
solo,
cuadrumano, más acá, mucho más lejos,
al no caber entre mis manos tu largo rato extático,
quiebro con tu rapidez de doble filo
mi pequeñez en traje de grandeza!

Un día diurno, claro, atento, fértil
¡oh bienio, el de los lóbregos semestres suplicantes,
por el que iba la pólvora mordiéndose los codos!
¡oh dura pena y más duros pedernales!
!oh frenos los tascados por el pueblo!
Un día prendió el pueblo su fósforo cautivo,
oró de cólera
y soberanamente pleno, circular,
cerró su natalicio con manos electivas;
arrastraban candado ya los déspotas
y en el candado, sus bacterias muertas...

¿Batallas? ¡No! Pasiones. Y pasiones precedidas
de dolores con rejas de esperanzas,
de dolores de pueblos con esperanzas de hombres!
¡Muerte y pasión de paz, las populares!
¡Muerte y pasión guerreras entre olivos,
entendámonos!
Tal en tu aliento cambian de agujas atmosféricas los vientos
y de llave las tumbas en tu pecho,
tu frontal elevándose a primera potencia de martirio.

El mundo exclama: «¡Cosas de españoles!» Y es verdad.
Consideremos,
durante una balanza, a quemarropa,
a Calderón, dormido sobre la cola de un anfibio muerto
o a Cervantes, diciendo: «Mi reino es de este mundo, pero
también del otro»: ¡***** y filo en dos papeles!
Contemplemos a Goya, de hinojos y rezando ante un espejo,
a Coll, el paladín en cuyo asalto cartesiano
tuvo un sudor de nube el paso llano
o a Quevedo, ese abuelo instantáneo de los dinamiteros
o a Cajal, devorado por su pequeño infinito, o todavía
a Teresa, mujer que muere porque no muere
o a Lina Odena, en pugna en más de un punto con Teresa...
(Todo acto o voz genial viene del pueblo
y va hacia él, de frente o transmitidos
por incesantes briznas, por el humo rosado
de amargas contraseñas sin fortuna)
Así tu criatura, miliciano, así tu exangüe criatura,
agitada por una piedra inmóvil,
se sacrifica, apártase,
decae para arriba y por su llama incombustible sube,
sube hasta los débiles,
distribuyendo españas a los toros,
toros a las palomas...

Proletario que mueres de universo, ¡en qué frenética armonía
acabará tu grandeza, tu miseria, tu vorágine impelente,
tu violencia metódica, tu caos teórico y práctico,
tu gana
dantesca, españolísima, de amar, aunque sea a traición,
a tu enemigo!
¡Liberador ceñido de grilletes,
sin cuyo esfuerzo hasta hoy continuaría sin asas la extensión,
vagarían acéfalos los clavos,
antiguo, lento, colorado, el día,
nuestros amados cascos, insepultos!
¡Campesino caído con tu verde follaje por el hombre,
con la inflexión social de tu meñique,
con tu buey que se queda, con tu física,
también con tu palabra atada a un palo
y tu cielo arrendado
y con la arcilla inserta en tu cansancio
y la que estaba en tu uña, caminando!
¡Constructores
agrícolas, civiles y guerreros,
de la activa, hormigueante eternidad: estaba escrito
que vosotros haríais la luz, entornando
con la muerte vuestros ojos;
que, a la caída cruel de vuestras bocas,
vendrá en siete bandejas la abundancia, todo
en el mundo será de oro súbito
y el oro,
fabulosos mendigos de vuestra propia secreción de sangre,
y el oro mismo será entonces de oro!

