"pared" poems
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green
field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs
creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent
through a failed ground rock)
brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail
12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)
lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 12:18 AM UTC
They are always with us, the thin people
Meager of dimension as the gray people
On a movie-screen. They
Are unreal, we say:
It was only in a movie, it was only
In a war making evil headlines when we
Were small that they famished and
Grew so lean and would not round
Out their stalky limbs again though peace
Plumped the bellies of the mice
Under the meanest table.
It was during the long hunger-battle
They found their talent to persevere
In thinness, to come, later,
Into our bad dreams, their menace
Not guns, not abuses,
But a thin silence.
Wrapped in flea-ridded donkey skins,
Empty of complaint, forever
Drinking vinegar from tin cups: they wore
The insufferable nimbus of the lot-drawn
Scapegoat. But so thin,
So weedy a race could not remain in dreams,
Could not remain outlandish victims
In the contracted country of the head
Any more than the old woman in her mud hut could
Keep from cutting fat meat
Out of the side of the generous moon when it
Set foot nightly in her yard
Until her knife had pared
The moon to a rind of little light.
Now the thin people do not obliterate
Themselves as the dawn
Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline
Of the world comes clear and fills with color.
They persist in the sunlit room: the wallpaper
Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales
Under their thin-lipped smiles,
Their withering kingship.
How they prop each other up!
We own no wilderness rich and deep enough
For stronghold against their stiff
Battalions. See, how the tree boles flatten
And lose their good browns
If the thin people simply stand in the forest,
Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest
And grayer; not even moving their bones.
23.6k
What you could not tell me;
as distinct as a infant's cry,
was why?
Had the torture within you
rattled the bars and forced
you to plead sweet ignorance?
Would you have understood
an alibi, had I delivered it
to you in homonyms?
Were we a pair, had we pared?
Or did one of us bite too harshly
on the pear?
Or would you continue with
me, the way you knew how...
artfully coy, and full of deception?
and then, I realized
I knew... had always known
and therein is the rub
that has left me bare, a bear,
a grizzly discovery.
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 9:43 AM UTC
In the slant of the sun on the country-side,
Cattle and sheep trail home along the lane;
And a rugged old man in a thatch door
Leans on a staff and thinks of his son, the herdboy.
There are whirring pheasants, full wheat-ears,
Silk-worms asleep, pared mulberry-leaves.
And the farmers, returning with hoes on their shoulders,
Hail one another familiarly.
...No wonder I long for the simple life
And am sighing the old song, Oh, to go Back Again.
4.7k
Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil nisi divinum stabile
est; caetera fumus—the gondola stopped, the old
palace was there, how charming its grey and pink—
goats and monkeys, with such hair too!—so the
countess passed on until she came through the
little park, where Niobe presented her with a
cabinet, and so departed.
Burbank crossed a little bridge
Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine arrived,
They were together, and he fell.
Defunctive music under sea
Passed seaward with the passing bell
Slowly: the God Hercules
Had left him, that had loved him well.
The horses, under the axletree
Beat up the dawn from Istria
With even feet. Her shuttered barge
Burned on the water all the day.
But this or such was Bleistein’s way:
A saggy bending of the knees
And elbows, with the palms turned out,
Chicago Semite Viennese.
A lustreless protrusive eye
Stares from the protozoic slime
At a perspective of Canaletto.
The smoky candle end of time
Declines. On the Rialto once.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Money in furs. The boatman smiles,
Princess Volupine extends
A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
She entertains Sir Ferdinand
Klein. Who clipped the lion’s wings
And flea’d his **** and pared his claws?
Thought Burbank, meditating on
Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.
3.2k
Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak
of our own doubts, while dubiously
we mother man in his doubt!
And if at Mill Valley perched in the trees
the sweet rain drifting through western air
a white sweating bull of a poet told us
our ***** are ugly—why didn't we
admit we have thought so too? (And
what shame? They are not for the eye!)
No, they are dark and wrinkled and hairy,
caves of the Moon ... And when a
dark humming fills us, a
coldness towards life,
we are too much women to
own to such unwomanliness.
Whorishly with the psychopomp
we play and plead—and say
nothing of this later. And our dreams,
with what frivolity we have pared them
like toenails, clipped them like ends of
split hair.
