Deseando mejores aires

me pregunto hoy que putas se cocinó
mientras de una sala a otra
mientras de una mano a otra
pasaba mi corazón hervido en los calderos y fierros del demonio.

me pregunto de qué material estará forjado
mi verdadero sueño
que estoy perido y caigo sin parar todos los días
y me tengo que morder por dentro la ira
de penetrar el cielo y a dos partes sembrar de luces y pieles
todo lo que me rodea.

me pregunto cuándo me darán permiso de volar nuevamente para andar sobre las cabezas…
me pregunto cuándo me amarán adecuadamente las personas que quiero que me amen
con las rajas en el alma
con los dedos augustos
con los hombros recargados
y la panza de bicentenario: como los fantasmas de los imperios malditos budistas.

Reventado, vivo reventado, estoy esperando las manoas amables que me carguen y ya ves, las manos no puedo esperarlas más, porque no me queda nada más, no me queda nuevo, no me queda una raazón para creer o esperar… cuando no estoy haciendo eso, cuando no estoy moviendo las pilas, lo pilares del cielo, la vida no vale la pena sonreírla ni abrazarla.

Quisiera poder dejar ir cosas, quisiera poder creer de nuevo, quisiera no sentir en el alma la basura que siento…

¿se dará?

Después de jurarme a mí mismo la fidelidad y el vaciamiento, de mi autoexilio…

¿podré volver a ser libre?


Fuoco ametista in essere

“And you try so hard/ Earnest in glory and fire/ To supress the highest urges/And to lead the mightiest of dancers/ But all in all and for what is worth/There isn’t yet a single trace of gold/ inside your own soul.
Lullabies ringing and a strange path ahead/you’re just a boy that wants /what he will never touch or get”.

And you smile so hard
wishing to forget
the pain and the sorrow
that always scratches you away:
deep inside the night,
where no soul can heal you and no lips can touch you
you cry in despair
for the cold stab that left you hollow
remains unforgiven and too real to bare:
you’re just a boy that wants
what he will neither be able to touch or get.

You wish you could scream it
so the world would break into little pieces,
you wish someone would care
about the pain inside your non-forgivenes.
Alas, maybe it’s too common,
maybe it’s not so rare,
maybe a reversal Oedipal complex tatooed on your own skin
is something you don’t have the option to forget.
You wish someone would see it
and bring along the way
a bottle of healing oil and a rag of cloth to tie your neck
until it’s fully healed
and you can live and love again:
you’re just a boy that wants what he will never touch or get.

You only ask one thing -over and over, why?
Why must I be denied?
Why mustn’t I be able to defend?
Why can’t I construct myself, how can I be whole again?

And the sound is defeaning (can you hear it too)
and the rumble is too low and deep to ignore:
an icy grip reaches out from the darkness
and kills any hope and any dream…
for silence is the final and only answer that life has given you
even though you’d like to forget.

‘Sweet Jehova’, you think out/inside,
‘let me be and let me forget,
allow me to cry and despair freely,
allow me to touch which I can create…
my soul is crying, for it hasn’t seen the open skies
since the time I was a toddler and I’ve never been free again’.

‘And even if I surrended myself
to the ground
and putted my torn self to forget,
how can I be free if the pain keeps on feeding on me,
how can I be something worth of living, of loving, of caressing, of taking care?

I cry like a fool, I wish to remember,
the day I said the curse that set me on this path nowadays…’

So you think of her beautiful answer, her tiny lips, her joyous nature and her laughter again. The mellow brass of her voice against the air.

And even if it’s a lie which you can summon on your head, you are like a big animal waiting for a move that will make you once whole and again… a wounded wolf, a tied elephant… a dumb looking stag.

You don’t know if you’re coming or going, but right now, you only wish you knew how to touch it… and feel complete…