¡Se amarán todos los hombres
y comerán tomados de las puntas de vuestros pañuelos tristes
y beberán en nombre
de vuestras gargantas infaustas!
Descansarán andando al pie de esta carrera,
sollozarán pensando en vuestras órbitas, venturosos
serán y al son
de vuestro atroz retorno, florecido, innato,
ajustarán mañana sus quehaceres, sus figuras soñadas y cantadas!
¡Unos mismos zapatos irán bien al que asciende

sin vías a su cuerpo
y al que baja hasta la forma de su alma!
¡Entrelazándose hablarán los mudos, los tullidos andarán!
¡Verán, ya de regreso, los ciegos
y palpitando escucharán los sordos!
¡Sabrán los ignorantes, ignorarán los sabios!
¡Serán dados los besos que no pudisteis dar!
¡Sólo la muerte morirá! ¡La hormiga
traerá pedacitos de pan al elefante encadenado
a su brutal delicadeza; volverán
los niños abortados a nacer perfectos, espaciales
y trabajarán todos los hombres,
engendrarán todos los hombres,
comprenderán todos los hombres!

¡Obrero, salvador, redentor nuestro,
perdónanos, hermano, nuestras deudas!
Como dice un tambor al redoblar, en sus adagios:
qué jamás tan efímero, tu espalda!
qué siempre tan cambiante, tu perfil!

¡Voluntario italiano, entre cuyos animales de batalla
un león abisinio va cojeando!
¡Voluntario soviético, marchando a la cabeza de tu pecho universal!
¡Voluntarios del sur, del norte, del oriente
y tú, el occidental, cerrando el canto fúnebre del alba!
¡Soldado conocido, cuyo nombre
desfila en el sonido de un abrazo!
¡Combatiente que la tierra criara, armándote
de polvo,
calzándote de imanes positivos,
vigentes tus creencias personales,
distinto de carácter, íntima tu férula,
el cutis inmediato,
andándote tu idioma por los hombros
y el alma coronada de guijarros!

¡Voluntario fajado de tu zona fría,
templada o tórrida,
héroes a la redonda,
víctima en columna de vencedores:
en España, en Madrid, están llamando
a matar, voluntarios de la vida!

¡Porque en España matan, otros matan
al niño, a su juguete que se para,
a la madre Rosenda esplendorosa,
al viejo Adán que hablaba en alta voz con su caballo
y al perro que dormía en la escalera.
Matan al libro, tiran a sus verbos auxiliares,
a su indefensa página primera!
Matan el caso exacto de la estatua,
al sabio, a su bastón, a su colega,
al barbero de al lado -me cortó posiblemente,
pero buen hombre y, luego, infortunado;
al mendigo que ayer cantaba enfrente,
a la enfermera que hoy pasó llorando,
al sacerdote a cuestas con la altura tenaz de sus rodillas...

¡Voluntarios,
por la vida, por los buenos, matad
a la muerte, matad a los malos!
¡Hacedlo por la libertad de todos,
del explotado, del explotador,
por la paz indolora -la sospecho
cuando duermo al pie de mi frente
y más cuando circulo dando voces-
y hacedlo, voy diciendo,
por el analfabeto a quien escribo,
por el genio descalzo y su cordero,
por los camaradas caídos,
sus cenizas abrazadas al cadáver de un camino!

Para que vosotros,
voluntarios de España y del mundo, vinierais,
soñé que era yo bueno, y era para ver
vuestra sangre, voluntarios...
De esto hace mucho pecho, muchas ansias,
muchos camellos en edad de orar.
Marcha hoy de vuestra parte el bien ardiendo,
os siguen con cariño los reptiles de pestaña inmanente
y, a dos pasos, a uno,
la dirección del agua que corre a ver su límite antes que arda.
armon Dec 2013
So many words
Such little meaning
Its not your words that tell me your feelings
Don’t have to guess the way that you’re leaning
I’ll crack the sky or at least the ceiling

So many lines
Some silver lining
I am the alchemist synthesizing
Live with the knowledge that you’re declining
While I ascend
Uproot the uprising

I am the king
I am the diamond
I am the one who says so, the Simon
I am above
I am the legend
I am the force that drives every engine

I am alive
I’m more than alive
I am the spark igniting the *** drive
I am the fiber
I am the source code
I am the dynamite set to explode

