Tragos finos de ouzo en el sótano.

"Más allá de lo pavoroso o angustioso de los sueños, de sus enigmas subconscientes contenidos; existe un componente que decididamente desgarra la consistencia de mis categorías gnoseológicas y consigue arrojarme a las vastas profundidades de la orfandad del raciocinio. Me refiero a la capacidad de los sueños para dinamitar por los aires, de corromper sin remilgos las bases incólumes de todas las magnitudes físicas (tiempo, espacio,volumen,masa, temperatura, etc) ; evidenciando así tal vez a modo de pícaro guiño, la no inmanencia originaria de estas a la Naturaleza. Son los sueños empero, un claro ejercicio de reflexión, de suscitado cuestionamiento crítico bajo la dirección de algún "genio maligno"; una especie de cínica repulsa a ese grado de plausible decadencia llevada a cabo en la digestión analítica y también creación, que ejercitamos de la realidad. Realidad en la que nos desenvolvemos con mayor o menor soltura epistemológica y a la que primordialmente dotamos por convención, de taxativa autoridad ontológica."


Fotograma significativo extraído de "Smultronstället" (1957), escrita y dirigida por I. Bergman.

Alfil c6

"He used to be,
a man.
He used to stick,
the Christmas lights
on his room's walls.
Dark inside,
luminous outward,
to cough his lungs
with aesthetical nature,
to live always from the innards;
and deserve the others.

He believed too,
not without error,
that Mahler was the best patner
that a lonely man could desire.

Even better,
than the wind blowing through the bars
or the gabble of a deciduous train
crossing with antique devotion the rails.

It was grateful to know
how mistaken a man could be,
as Gorbachov,
as Kafka...
like an dense spit
in others throat.

Like the realm
of a calm river
another night adrift onto
the abject mouths of a lethal city.

Sometimes,
the more intelligent action consists
in not
doing

nothing."

Forgetful jazz speech, and another step comes again.

I know, It's late, and I know,

there's always an old cargo,

never sailing adrift, among,

my corrupted and gilt ribs.




None,
of my friends, fleeting relatives; none,
neither lonely tineid dogs or
sadly walking neckwears,
none
of the city guilds know...
how mean its keel comes.

With each rational stare of the morning,
with each used oblivion of dawn,
bloody loops, clawing nooses,
Greed for nothing, surfeit hunger,
No more house of the rising sun.


Stopped,
raised up near the slim carpet skyscraper,
the boat seems to defy:
floating nothingless,
the leak of the primal absurd.
My essence in a cheap pack,
offensive shrieks of laughter,
offered from overseas...

You,
despite,
of you.
Me,
by the way,
about me.

Sharks, awake nightmares, sharks,
under the shell of my chest,
even built with rotten corps I know,
they are,
yowling the damnation of our insipid
brightness.


It was ever so,

even more dead souls

than all alive beings.




And the questions came:

who ' s burying who?
Athens to Jerusalem?

It is not so simple
to keep still human
in this distopic Eden.

Desoír.

"Bitterness of oxycodone,
wet wheat flour over my slippers.
But,
another check mate on board.

I look myself in a dark reflection, and every breeze is roaring.
Time's running out, ¡Row! you ¡row!
It's senseless to boil cofee, check on those grounds,
the propaganda of a benevolent God, his defeated slogans;
contradictory, antithetical, illogical ones: Be a 20% happier now.

I stand, on the tangent of sun,
and the refuge of shadows...
Preaching death."


El amargor de la oxicodona,
harina de trigo húmeda sobre mis pantuflas.
Pero,
otro jaque mate en cubierta.
Me miro en un reflejo opaco, y toda brisa parece bramar:
te queda cada vez menos tiempo, ¡Remad!, ¡remad!
No tiene sentido hacer café, buscar en los posos,
la propaganda de un Dios benevolente, sus vencidos eslóganes;
contradictorios, antitéticos, ilógicos: Sea ahora un 20% más feliz.

Me encuentro, en la tangente del sol,
y el refugio de la sombra...
Predicando muerte.