Well, time’s up to his old antics again,
I thought I had won the race,
but here we have its trace.
He wants my towel,
he wants my towel,
and he has a powerful
alliance with the death.
He brings to my eyes each day the same face
and he knows I can’t get used to it,
‘cause it’s nothing and it’s nowhere,
yes, it’s nothing and it’s nowhere,
and my body is the spy that he sent.
He gets ahead of my movements,
and draws some wrinkles in my skin.
I loved him, how I loved him long ago,
but he’s so vile, he took my words
and he pretended he has gone.
I’ve lived beside him all the days of my life,
but that’s not enough to catch him sleeping.
There’s got to be something,
let’s get at the best place,
we all now what’s a dead piece of flesh.
It’s not to take the clothes that I left aside last years,
or recover the shoes that don’t fit in my feet,
and the locks of my hair,
I know the hair-dresser,
she must have kept’em, she’ll know where they are now.
It’s not to exhume the coffin of my dad
and sit down him at my table.
All this tricks don’t work fine against time.
Constancy is defeated with sublety.
That’s my plan: we won’t get in by the chimney.
We’ll close our eyes, and we’ll cork our ears,
then we’ll leave ev’rything,
yes, we’ll leave ev’rything,
and he’ll get smaller, but we’ll grow up.
You’ve got to choose, do you want to dilate it,
and became the person you are going to be if don’t move?
God bless conformism,
God bless conformism,
but I don’t need he to bless me.
When I was young I just thought ‘bout destination,
today I give importance to the journey,
the road is the target,
the travel’s the target,
and beauty is not lenght.
Today I may fall trying to walk,
today I may look like a normal one,
but believe me, friends,
tomorrow I’ll look like a younger man.
Your eyes are so sad, as sad as a new year’s eve, sad as a doll, you feel cold, and you look so cracked or deceived, well, I’m not sensible enough to know what’s going on within you.
Your steps are afraid, they don’t touch the ground, you’re as silent as dead,
in your nest you wrap yourself up and look to the stars “please have mercy on me”.
Your jersey of wool in whose sleeves you feel good is fraying, it’s torn by the monster that was born in that night of mistakes, under the yellow moon, beside the lying snake,
with your boy of the street,
with your naked feet.
He was the unknown, his body the forms that you had never touched, but a feeling inside told you exactly what you had to do with the one in front of you.
Your mouth soon said “love”,
your longings were calmed,
your flesh felt the blood
and you looked like the first woman and the first man over the world.
Now, looking back, you remember him with a mixture of love and sadness,
you know you both were like lanterns to eachother,
with a ray of pale light,
to discover in the dark
the things that ev’rybody knows,
the only thing one needs to know
and ev’rybody knows.
I have walked from road to road,
from sage to sage in search of knowledge
and the only thing I’ve got
is a pocket full of booklets,
abstracts of the works
I never reached to learn,
copies of reviews,
touching ups of genial deeds.
I have read James Joyce’s “Ulysses”
and I didn’t get anything
but I’ve always been proud,
now I’m trying with “Finnegan’s Wake”,
I’m not getting anything
but Joyce has always been
an eccentric playful man,
so he can’t make me mad.
I watched Ingmar’s films
and the fact’s I prefer Ingrid,
but she’s not so appreciated,
and I fight against “Shouts and whispers”
since “The seventh seal”
is a children’s game:
Bergman’s explicit there,
too much for my taste.
I have tried with Edward Munch
(he was born in 1863)
and his symbols are a curse,
I need a guide between my hands
to notice that the rose
in fact is not just a rose,
but a projection of the soul
of the girl that is the dog.
I have listened to Débussy,
but my ears are not suitable
for music without melody;
it’s like to sleep over a table:
you can get used to it,
Claude never deceives.
In “Au Clair de Lune” I begin
to intuit his harmony.
I’ve been heedful to Freud’s works,
but he is a little bit freuddian:
he’s obssesed with sex
and, Sigmund, life is more than orgasms,
phallyc forms and dreams,
deceitfully dreams.
Fingers into rings
are not necessarily cunts and dicks.
And there are not many forums
where they praise my erudition,
so I’m branded as “Snob”,
but they move by intuition.
Masses are always so,
as we, all the wise men, know.
It’s been some days, it’s been some weeks, it’s been some months since you are gone
and the sea is the same, about it I’m sure,
and the table is the same, and so it happens with my name, and I sleep in the same bed, the same hair decores my head.
Ev’ry Monday’s still a Monday,
ev’ry three looks like half eight,
and if eight’s knocked down we still call him infinite.
And the govern has not changed,
and my dog’s still alive,
still sun rises up at morning to dissapear at night.
Still each time I am happy, something happened with the wine,
and after kissing, I see lovers still feel fine.
Well I talk ‘bout things that stay, but I’ll write you anyhow
my own list of all the things that are different now.
Now all the kisses and now all the embraces and all the walks are with another one,
and believe it, darling, they don’t mean even the half that when I held your hand through the streets of our town, when I took you home, when we woke up at dawn.
Now she wants the best for me, and she appreciates my art, and her body is warm but her eyes are sad and all her hopes crash against the wall where I wrote your name,
and I see her blood flowing, but I let it flow again.
