Cuando resido en este país que no sueña
cuando vivo en esta ciudad sin párpados
donde sin embargo mi mujer me entiende
y ha quedado mi infancia y envejecen mis padres
y llamo a mis amigos de vereda a vereda
y puedo ver los árboles desde mi ventana
olvidados y torpes a las tres de la tarde
siento que algo me cerca y me oprime
como si una sombra espesa y decisiva
descendiera sobre mí y sobre nosotros
para encubrir a ese alguien que siempre afloja
el viejo detonador de la esperanza.

Cuando vivo en esta ciudad sin lágrimas
que se ha vuelto egoísta de puro generosa
que ha perdido su ánimo sin haberlo gastado
pienso que al fin ha llegado el momento
de decir adiós a algunas presunciones
de alejarse tal vez y hablar otros idiomas
donde la indiferencia sea una palabra obsena.

Confieso que otras veces me he escapado.
Diré ante todo que me asomé al Arno
que hallé en las librerías de Charing Cross
cierto Byron firmado por el vicario Bull
en una navidad de hace setenta años.
Desfilé entre los borrachos de Bowery
y entre los Brueghel de la Pinacoteca
comprobé cómo puede trastornarse
el equipo sonoro del Chateau de Langeais
explicando medallas e incensarios
cuando en verdad había sólo armaduras.

Sudé en Dakar por solidaridad
vi turbas galopando hasta la Monna Lisa
y huyendo sin mirar a Botticelli
vi curas madrileños abordando a rameras
y en casa de Rembrandt turistas de Dallas
que preguntaban por el comedor
suecos amontonados en dos metros de sol
y en Copenhague la embajada rusa
y la embajada norteamericana
separadas por un lindo cementerio.

Vi el cadáver de Lídice cubierto por la nieve
y el carnaval de Río cubierto por la samba
y en Tuskegee el rabioso optimismo de los negros
probé en Santiago el caldillo de congrio
y recibí el Año Nuevo en Times Square
sacándome cornetas del oído.

Vi a Ingrid Bergman correr por la Rue Blanche
y salvando las obvias diferencias
vi a Adenauer entre débiles aplausos vieneses
vi a Kruschev saliendo de Pennsylvania Station
y salvando otra vez las diferencias
vi un toro de pacífico abolengo
que no quería matar a su torero.
Vi a Henry Miller lejos de sus trópicos
con una insolación mediterránea
y me saqué una foto en casa de Jan Neruda
dormí escuchando a Wagner en Florencia
y oyendo a un suizo entre Ginebra y Tarascón
vi a gordas y humildes artesanas de Pomaire
y a tres monjitas jóvenes en el Carnegie Hall
marcando el jazz con negros zapatones
vi a las mujeres más lindas del planeta
caminando sin mí por la Vía Nazionale.

Miré
admiré
traté de comprender
creo que en buena parte he comprendido
y es estupendo
todo es estupendo
sólo allá lejos puede uno saberlo
y es una linda vacación
es un rapto de imágenes
es un alegre diccionario
es una fácil recorrida
es un alivio.

Pero ahora no me quedan más excusas
porque se vuelve aquí
siempre se vuelve.
La nostalgia se escurre de los libros
se introduce debajo de la piel
y esta ciudad sin párpados
este país que nunca sueña
de pronto se convierte en el único sitio
donde el aire es mi aire
y la culpa es mi culpa
y en mi cama hay un pozo que es mi pozo
y cuando extiendo el brazo estoy seguro
de la pared que toco o del vacío
y cuando miro el cielo
veo acá mis nubes y allí mi Cruz del Sur
mi alrededor son los ojos de todos
y no me siento al margen
ahora ya sé que no me siento al margen.

Quizá mi única noción de patria
sea esta urgencia de decir Nosotros
quizá mi única noción de patria
sea este regreso al propio desconcierto.

you hear it all the ****** time, esp in England, trying to live this Babylonian multiculturalism without polymaths in sight, this itchy term of justifying incremental infringements, islamophobia: as if terrorist attacks don't justify the phobia, as if i don't "suffer" the jokingly endearing arachnophobia... that i can't rationalise a fear, that is becoming more a stance from the position of tedium... oculus per oculus (eye for an eye): to reiterate with a (now) reinforced emphasis: why so Russophobic... why so serious? i don't understand the Russophobic vibes... the Russian are in a defensive mode... why wonder as to the reason for a why, the how has been blatantly obvious: to begin with.

Russian Russian not my friend,
***** ***** rusz Rusa...
róża - rose rose...
         rusz Rusa: move the rose...
if Nietzsche equated the Lachs
to the French of the Germanic world...