3k
When all my five and country senses see,
The fingers will forget green thumbs and mark
How, through the halfmoon's vegetable eye,
Husk of young stars and handfull zodiac,
Love in the frost is pared and wintered by,
The whispering ears will watch love drummed away
Down breeze and shell to a discordant beach,
And, lashed to syllables, the lynx tongue cry
That her fond wounds are mended bitterly.
My nostrils see her breath burn like a bush.
My one and noble heart has witnesses
In all love's countries, that will ***** awake;
And when blind sleep drops on the spying senses,
The heart is sensual, though five eyes break.
2.7k
A trilogy of love: bared, shared, pared
Lust's shallow wave: crests, cascades, crashes
Deeper, emotive swells: rise, rumble, release
Conflicting currents form rip tide: tugging, tossing, tearing
Amor's undulating rhythms pulsate
Low tide, latent fantasies surface ego to ingratiate
High tide, a endless churning of desires our longing cannot satiate
Libidinous breakers scour lecherous bottom; a brackish foam doth emanate
In the deeper recesses of our minds, a rational connection percolates
From the depths, a heart-felt ****** rises; a growing bond initiates
Two, constant minds mutually sharing space; each hope, dream resonates
Surface tension increases; two hearts mount each obstacle, common course navigates
Nearing balmy shore, strong winds of indifference blow
Into eroding channels untested lovers unwittingly row
Selfish goals drag the unstable pair into the undertow
Corrosive fears, unmitigated doubts sever trust placing love in escrow
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 4:58 AM UTC
De cada uno de estos días negros como viejos hierros,
y abiertos por el sol como grandes bueyes rojos,
y apenas sostenidos por el aire y por los sueños,
y desaparecidos irremediablemente y de pronto,
nada ha substituido mis perturbados orígenes,
y las desiguales medidas que circulan en mi corazón
allí se fraguan de día y de noche, solitariamente,
y abarcan desordenadas y tristes cantidades.
Así, pues, como un vigía tornado insensible y ciego,
incrédulo y condenado a un doloroso acecho,
frente a la pared en que cada día del tiempo se une,
mis rostros diferentes se arriman y encadenan
como grandes flores pálidas y pesadas
tenazmente substituidas y difuntas.
1.8k
Cuando has bebido tanto y juras que se puede ver su nombre en la parte inferior de la botella, de repente estás perforando tu puño a través de la pared seca y hablando en voz alta, tal vez ella podria responder, tal vez va a traerla de vuelta. ¿Cómo se puede creer que los sueños son al azar?, te levantas pensando que todavía puedes oler en sus hojas su recuerdo y tu almohada aun contiene cabellos, y que tal vez el lugar donde ella vuelva no es el sueño, tal vez el sueño es la parte en la que ella llegó por primera vez. Sigues mirando sus manos y no puedes recordar cómo temblaban, por que lo hacian, y por qué siempre lo hicieron por ti y ahora no está temblando, porque ahora no está, pero debido a que su sonrisa no dejará tu mente y cada vez esa canción regresa a ti, debes volver a escuchar su risa de nuevo y esta vez uedarte perplejo en esos tonos para siempre. Caminas por la calle y piensas que puedes ver su cabello rizado y su piel pálida pero recuerdas que se ha ido, pero ella no se ha ido porque todavía le puedes degustar cada vez que bebes whisky, vino tinto o nada. En realidad, no puedes recordar nada más que ella. Puedes saborearla en los labios como si estuviera todavía aquí contigo pero sin ella. Siempre se arruina por el recuerdo de su abandono y los brazos se sienten vacíos, aunque ella se había ido antes de que realmente se fuera para pregúntarse, como puedes leer en los libros más de lo que dices. No es porque mis ojos sólo ven su nombre, no es porque cada palabra en la página me recuerda a decir a mí mismo, a la razón, que nunca se podrá escribir más, y su nombre dejará de ser recordado. La forma en que él se aferró a sus caderas con tanta fuerza como si estuviera asustado. Iban a volar lejos y tal vez debió ser así, siempre quiso volar con ella, pero ella era demasiado frágil y el viento, por envidia, les hizo tomar su distancia. Fué la forma más difícil de separarse de ella. Ha intentado hacer lo que hiciste, y el viento pudo mas que tu, de ésta manera quedaste triste y ella por fin se fue a la luz.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC
Esa pared que tú ves a mis espaldas
es una pared como cualquier otra.
