Una vez más sin entrada, escrito en algún momento de desvarío cuando la piel fue vidrio...
Lendemain Matin
Abrí los ojos y me hallé cansada de los gritos en mi cabeza,
No sé quien vive más la esquizofrenia
las palabras que salen entre los alientos
de los Dragones muertos.
O yo que te llamo
con los poros convertidos
en ojos sobre la tundra.
Arenas movedizas en la
filosofía sin lenguaje,
la retórica de tí en mis hombros,
de mi sombra que no miras en la esquina
aquellas canciones inventadas al aire
que nadie conoce,
el cariño que se contrae
raquítico casi en huesos.
Te conozco sin nombre
y mi piel que se rompe en pedazos
deseando decir te amo,
A la mañana siguiente
de tus labios
en tus sueños te espero....
2 comentarios:
¿Será que todo lo que haces lo veo con un filtro especial que elimina todo negativismo? ¿Será que a momentos uno queda cegado por los sentimientos y sólo ve uno cualidades en todo lo que haces? Bueno, si es así bienvenidas sean esas visiones de tí que yo tengo y esas opiniones. No todo tiene que pasar por el retén de la racionalidad ni por la aduana de la coherencia lógica. Lo que leo apenas lineas arriba y lo que escribo en este obscuro recuadro no tienen por qué pedir autorización a ninguna autoridad de las buenas maneras ni de las diplomacias. En palabras tuyas de hace algunos meses: "Al carajo con la cortesía del siglo XVI". Así que vuelvo a exclamar: ¡Eres genial! ¡Me siento orgulloso de conocerte, de ser tu amigo, de tener la oportunidad de comunicarme contigo! Cada vez que te leo mis sentidos se expanden y se intoducen en esferas y espacios nunca antes experimentados, desconocidos... e
Esas imágenes tuyas como:
Arenas movedizas en la
filosofía sin lenguaje,
o bien:
el cariño que se contrae
raquítico casi en huesos.
Simplemente me dejan inmovilizado, me atrapan entre sus intersticios, se apoderan de mí. Y bueno, como el tiempo libre también empieza a llegar a mí, pienso que prefiero mil veces la lectura plácida de tus frecuentemente intimidantes versos, a muchas de las grandes obras de los clásicos del pensamiento.
Te quiero mucho.
BOTS
Y ahora déjame tener el privilegio de dejar aquí otra obra maestra del maestro de maestros Bob Dylan, te gustará, seguro.
BOTS
DESOLATION ROW
They\'re selling postcards of the hangingThey\'re painting the passports brownThe beauty parlor is filled with sailorsThe circus is in townHere comes the blind commissionerThey\'ve got him in a tranceOne hand is tied to the tight-rope walkerThe other is in his pantsAnd the riot squad they\'re restlessThey need somewhere to goAs Lady and I look out tonightFrom Desolation RowCinderella, she seems so easy"It takes one to know one," she smilesAnd puts her hands in her back pocketsBette Davis styleAnd in comes Romeo, he\'s moaning"You Belong to Me I Believe"And someone says," You\'re in the wrong place, my friendYou better leave"And the only sound that\'s leftAfter the ambulances goIs Cinderella sweeping upOn Desolation RowNow the moon is almost hiddenThe stars are beginning to hideThe fortunetelling ladyHas even taken all her things insideAll except for Cain and AbelAnd the hunchback of Notre DameEverybody is making loveOr else expecting rainAnd the Good Samaritan, he\'s dressingHe\'s getting ready for the showHe\'s going to the carnival tonightOn Desolation RowNow Ophelia, she\'s \'neath the windowFor her I feel so afraidOn her twenty-second birthdayShe already is an old maidTo her, death is quite romanticShe wears an iron vestHer profession\'s her religionHer sin is her lifelessnessAnd though her eyes are fixed uponNoah\'s great rainbowShe spends her time peekingInto Desolation RowEinstein, disguised as Robin HoodWith his memories in a trunkPassed this way an hour agoWith his friend, a jealous monkHe looked so immaculately frightfulAs he bummed a cigaretteThen he went off sniffing drainpipesAnd reciting the alphabetNow you would not think to look at himBut he was famous long agoFor playing the electric violinOn Desolation RowDr. Filth, he keeps his worldInside of a leather cupBut all his sexless patientsThey\'re trying to blow it upNow his nurse, some local loserShe\'s in charge of the cyanide holeAnd she also keeps the cards that read"Have Mercy on His Soul"They all play on penny whistlesYou can hear them blowIf you lean your head out far enoughFrom Desolation RowAcross the street they\'ve nailed the curtainsThey\'re getting ready for the feastThe Phantom of the OperaA perfect image of a priestThey\'re spoonfeeding CasanovaTo get him to feel more assuredThen they\'ll kill him with self-confidenceAfter poisoning him with wordsAnd the Phantom\'s shouting to skinny girls"Get Outa Here If You Don\'t KnowCasanova is just being punished for goingTo Desolation Row"Now at midnight all the agentsAnd the superhuman crewCome out and round up everyoneThat knows more than they doThen they bring them to the factoryWhere the heart-attack machineIs strapped across their shouldersAnd then the keroseneIs brought down from the castlesBy insurance men who goCheck to see that nobody is escapingTo Desolation RowPraise be to Nero\'s NeptuneThe Titanic sails at dawnAnd everybody\'s shouting"Which Side Are You On?"And Ezra Pound and T. S. EliotFighting in the captain\'s towerWhile calypso singers laugh at themAnd fishermen hold flowersBetween the windows of the seaWhere lovely mermaids flowAnd nobody has to think too muchAbout Desolation RowYes, I received your letter yesterday(About the time the door knob broke)When you asked how I was doingWas that some kind of joke?All these people that you mentionYes, I know them, they\'re quite lameI had to rearrange their facesAnd give them all another nameRight now I can\'t read too goodDon\'t send me no more letters noNot unless you mail themFrom Desolation Row.
(BOB DYLAN, 1965)
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