bath water

I know it's a bit silly, nectarines, and a bit dated and and
I LOVE THIS SONG

it's obviously about a lover but when I first heard it Adam, my best mate, had just died
the line
if you should die before me, ask if you could bring a friend
has always stayed with me because of that
one of those that caresses my soul
crushes as it exalts me

after all these years I also think of California, where I lived when I first heard it, wild Santa Cruz days, ocean breezes, tender loving lovers I have loved who came and went, lust abandon
when I hear it

living in the moment after moment after moment and now the time is flown and the waves still crash thunder in my heart and all alone I look at that cloud
and know
another moment has passed


now I'll sleep to the muffled sound of my Stone Temple Pilots lullaby
gutted yet gleeful, and parched
anyone got a glass of bathwater?



Still Remains
(S. Weiland)

Our bed we live, our bed we sleep
Making love and I become you
Flesh is warm with naked feet
Stabbing thorns and you become me

Oh, I'd beg for you, you know I'll beg for you
Pick a song and sing a yellow nectarine
Take a bath I'll drink the water that you leave
If you should die before me ask if you could bring a friend
Pick a flower hold your breath and drift away

She holds my hand, we share a laugh
Sipping orange blossom breezes
Love is still and sweat remains
A cherished gift unselfish feeling

Oh, I'd beg for you, you know I'll beg for you
Pick a song and sing a yellow nectarine
Take a bath I'll drink the water that you leave
If you should die before me ask if you could bring a friend
Pick a flower hold your breath and drift away

She tells me things, I listen well
Drink the wine save the water
Skin is smooth I steal a glance
Dragon flies 'er' gliding over

Oh I'd beg for you, you know I'll beg for you
Pick a song and sing a yellow nectarine
Take a bath I'll drink the water that you leave
If you should die before me ask if you could bring a friend
Pick a flower hold your breath and drift away

hola Inger

esta noche

senti el calor de la luna

y senti

labios ardientes
parpados transparentes
alma solida, mi cuerpo verdadero, la substancia de mi ser

a little light

my evenstar

los morochucos

alma, corazon y vida
alma para conquistarte
corazon para quererte
y vida para vivirla junto a ti

el destino

no, pero no, lo volvere a mencionar
el eco de una carcajada
se me paran los pelos del cuello
neverforever
ratatat
almost groan

Eduardo Galeano (II)

Profesion de fe

Si, si, por lastimado y jodido que uno este siempre puede uno encontrar contemporaneos en cualquier lugar del tiempo y compatriotas en cualquier lugar del mundo. Y cada vez que eso ocurre, y mientras eso dura, uno tiene la suerte de sentir que es algo en la infinita soledad del universo: algo mas que una ridicula mota de polvo, algo mas que un fugaz momentito.

Professing faith

Yes, yes, as damaged and fucked as one might be one can always find contemporaries in any place in time and compatriots in any place in the world. And every time that happens, and while it goes on, one has the fortune of feeling that one is something in the infinite solitude of the universe: something more than a ridiculous speck of dust, something more than a fleeting moment.

Eduardo Galeano (I)

El arte y el tiempo

Quienes son mis contemporaneos?-- se pregunta Juan Gelman.
Juan dice que a veces se cruza con hombres que huelen a miedo, en Buenos Aires, Paris o donde sea, y siente que esos hombres no son sus contemporaneos. Pero hay un chino que hace miles de años escribio un poema, acerca de un pastor de cabras que esta lejisimos de la mujer amada y sin embargo puede escuchar, en medio de la noche, en medio de la nieve, el rumor del peine en su pelo; y leyendo ese remoto poema, Juan comprueba que si, que ellos si: que ese poeta, ese pastor y esa mujer son sus contemporaneos.

Art and time

Who are my contemporaries?--wonders Juan Gelman.
Juan tells me how sometimes he crosses paths with men who reek of fear, in Buenos Aires, Paris or wherever, and he feels that those men are not his contemporaries. But there's a Chinese fellow who wrote a poem thousands of years ago, about a goatherd who is really far from his beloved woman and yet he can hear, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the snow, the sound of her comb running through her hair; upon reading that obscure poem, Juan realises that yes, that they: that poet, that goatherd and that woman are his contemporaries.

recessive

reading the micro-expressions
only to learn to hide mine, subtle, oh so subtle
little big man

autumnal sunshine, a remnant

recordando San Pedro de Atacama
alma creciente, ahora llena de gratitud
amistades del camino que aun alimentan mi otro ser
el ser que vive fuera del tiempo y espacio

el amor inolvidable, la primera vez y
la ultima y
el calor entre dos cuerpos

an insatiable thirst
hunger to fill a void
food nor drink can reach it
passion

From "Nightlight"

Nightlight

She came to him late on Wednesdays only for sex, the cab waiting outside. Four months ago someone recommended her to him for a job but he has no work  she can do. He doesn't even pay himself now. They talk of nothing much and there are silences  in which they can only look at one another. But neither wants to withdraw and something must be moving between them, for they stand up together and lie down beside the table, without speaking.