So many gods
So many temples
It’s not the gods that make me a-tremble
Translate the power
Speak to the devil
He is the writer
I am the pencil

So many guns
Such little patience
I am a curator of the ancient
I am the book
I am the history
I am the meaning
I am the mystery

I am the giant
I am the titan
I am the hidden strength
I’m the lion
I am the love
I am the hatred
I am the ******
I’m the naked

I am the tomb
I am the symbol
I am the complex
I am the simple
I am the rule
I am the riddle
I am the equal
I am the middle



Such little love
Such little content
Is it unfair to ask where the love went
I touched the body
I touched the soul
I mastered the secret to self control

Such a disgrace
Such paranoia
You are the dark, Francisco de Goya
Die with the damage
****** and grotesque
You’re the decree
A half-muttered protest

I am the one
I am the master
I am the one survivor they’re after
I am the hunter
I am the hunted
I am the needed
I am the wanted

I am alive
I speak for the living
I am the one who’s taking and giving
I am the blight
I am the plague
I am the one who needs to be saved


So many strings
Such orchestration
I am the heart of every nation
I am the puppeteer
I’m the puppet
I am the base, the peak, and the summit

So many worlds
So many timelines
I am the multiverse
I’m the road sign
I am the white
I am the black
I am the siege
I am the attack

So many words
Such little meaning
Its not your words that tell me your feelings
Don’t have to guess the way that you’re leaning
I’ll crack the sky or at least the ceiling

So many lines
Warning the caution
I am the single choice
I’m the option
Die with the truth that you’ll be forgotten
I loved a world but that world was rotten
taty Jun 2015
every time my mom would cook,mind you she is Spanish.
she would use "Goya". almost every time she would cook she
would use that. she once told me she needed it for her food to have
flavor, she needed so her food won't be dull. thats how i felt without
you. Unflavored and dull, ur my goya. how funny that sounds but it's
a fact.
RW Dennen Sep 2014
This is somewhat of a surreal writing and so is the title
well here goes...

Foolin' around with chaos
Kickin' at the cosmos
Not quite known' where
my left foot and right foot
really belong

Wondren' if the stains
in my undershorts
are the results
of nicotine  

Imaginin' the Philly goliath
clothing statue around 15th and Market
constructed to clamp
onto Willys Nose

Wittnessin' the  "Parkin' Authority"
rhythmically writin' on pads
their violation ticket songs
to the quarter meters of cash flow

Drizzly watchin'
The multitude of "Ben Hurs"
precariously skim
and fly around the corner
at 16th and Market headin' north  And

seekin' self-infliction
by seriously
tellin' a waitress
that she really serves the best food in town. And
salutin' every Admiral dressed doorman
that I pass. Then later,

overhearin' a good "Samaritan"
tell a street ******
that four roses
can also be sniffed as well

Thoughts of Christ
nailed to the " Charles Schwab" edifice
with a thorny looking crown
made from antiquated ticker tape
His side pierced by
piggy bank breakers,
and the outpouring of green inscriptions
that state, " In God we trust."

All these things
race through the squeaking
reels of my mind already
corroded by seen corruption as a
passing Krishna group's chant permeates
the thick city air
And an unnoticed dying dove raises
its quivering right wing
as if in a last salute to peace

And all too well I know,
how the city devours its youth
like Goya's " Saturn Devouring his Son"

All too soon, in the sunlight
of my benevolent youthfulness within,
a chilled blanket of knowing about ignorance
overwhelms me
Tormented by indefinable tormentor,
The love-lust for life diminishes
and captured by surrounding greed
and torn asunder

Driven away, sitting in Rittenhouse Square,
touched by two lovers
as squirrels
scamper playfully
          over dead dried
                 Autumn leaves...
                         ...that  crackle...
Looks like the day started out being silly into a day of being serious. Funny how, at times, life changes, even in a half surreal world

— The End —