Tengo un agujero en el pecho

Tengo un agujero en el pecho

    Y dentro un corazôn ardiendo

Tengo un agujero en el pecho

    Y un dolor que no encuentro

Un dolor que no encuentro

    Un dolor y un recuerdo

Luz Radiante

    Y un silencio

Para olvidar el peso en mi espalda

    Mis manos se buscan y bailan

Para olvidar el peso en mi espalda

    Escucho canciones amargas

Doce canciones amargas

    Y una esperanza que mata

Con dulzura

    Me desangra

Se rompe el velo de seda

    Mi piel siente, y tiembla

Se rompe el velo de seda

    Y la luz cálida despierta

La luz cálida despierta

    Porque el sol se despereza

Echa a andar

    Y andando sueña

Andando entre las adelfas

    Te mira, y sueña

Tête

 

Si la lune m’emmène, traîtreuse, parmi las ténèbres,

En trompant mon âme perdu et faible ;

Si le ver inévitable fait son plaisir et sa fête

Sur la charogne noire de mon lange malhonnête;

Si les griffes de la nuit essaient de se fermer

Autour le silence de mon voix fatiguée de crier;

Ne t’étonne pas, lecteur, et ne me plains pas:

J’ai vu la lune, les ténèbres,

Le ver, les griffes, la nuit.

Je les ai vu, et j’ai compris

Que tout ça n’habite pas que dans mon crâne maudit.

---

Should the moon take me, traitorous, through the shadows

Deceiving my lost and hopeless soul;

Should the conquering worm have its feast

                Upon the carrion of my lying tongue;

Should the claws of night close upon

                The scream-weary silence of my tired throat;

Don’t be surprised, reader, and have no pity:

I’ve seen the moon, the shadows,

The worm, the claws, the night.

I’ve seen them all and realized

That they all live inside this wretched head of mine.

Bile bijective

 Look inwards.

A pattern squeals and scurries pathetically on a sea of gastric fluid.

Your pitiful consciousness drowns inside your own rotting stomach, a languor overcoming the gossamer-lined pit of your ego.

You try to wake up, to walk through the numbness that mists your sorry mindscape, but you were never very good at freedom, were you?

A bile-bloated corpse could never be good at anything, much less at achieving a semblance of life. 

Who are you trying to convince? Feast-for-flies, wealth-upon-worms; a philosophical zombie, minus philosophy, plus pretensions.

Look inwards.

Do you see any qualia? Any sign of life in there?

Take every piece of your history. Take every piece of your one-scene ethos. Take every peace you can find, since you're at it.

A bijection, action-reaction, cause-consequence. Sequential, bidimensional putrefaction.

Look inwards, at an enantiomorphic failure. Heaven to Gehenna, blood/life to purge-fluid.

A perfect machine for decomposition, turning hallows to hell. 

You had everything.

You have nothing.

Who's at fault here?

Look inwards.

Who's at fault here?

Lo-Fi 1

Breathe.

Close your eyes.

Let the music be

and flood you, fill you, flow within you.

As it softly courses through you, feel the way it rolls, the way it wanes and waxes.

Breathe.

This is it.

This is its purpose.

It was made to be enjoyed by you,

just the same as you were made to enjoy it.

Let the warmth of sound caress you and cover you.

You know the feeling.

Sun over your skin.

Dawn spreading across an open field.

Or maybe a soft embrace, sweet and slow, under a starlit sky.

Breathe.

Music grows,

And becomes everything.

No time, only rhythm.

No world, only sound.

No thought.

Breathe.

Lark's Head

Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts

a tree grows and grows, green and silver, every leaf a thought every fruit a hope

and they rot and they rot and they rot

They fall and they cover the ground with black stench and miasma

with red-white hate with red-black hate

with energy spent on inaction

with rancour spent in regret

The stench grows and the hate grows and the black putrid indifference covers everything in a shroud of soft fruit and maggots.

Every leaf is hidden and the grass underneath is hidden and there is nothing but hate and hate and hate and pain and pain and pain. And every caress is an insult and every phrase is mockery and the best intentions are pity. 

There is no end.

There is no end.

There is no end.

Until it all ends.

Until a quietus is made, with bare bodkin or swift lark's head.

A quietus is made.

It all ends.

A Clear Blue Sky

It was close to the end of May when I walked into the small village near the border. There was a nice weather, and a clear blue sky.

The small, low houses cast small, low shadows under the morning sun, and a faint breeze blew from the west. It was a fine spring day, with a nice weather, and a clear blue sky.

However, there was no-one walking openly on the sunlight streets, on that fine spring day. Only silhouettes shuffling near the walls, trying to ignore the breeze; figures running from one awning to the next, shunning the nice weather; children crawling into a well, hiding from a clear blue sky.

I asked. And the answer came:

“They can see you, in fine spring days”.

“Bombs don’t mind a faint western breeze”.

“Drones fly well, when there’s nice weather”.

“They can kill you, under the clear blue sky”.

Mare Nostrum

El águila del Senado
En el Rin fue olvidada
Y aún duerme

Y lloraría Alejandro,
Perdida su gloria, agotada
Su suerte

Se vio Ormuz arrastrado
Y en Niniveh le fue dada
Cruel muerte

Y estará Ra enterrado
Entre la arena y la nada
Para siempre.

Quienes en el Sur una vez reinaron
Gastan hoy en el Norte su jornada.
Quien hizo suyo el mundo por la espada
Por el Oro se ha visto esclavizado.

Perdió Roma el águila y la Legión
Perdieron los fenicios sus estrellas
Los faraones su vida eterna
Cayeron al fin las murallas de Ilión

Resurja Creta y Cartago
Sacuda Argantonio su sino aciago
Despierte Ciro de su largo sueño.

El alma tiemble, y sea recordada
La memoria, largo tiempo olvidada
De este mar que un día fue nuestro.