THE NOISE OF SILENCE

Este es un poema que estoy escribiendo a este lado del oceano.

Me sale en ingles aunque no tengo mucha idea y estara todo lleno de fallos (Juan Pi, Elia, Silvias, Patty, os invito a corregirme... o no, porque llevara una eternidad...). Bueno. El caso es que asi surgio expresarme ahora. No se por que. Lo voy ampliando y medio corrigiendo poco a poco. Esta es la version 2 y ya tiene titulo. EL RUIDO DEL SILENCIO.

THE NOISE OF SILENCE

XPired Windows' age of undoing in Madrid -love hate the second also XPiring,

ring!

The bar tender's name is Lucy.

Pennis meditates.

mind open wide as your legs exciting web-cams

somebody's singing from 40 years old record's sources,

the bar is empty as anger,

air is kinda' bitter blossom in the other side of that ocean of us: Conjunction

People are happy masks of consumption

unless they're 'wrong' black masks of consumption

Misticism is "not getting angry waiting for Sacramento's public transport".

There's a firmly vocation of love in that

unless you're on drugs like that lady Unhappy 

angry with her childrens being angry with their mother

It takes as long to get to K. street as if you were in Prague

Europe

(Franz writing his last visionary unfinished novel: America:

getting to an end is our bitter duty)

Europe

Just elsewhere

Europe: 

that place overseas quoted as a fancy country making succeed Woody Allen or Charles Bukowski

while even Spain will never be that of a country

burocrazy, paperwork is twentyfirst century's kind of kafkian feeling

The world is more espherical than ever

I'll do my best, Mr. K.

I'm just processing

Think of you every day

Tramway's late

and it is very cold in this irrigated desert

I'll forget about Saint Jhon of the Cross and start shoutin'

Nevertheless

when I get home 

I'll call you just to say I love 

you

while Madrid sun of yours meant to be mine too

is just risin'

and in Davis, California, it's just raining glue 

and there's a cloud in San Francisco baptized with my name Confusion

chasing the sun with that  "being bothered" look

just for being alone...

as if one had more than one body and space were somewhere meant to be filled,

as if time was a kind of conclusion that makes it disappear

and me,

an european being convinced of the lapidary truth of the last three verses,

convinced of the fact that love is the house of you, of all you's ever

and not this body, any body-project-of-corpse a house of the ever existing life,

or love,

or thuth,

or just what I'm trying with this faked noise of silence

It's a matter of comunication.

I would erase the whole Trinity from heaven just making love with 

you 

during an eternal second

my you

your you

Comunication

everybodies' you

A leave fall from my "in front of my home platano tree"

as you step on that very leave

in Madrid's pavement

This sounds kinda'llelluya.

We're toghether---

unless we're not----

in this planet tiny as the eye of my webcam

with that "love each other" way of funny looking

Your eyes are the eyes

and not that shitty web-cam annus.

Anyway.

Nevermind:

you always said you had a shit look.

Somebody is singing from 40 years old record's sources

and she seems to be closer

than you.

My you.

There is a cloud in San Francisco chasing the sun

and projecting it's shadow on the ground in Davis, California

it's been raining glue .

My hands are ready to stick with you the next neverending instant.