German neighbour
Rome's a neighbour...
more tanks in Poland than in
England, Germany, Italy,
France and Spain combined...

if the Polacks are the French
equivalent
the Russians must be English
the Ukrainians Germans
and the Balkan tribulations
the Italian polyglot monstrosity
Yugols collectively...

if...
such that when push comes to shove:
i wonder whether those
canons are aiming at Moscow
or whether... they might
suddenly turn toward Berlin...

so much for not feeling welcome
on the continent
bad neighbours...
siege of Vienna - before any
inclination of an Ottoman ***-lick
conquest...

or is that somehow juvenile
to have a historical disposition
rather than the modern
journalistic jargon:
since when did journalism
outweigh the importance of
reading history?

why do journalists think they can
somehow overpower historians:
Heidegger was obsessed with
historiology -
again: when you get ****** in
the mouth by a **** amphetamine
*****
while a drunk Russian comes
at you from behind...
never mind those УПА *******
in Ruthenia celebrating the ****
annexation of "my" land..

i'm asking a question: is a study of
history somehow juvenile:
holding onto this old qualms
and disputes?
while the rest of the populace
is lost to the altar of journalistic
malevolence and celeb-pleb culture?

not that i could ever:
but pan-Slavism 2.0? any takers?
out of necessity of asking a question:
as Heidegger (to reiterate)
would put it:
is something question-worthy?
is this question-worthy?

well if the blacks can do it...
celebrate it in London at a concert
by none other than...
Wizkid... if there can be a pan-Africanism
well... what am i entitled to:
as an Anglo-Slav?
the same shared history of the banality
of Anglo-Saxons who differentiate
their Roman history context
as having inherited what the Welsh
and the Picts were subjected to?

come to think of it: i too can play
identity politics -
and socialism worked...
as a one off special circumstance
for only an exclusive amount of time...
as a failsafe mechanism against
foreign investment
as a rebuilding economic model
that could be reiterated in Syria
as it was iterated in Poland
because: like **** did "we" get a whiff
of the Marshall Plan...
Switzerland and Sweden got a whiff
of it: yet... neutral(?)

but what if this is all a poker game?
as much as i had respect
for English society and still do...
certain influences from across the pond
are bothering me...
so un-European so uncivilised...
technically "we" could band together
but watching Islam do a stinker
in these:
what did Chamberlain say about
Czechoslovakia?
alluding to the profanity in Kendura:
#metoo
            
"quarrel in a far away country,
between people of whom we know nothing..."

right... wow! with the empire
that stretched toward India
   and the current immigration climate...
    seems "we": your European neighbours are just
that... far far away... we know nothing
of the same script we write in...
might as well:

durka durka Muhammad jihad
right, the, ****, back at you!
well sooner or later you'll be glorifying Blahlah
with your ******* up in the air
for the massive deity **** *******:

are "we" Christians?
i thought that the Polacks were Catholics
as a joke... like the Italians are
Catholics as a joke...
weren't "we" the last defenders of
paganism in Europe?
Christianity spread to this continent
like a pain like a sloth
it had to be brought over by the Hebs
themselves...
even now: 2000+ years later i'm
still not convinced - although i am
by the ingenious Heb reality...

durka durka bengali bud bud...
**** of the neck and twisting in *******
lightbulbs:
but ooh! Czechoslovakia: Rapunzel land!
i absolutely abhor this English
ignorance about the continent...
even grouping "us" as "eastern europe"...
for starters... "we" are CENTRAL
european... east is somehow a slur...
there's England France Germany blah blah
and that's distinctive:
but the rest of us are somehow
collectivised into the east...

         a Romanian is an Albanian etc
oh but don't mention the Greeks...
those ******* are Syrians...

so i ask: would there be a point of
invading a place already rife with its own
spastic liberalism?
or is this simply a taste of flexing
telling the other to shove that neoliberal
postmodernist
                        mantra up it's **** eclipse?

i might no like the Russians
but... push comes to shove...
                              better that than
a transgender hangover... so un-Hippocratic
so irresponsible!
neo-**** smiles at these chemical castrations:
all these western post-Victorian
social experiments...
and i'm not supposed to become
emotionally invested in any of this?
i'm not supposed to rely of emotions
from time to time?
       become a pacified buddhist *****?
become a lobotomised Christian?
not gravitate to my innate: unshakeable
ontological foundations -
                       my Darwinistic impulses?
i can't have my secular wants met
       because of some ninja bullies?!

i've inherited living through Joseph
and Adolph... maybe not personally:
and to think i would play it "sensible" now
is asking for moo but not the milk
from a cow.