I say your name in the soft whispers that I bite near to her ears, and beside the unknown ones minutes look like years, and my folks are the same and they think she looks like you; they don’t know I’m dying,
they would shut up if they knew.
I do things to kill the day, I break calendars and clocks, they are always saying time never stops, and the worst of all this blue is that we are getting used, but in my list my lovefor you is not included.
I feel your presence in each curtain that I extend not to be seen, and I find an excuse
in the smallest thing to be locked in my own world, in my little universe,
oh, look what a list! It’s so sad…
But that’s me!
I left you though you
were the one who
put the words.
You said that it was
better not to
wait for love.
You were looking for a handkerchief,
and I never wanted to be seen as a useful thing.
A truck left your body
in that desert zone.
You drought your water
with a stolen sponge.
As I climbed to the mountain,
where there is eternal snow.
I became the lonely silhouette;
erosion made of you a precious stone.
From the mountain’top,
each person was a tiny light
where roughly I summarized
all their lives.
Nights were quiet in the lonesome peak,
judgements were childlike proceedings.
The flexible judge was me.
But I confused
myself with the whole.
I knocked down
the partition wall
between the things one wants to be
and the real thing he is.
Believe me, it’s not happiness at all.
I can’t help remembering
your little hands,
your simple phrases
and discreet skirts,
the clean flavour of your kisses
and the nails you never painted,
and you voice,
and your voice
that ordered me what I had to drink.
Water or fruit juices
were your hints.
‘Cause you wanted my eternity,
the impossible eternity,
but the sweetest one.
Now you don’t call me
for anything.
Precious stones
only appear in rings.
I always wonder for your bussiness,
for you are the brightest light,
but it doesn’t make me better.
I’m still feeling like the bad.
And each days that ends
is a day I have not
been with you.
It looks like I lost control
over the things I do.
I miss you now and I’ll miss you when
I face up the end,
as I close my eyes and
throw my wishes to the wind.
I built my little universe,
made of time and space,
like any other, that’s no different.
There I hide ev’ry word I don’t say,
I planted strawberry shrubs
and hazelnuts and all the things
I thought I’d need
but, baby, I went wrong.
Something’s going on
in my little universe.
I dream I’m in a car whose brakes fail,
that’s the way it is,
afraid of speed, afraid of cliffs,
afraid of time and the wrinkles it brings.
Oh, I’m afraid of, oh, so many things
and all that I occur
is to take refuge
where I write the rules,
in my little universe.
There are glasses around, each one has its sound
they prick in my feet’s sole
and in my liver, in my eyes,
they’re like a bomb
for my neurons
but then I am so far away from home,
and then I look like alone,
and black matter’s cold.
Where do you hide your gold,
little universe?
One thought that drinks and foodstuff
and a bed were the only real needs.
But the truth is revealed in many ways:
as illness, pain or nostalgia.
I scape running, but the
black hole’s hidden
and sound waves
don’t spread in vacuum,
no, they don’t.
How are you, little universe?
Now you look like tired,
you look like old,
you look like boring.
Your next words are going to be:
“Was that all?”
You thought existence was going to be
much more
but the answer’s: “Yes, that’s all,
the meaning’s on your own,
something you should have found,
little universe”.
Exploited, ev’rything has been done,
I visited champagne stars,
nebulas, kites, I’ve seen the bordering,
all the beauty that dreams are able to find,
but your love still looks like the best thing that I’m leaving behind.
And I know where I went wrong:
it was when I left you alone,
when I excluded you from
my little universe.
Somewhere in the orchard she wraps herself up,
and she tries to drowse,
while all the other flowers turn their petals down,
they’re afraid from waspes.
She is forever childlike, in the thicket made of heliotrope and fragments of ferm,
where I spreaded her dust.
Strongly sticked to the soil,
almost abstract, no recoil
could fit her pieces fine,
her home is my mind…
There dreams my love, she’s reclining
over a pillow.
Woodlouses and ladybugs slide over her face,
but she takes no care.
An ash flew in the wind,
now it’s in another land,
waving over ocean’waves
she’s a wanderer.
I promised her one day:
“I will not mourn under the rain,
I’ll find my place in the chain,
I’ll try with lies to my brain”.
Sometimes I supose
she sends me kisses with each rose
that grows where nothing should grow
my baby’s saying hello.
God failed in his duty
since my deeply sleeping beauty
occupies the little universe
where extends my time.
Ground is nothing filthy
she, my deeply sleeping beauty
is a blessed thing, and a blessed thing
she cleanses all.
The dew pierces her breast
and is a kind of dress.
Transparent and clean,
my lips over her skin.
I come from earth.
If someone curses my despair
he’s thinking that my love’s a dare
but when she was not in the moon
my garden was another room.
I’m not spineless, it’s not my kind
but sometimes it’s so hard to find
a passport to be alive
without the love of my life.
I do respect the rule
but when the legislator is so cruel
the only excuse is that death
to be a leap.
Now mud’s no longer something dirty,
now my deeply sleeping beauty
is the garden,
is the planet
she’s ev’ryplace.