Lejanas: las ventanas de los terceros pisos
las charlas de los adultos.
¿Por qué debería intimidarme?
Aquí hay muchas otras paredes que tampoco podemos atravesar
muchas otras paredes que nada dicen
salvo cuando tienen dibujos o groserías.
En esa pared podemos jugar a gusto
no estorbamos ya que nadie entra ni sale.
Dicen que ahí acaba Berlín
y también que al otro lado
hay otra ciudad del mismo nombre
aunque de un país diferente.
Sé que aprenderé a estar triste por esa pared
y que mi felicidad será mayúscula
cuando escuche el habla confuso
de un tal Günter Schabowski.
Pero mientras es sólo una pared
una pared cualquiera que a veces
parece--ser--un--largo--tren--que--decidió--detenerse--
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
Probablemente mientras duermes, alrededor de las once yo sigo despierto y dormito ideas, mi cuerpo flota y en el sillón viendo al techo esta tu espacio, un metro cincuenta y ocho, eternos.
Una extraña marca en la pared que solo yo puedo ver ha quedado, me estoy acostumbrando a ella ya que de vez en cuando logro evitar su mirada, sobre todo cuando es de noche y apago la luz; todos lo saben, la noche hace invisible la propia oscuridad y encierra en un dulce parpadeo la cordura.
Y así son las doce y tú duermes, mientras yo camino por las calles, solo para seguir en la luna al reflejo de tus ojos.
¿Has notado como las cosas cambian en la noche?, las horas se doblan sobre otras y hacen perder el hilo de los minutos, la sombra cambia los colores, la forma de la vereda hacia tu casa ya no es tan segura, ni las figuras que se puede imaginar en ella durante el día y quizás en la noche el tiempo pasa más lento en tu boca, pero me queda la duda de que solo sea la noche y no tu boca, ¿cómo saber si el sabor será el mismo mañana a las seis?
Y así son las tres, y me pierdo en el mismo lugar al que mi mente llega todas las noches, el desenlace y el terminal al que a esta hora conducen todos los caminos, espejismo.
Solo sé que no soy yo el que duerme.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
Aiming high,
With big boots
Too big to drag across the poetic chess floor,
Never read the greats
Never loved and lost like the great lovers
Never forged the mind in tempered steel
No resolve,
No other inkling than pride for scorn
Yet it was this morn,
Eyes read with a fresh dawn
The braking newness of creation
Art as poetry
And fluked it no more than a precise preponderance
As each word chose itself its order
And a profound truth was embellished
With the love and care of a depth of many aeons
Pared back into a child’s innocent eyes
Reflecting providence, grace and wise
With a goodly turn of genius
That left the mind searching
And words begged of in hopes they would lay more
Yet none were needed
And never did a loving envy grow so warm in its light
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 11:30 PM UTC
when I die
I'd like my ashes to be made into a diamond.
that way when the jeweler shapes it and sets it in a pretty ring for my beloved's grandchildren/descendants
that will be a better rendition of me,
a properly shaped, smoothed and polished human-that-was.
I like to think all the bad qualities I know I possess would be pared down to a socially acceptable version of me that you would, finally, be proud of.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
the horse rummages on the track
and the victory is owned by the ****
soon sleep will engulf my body
like the oblivious quietude of Aokigahara-jukai.
things and their semblance of utmost care.
light begins to burst
and there is little left to see,
wide-eyed, crunched by the efficacy of aches.
taking all to the very heart of hurt
as gamblers wager,
and coming back with the sound of completeness:
a man is a man in his chronology of defeat -
left torn by madness,
a cornered beast pressed against the woods.
the moon plays its lyre, white-washed,
sound wading in the very source of quiet,
hauled out of the Sun, its mother.
this hound stalks the world
with woebegone legs, a reflection of the entire world fractured
by a singular shot at the end.
i hear the guttural snarl of engine
unwavering in its limitations. say, at first light, all exists to paint darkness quicker
than any obfuscated conclusion -- hiding in
itself, its mood for squalors.
the mud dug deep for bones
pared from the slaughter of midnight,
hiding them to mask my defeat:
everything around me sparkles with
the vigor of frailty, all the same.