Same time next week she's at the door. They undress immediately . She leaves not having slept but he has felt her dozing before she determinedly shakes herself awake. She collects hersellf quickly without apology, and goes without looking back. He has no idea where she lives or where she's from.

 When  she's gone he masturbates, contemplating what they did, imprinting it on his mind  for ready reference: she on her stomach, him on the boat of her back, his face in her black hair forever. He thinks of the fluffy black hairs, flattened with sweat like a toff's parting, around her arsehole.

Walking around later he is both satisfied and unfulfilled, disliking himself for not knowing why he is doing this - balked by the puzzle of his own mind and the impossibility of grasping why one behaves so oddly, and why one ends up resenting people for not providing what one hasn't been able to ask for. Surely this new thing is a web of illusion and he is a fool? But he wants more foolishness and not only on Wednesdays.

For several weeks he determines to speak during their lovemaking, each time telling himself that on this occasion the words will come out "We should talk" is the sentence he prepares which becomes abbreviated to "Want to talk?" or even "Talk?"

However his not speaking has clearly gladdened this woman...

 Hanif Kureishi

gorgeous morning

a tu lado,
por la eternidad, que es igual que
por un instante

el rozo de tu piel me enloquecio

tiritonteando

dreams of alienation

"...just another tramp of hearts,
crying tears of faithlessness"
Bruce (who else)

just read an old letter from someone who loved,
subtle reminder of the seemingly endless cycle of heartbreak
aching
want to jump off

the dream of the white rabbit, deeply wounded, gouged,
i seek to ease its pain
in doing so i find my fingers fit perfectly into into its wounds
like a hand in glove

sueños/Verdad

un sueño magico, ilogico

locuaz

lo que senti, o siento

no importa

lo que pense, o pienso

aun menos

con certeza, entonces

lo que fui, o soy

ya fue, ya estuvo

andale, ahora canto y lloro

nada puede derrotar el gozo de existir

siempre fui, soy, sere

vuestro, antes de ser mio

"Verdad", de Julieta Venegas

Si me abandonara no me quedaría más que dejar de respirar permitir al viento llevar mis huesos como hoja seca, como hoja muerta Si se olvidara de esto que vivimos no queda más que dejar mi memoria borrar no me serviría más este amor que cargo se convertiría en dolor, dolor Si me abandonara no me quedaría más que dejar de respirar permitir al viento llevar mis huesos como hoja seca, como hoja muerta Es mi única verdad, todo lo demás es solo mentira, es solo mentira Viviría para siempre en un abrazo con su memoria besando sus palabras aún pintadas en esta pared si me dejara llevar por la ola de rumores no me queda más que dejarme ahogar también si las palabras se enterraran en su piel no me queda más que dejarlas partirme también Si me abandonara no me quedaría más que dejar de respirar permitir al viento llevar mis huesos como hoja seca, como hoja muerta Es mi única verdad, todo lo demás es solo mentira, es solo mentira es mi única verdad, todo lo demás es solo mentira, es solo mentira

If he abandoned me

there'd be nothing left for me but to stop breathing

to let the wind take my bones

like a dry leaf, like a leaf that's dead

If he forgot it all, all that we've lived

all I could do would be to let my memory erase it

the love I hold would be useless, then,

it would turn into pain

This is my only truth, everything else

is just a lie

I would live forever embracing

his memory

kissing his words

that are still scrawled on this wall

if i let myself be moved by the wave of rumours

then to let myself drown is all i could do

if these words could pierce his skin

there's nothing more for me but to let them tear me apart too

---

Vuela, palomita

Rode past the pigeon, dead in the road
it's eyes were already taken
a delicacy
the first morsels to go

flight

A pigeon flew under my bike wheel today
felt, heard something break
why?late to work
had to keep going

Ometeotl