Maturity Under Interrogation

Open the book

You tore out some pages

Close it

You damaged the spine

Coercion of the past

I am retold all the stories

Taking place when you would bend the sides, the corners

I would scribble, underline, highlight

The pseudo-mafioso cafeteria, its chic clans

Classic cliques, allocated misfits

They fell for the game you played on them

I fell into your whirlpool of tastes,

Absorbed by all the senses, not just the tongue,

Then, with all abrupt justice,  you sunk

Into the dead sea where bodies of  “this is me” are treading

It’s not that they know better, it’s  that they fight for group self-sacrifice

Apart, you and me, we’re off to where we started

Sandwiched between book shelves and reeking dust,

Five lunch tables away, half a continent to swim under.

In their eyes, we were the future rock stars to be, or revolting hippies,

Those fucking anarchist signs, nazi engravings

Those rolled up kilts,

The after-school change of shoes for worthy wandering

In my eyes, you became those missing pages

Together, we were the finished novel, the most avant-guard,

No readers, no one overshadowing its process, no price, no free download, no possibility

Of a cinematic rendition, no material attachment

But hopefully a sequel, even may it suit the status quo.

Bot 4

En algún lugar, un bar, o antes la calle, la nostalgia toca un instrumento invisible. Tiene cuerdas, teclado y hay que soplar fuerte. Voces yuxtapuestas. Ensordecen. Los ojos. Desafinan el movimiento y la manos. Las voces yuxtapuestas no consiguen superar el volumen d elos pasos. Y me dices, "No hay nadie que sea del todo revolucionario."

Hombres locos en la Avenida Madison

Serie sería yo si no fuera por la seria falta de sirenas en las series. Pido sirenas, sin duda y sin sueño.

Si no fuera por la seria serie.

El guión que se cree sabio ya no me sirve. Perpetuidad cortada; es lo que tenemos en común, la serie y Sandra.

Pintando ese pasado soñado

Del granate se cansa rápido,
como de la gran palabrería.
La lengua en llamas
y el flujo de agua que no consigue escapar de la visión.

Pisar estrellas -un reto lejano,
    las nubes incluso.
Pero pisar el aire, andar sin dejar huella,
testigos ninguno,
                   memoria plena
de no moverse.

Y del reino son dueños,
los sueños.
¡Como perturban el día!

Pasado soñado, insaciable
                      incontenible
    dicen que, incomprensible.

Las huellas no vienen del pie
sino del cuerpo entero.
Son los actos, son movimiento,
y no olvidemos, la soltura
            léxica.

Pero, nadie
hace caso a los pasos.
Su lenguaje enjaula.
El lenguaje es prejuicio,
    pruebas pronto en cenizas
                  nubes terrenales
nada (para tí, todo).

El cansancio: granate
Con los ojos apagados, se ve el azul.
Azul el nube, azul la ceniza, azul el sueño.
Negro apenas el olvido, o negra, la ropa...
O... todo transparente, rocoso.

Estancia

A vosotros, compañeros,

Decidme cual es vuestra jerarquia

                        Es diagonal,

                        de lunares, o una cápsula de tiempo                 

Cállate de teorías

Muda, temporal

A tí, cariño,

Hay que madrugar

beber los rayos de cafeína

acariciar las gotas caídas del sol

Olvidar noches de descontrol

y perdonar las lenguas insensatas

Planta un árbol

                                    en tu salón

Verde no será

Horizontally

Like my body, the sun

rises with wordless speech

and like my mind, the sun

sets with speechless words.

You, a non-conformist (we’ve decided), are ready

to settle down, see what those

white picket fences could translate to.

We haven’t decided if

“yet” is our enigma and “still” our flame.

Our task is to redefine, to tame.

This is a love of a kind (like any other, like no other)

with unintentional gifts.

If we resign, give in to the accompanying scares,

one thing is bound to be lost,

you, me, or yesterday’s tomorrow.

Like two bodies, the world

rotates with irrational ease

and like two minds, the world

is not satisfied with the answers we give.

The Architrave (translation of Jaime Gil de Biedma)

                                                Scaffolds for ideas

One lives among pompous people. There’s one who speaks

of the architrave and its problems

the same as if it were a cousin

-very close, actually.

And so, it seems that the architrave

is in serious danger. Nobody knows

very well why it’s like this, but they say so.

There is one who has been saying so for twenty years.

There’s one who speaks also of the enemy:

Incomprehensible beings

are everywhere to be seen, they are insinuated

the same as dust in rooms.

And there’s the one who raises scaffolds

So that it doesn’t fall: careful people.

(Curious how scaffold is not just for buildings but also a platform where people are executed.)

One goes out onto the street

And kisses a girl o buys a book,

He strolls, happy. And they look daggers at him:

But how does he dare?

                                    The architrave…! 

 ***

Original en castellano + intentos de explicación: http://books.google.es/books?id=m6JULI43dOoC&pg=PA118&lpg=PA118&dq=el+arquitrabe+gil+de+biedma&source=bl&ots=A-xdNi9LEN&sig=1vS8wE3a7IbRF9EddKIi7FOzdp8&hl=es&ei=8oKoTPKTHoHNjAfi7a3qDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=10&ved=0CEMQ6AEwCQ#v=onepage&q=el%20arquitrabe%20gil%20de%20biedma&f=false