the nights are too long, scarce as froth
from an opened mouth left flat,
a dry gin bottle.
i imagine sad armies dissolving in pale moonlight, and crosses thumbed down to the snaking hiss of its nondescript prayer.
gears gnash like teeth in anger
of you in your young clothes, the pace of cars
hurrying back to homes.
i remember the splintered wood burning
the last in the round kiln of the Red Lion.
the upholstery of night is the twilight's
catharsis. the coast of dread widens like
the vernal metamorphosis of a young ********** in Gibraltar,
come in, come in with undecided ******
you can hear the fall coalesce with the levitation of ember, landing like feet blunt
on the asphalt beside desolate bicycles
in seedy parks.
the surreal tabulation of analogue repetitions:
death's myriad, in all corners screaming
the countenance rebel, against the floored masses.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
Ciego, siempre será tu ayer mañana?
Siempre estará tu pandereta pobre
estremeciendo tus manos crispadas?
Yo voy pasando y veo tu silueta
y me parece que es tu corazón
el que se cimbra con tu pandereta.
Yo pasé ayer y supe tu dolor:
dolor que siendo yo quien lo ha sabido
es mucho mayor.
No volveré por no volverte a ver,
pero mañana tu silueta negra
estará como ayer:
la mano que recibe,
los ojos que no ven,
la cara parda, lastimosa y triste,
golpeando en cada salto la pared.
Ciego, ya voy pasando y ya te miro,
y de rabia y dolor -qué sé yo qué!-
algo me aprieta el corazón,
el corazón y la sien.
¡Por tus ojos que nunca han mirado
cambiara yo los míos que te ven!
1.3k
Let Moses come to give me pills, break
the tablets of these hills upon my back and
Lot's wife on the track,
forever looking back and
turns to salted tears which trickle slowly
down across the years and surface
in some nursery rhyme.
This is not the time or place to face the demons cast from hell,
nor time to sell the rainbow coat,killed the goat or fatted calf,
this is the half life we've been waiting for,
the core of night pared with the cutting knife and in the shaft of light which bounces off the day of light
we may figure in the triple six.
I guess it's written down.
so it must be true.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
The cottage stood at the outer edge
Of the village of Helsomewhere,
It held a slate on the garden gate
That scribbled a ‘Don’t Go There!’
It housed a cat and a resident bat
And something that moved within,
A thing unseen that was quite unclean
With various types of sin.
The folk that entered the garden gate
Had never gone back there twice,
When asked, they shuddered enough to state
‘It’s something that isn’t nice!’
The weeds were thick in the garden, and
Had grown right over the path,
And filled with sand by an old wash-stand
The remains of an iron bath.
Nobody walked the bullock track
That led by the old front door,
To go to town, they’d hurry around
A path that was there before,
The cottage stood like an ancient crone
That blighted the village scene,
A pointing finger, pared to the bone
Reminding them what had been.
At night the Moon rose over the ridge
And it cast an evil glow,
Down through the leaves of the eucalypts
To the cottage, far below,
The windows looked like a pair of eyes
As they stared out through the gloom,
While something was rushing around inside
Like a demon in a tomb.
‘Perhaps we ought to have burnt it,’
Said the senior councilman,
‘It stands alone as our conscience,’ said
The crusty old farmer, Stan,
‘We have to bleed for our own misdeeds,
Including a lack of care,
Each scream was seen as a nightmare dream
When Lloyd was living there.’
When Lloyd was hosting his dinners for
The girls from a nearby town,
Nobody seemed to question them
For Lloyd was always a clown,
But screams would happen at midnight
And would often be heard at dawn,
When Lloyd was digging his garden patch
By the light of the early morn.
And Lloyd would wave to his neighbours as
They hurried along his way,
Give them a cheery greeting, crack a joke
And say ‘Gidday!’
They didn’t suspect that evil lay
Inside in that old tin bath,
The one that is filled with sand, and now
Sits there, outside by the path.
One night the villagers crept on out,
And they took it each by turn,
To set a brand to the cottage, then
Stand back to watch it burn,
But something was rushing about inside
In a black and evil cloak,
While screams had seemed to come in a tide
With the dark and acrid smoke.
