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.