The embers were floating far and wide
In the haze of a Harvest Moon,
They set up fires in the eucalypts
That rained in the village gloom,
And every cottage went up in smoke
For the villagers’ part, they share
In the deaths of thirteen innocent girls
In the Hell of Helsomewhere!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
Te quiero porque tienes las partes de la mujer
en el lugar preciso
y estás completa. No te falta ni un pétalo,
ni un olor, ni una sombra.
Colocada en tu alma,
dispuesta a ser rocío en la yerba del mundo,
leche de luna en las oscuras hojas.
Quizás me ves,
tal vez, acaso un día,
en una lámpara apagada,
en un rincón del cuarto donde duermes,
soy una mancha, un punto en la pared, alguna raya
que tus ojos, sin ti, se quedan viendo.
Quizás me reconoces
como una hora antigua
cuando a solas preguntas, te interrogas
con el cuerpo cerrado y sin respuesta.
Soy una cicatriz que ya no existe,
un beso ya lavado por el tiempo,
un amor y otro amor que ya enterraste.
Pero estás en mis manos y me tienes
y en tus manos estoy, brasa, ceniza,
para secar tus lágrimas que lloro.
¿En qué lugar, en dónde, a qué deshoras
me dirás que te amo? Esto es urgente
porque la eternidad se nos acaba.
Recoge mi cabeza. Guarda el brazo
con que amé tu cintura. No me dejes
en medio de tu sangre en esa toalla.
1.3k
falling into subterranean sleep, I notice such blackness
bypasses a pinprick of light; dreams are avenues
to enigmas presenting themselves as someone forgotten.
sleep laves labyrinths with incandescent sequins.
everybody is strange here, interlocutor commune,
still yet nothing I can understand – better be braille, or
contrapuntal dance, but still you uttered nothing;
your locutionary silence seeks no contentment.
i have never heard such riot
of laughter toss me out of sleep. perhaps it was our undoing,
our deepest, secretive entrails unloosen us in such fashion
worth depicting as obscenely courageous, the width
of arm-span the size of outstretched islands, and stepping into
that particular wideness, are my small feet traipsing
swiftly throbbing in the heat of choosing:
to go or to stay – cyclic spectacle that eschews
dailiness that I know I may have forgotten you in faces
of lampposts, the pared skin of onion, the gleaming washlines,
the white feral on the rooftops, a blank piece of paper,
a munificent Bulacan sky, or any sky at that since
they are all bleached and they arrive not with wind but
with lashes: the color of white that flagellates, that blinds,
that oscillates in space which is then reduced to the
back of my hand: I know this. I know all of this.
we were not naked, yet something
buried in the skin reveals itself disarmed, mumbling
an earnest palaver of questions I have no answers for.
what happened? where are we? should we just – die?
an echoing reverb, or simply a song – a metronomic
carousal of swan-song I have heard before persists
and maybe all this time,
we have been awake, in separate cities.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
*a poetic collaboration
with Elizabeth Squires,
(thank you for the privilege)*
high in the infinite skies,
above the clouds.
where no, naked eye can see
particles in the ozone layer,
bounce around.
in a manner, most carefree.
these minute, wee, little things,
e'er bobbing and moving,
so happily.
we on the ground,
would delight,
in their existence of joy.
but we're tied to the prosaic, daily grind working,
in our nine to five,
coalface coal mines.
with axe and pick,
we chip and hack away...
whilst our minds delight,
in front-lobal play.
of waxed wing-ed flight,
of acrobatic, aerobatic display.
whilst working,
in the cramped and dubious
spaces we inhabit....
we dream, of spaces, blue, boundless and arcing-wide, forgeting, forgoing, forgiving the mindless, daily grind...
we leap,
with fragile hope,
into fledgling flight....
up to the ozone,
up toward the light...
there, in the freedom,
of this spacious playground,
we're at no command,
of employer's tools,
of work.
on our faces, we'll wear
those effervescent, unfettered smirks
hopping in rambunctious
fun
in the ozone's air,
upon the weary brow of labor release, is found.
in it's mirthful atmosphere,
which eliminates, our obligations, to our bosses.
we then farewell,
with liberating tosses.
and so we soar
in insouciant grace, unfettered,reckless,feckless
freedom, sliced and pared, away across our wings
and faces,
joy ungaurded,
is this moment's prey
unbidden, unbound.
no longer hearing,
the sound of the grinding axe.... at play
we soar eagle high...
we soar to the sun's eye
but we are not made
for such undulterated bliss our wings of feather
and wax....
become, around us mist
and to the ground
we do spiral....
into our adult occupations,
where there is little time.
for us to be engrossed,
in exuberant glee.
we're shackled
and yoked to,
our heavy work day shrouds.
but our dreams of play,
with those ozone particles,
seem too impractical.
happy little vegemites
we'd be,
if our days were free.
take heart, our days off,
are nigh and on the lounge
we'll sigh,
a well earned sigh.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
Tablecloths faded side out
Wispy hair brushing skin
Soft bubbling, white froth
And voices in the distance
Hard words pared to whispers
Fingertips of what has been.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
pastel sunset
pared, silver moon
tide reflections on shimmering glass
the heavenly day, passed
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 8:44 PM UTC
Los frescos pintados en la pared
transforman el "Salón Reservado"
en una "Plaza de Toros", donde el suelo
tiene la consistencia y el color de la "arena":
gracias a que todas las noches
se riega la tierra con jerez.
Jinetes en sillas esqueletosas,
tufos planchados con saliva,
una estrella clavada en la corbata,
otra en el dedo meñique,
los tertulianos exigen que el "cantaor"
lamente el retardo de las mujeres
con ¡aves! que lo retuercen
en calambres de indigestión.
De pronto,
en un sobresalto de pavor,
la cortina deja pasar seis senos
que aportan tres ****
Los párpados como dos castañuelas,
las pupilas como dos cajas de betún,
***** el pelo,
negras las pestañas
y las extremidades de las uñas,
las siguen cuatro "niñas", que al entrar,
provocan una descarga de ¡oles!
que desmaya a las ratas que transitan el corredor.
La servilleta a guisa de "capote",
el camarero lidia el humo de los cigarros
y la voracidad de la clientela,
con "pases" y chuletas "al natural",
o "entra" a "colocar" el sacacorchos
como "pone" su vara un picador.
Abroqueladas en armaduras medioevales,
en el casco flamea la bandera de España,
las botellas de manzanilla
se agotan al combatir a los chorizos
que mugen en los estómagos,
o sangran en los platos
como toros lidiados.
Previa autorización de las ****
las "niñas" van a sentarse
sobre las rodillas de los hombres,
para cambiar un beso por un duro,
mientras el "cantaor",
muslos de rana
embutidos en fundas de paraguas,
tartamudea una copla
que lo desinfla nueve kilos.
Los brazos en alto,
desnudas las axilas,
así dan un pregusto de sus intimidades,
las "niñas" menean, luego, las caderas
como si alguien se las hiciera dar vueltas por adentro,
y en húmedas sonrisas de extenuación,
describen con sus pupilas
las parabólicas trayectorias de un espasmo,
que hace gruñir de deseo
hasta a los espectadores pintados en la pared.
Después de semejante simulacro
ya nadie tiene fuerza ni para hacer rodar
las bolitas de pan, ensombrecidas,
entre las yemas de los dedos.
Poco a poco, la luz aséptica de la mañana
agrava los ayes del "cantaor"
hasta identificar
la palidez trasnochada de los rostros
con la angustiosa resignación
de una clientela de dentista.
Se oye el "klaxon" que el sueño hace sonar
en las jetas de las ****
los suspiros del "cantaor"
que abraza en la guitarra
una nostalgia de mujer,
los cachetazos con que las "niñas"
persuaden a los machos
que no hay nada que hacer
sino dejarlas en su casa,
y sepultarse en la abstinencia
de las camas heladas.
1.2k
los vacíos en uñas
como pozos de alquitrán
roban el foco
de dedos delgados
hechos para tocar el piano
codos como el mío,
como gotas de rocío,
y como pulpa redonda —
no conoces la pared ni la espada,
pero esas en hombros herniados.
y las alas, alas
como el día
que aletea
nubes mostazas
a través de un campo
envuelveme
en plumas
así que yo conozca
solaz soleado
siempre
permanece vigilia
encaramado arriba
en tormentas
transformadas y
contenidas dentro de
las cavernas vivas
del espectro.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC