viernes, 27 de noviembre de 2009

A MEETING





Yes I´m the stranger stalking at the bottom of the pub
lost in my thoughts
like a fisherman´s ship in a gale
Yes I´m writing a poem in English
when my native language is that of Cervantes
I´m sorry I don´t have the same expressive power
of Seamus Heaney
or Paul Durcan
I´m trying to hunt metaphoras
with an English rifle
In Spain I used to do it straight with a knife
(Don Francisco de Quevedo´s way)
Yes I´m half drunk
but also half sober
and your tits seem to call me you eyes seem to glitter
I´m not worth that much
to be broke and almost homeless in Ireland
only improves experience
I was almost a homeless in Spain
the only point is that wine is cheaper there
but Spain is an ungrateful desert
for suicides of literature like me
You are
so lovely Have
another drink
I´m getting irremediably lost
between the waves of your blazing hair
your scent comes to me through
all the smoke and the voices and laughs
just get closer and smile and save me from
the dead diamonds of rain
strolling like sadness down the windows of my lightless past

You say I speak in an ironic way
how could I avoid it
life is basically ironic
a trap for oligophrenic foxes
a joke that goes too far too deep too fast
think of the way we are trying to survive
in this methodical hell of fucking rush hours
rush hours for working eating sleeping
having a shower having a shave having a fuck
or having a fucking boring day off
to spend money on useless rubbish we don´t need
till the clock strikes again the cursed hour
of beginning the deeply artistic licking of your boss´s arsehole
money is like a huge flood of rusty razor blades
where we all bleed and many die dry like sand
and time runs out like stout in this blessing country
and no one can avoid the final shipwreck
of grey hairs and wrinkles
and disability and oblivion and misery
an death That´s the only truth
after a whole life bound to the torture wheel
and willows never weep for anyone
except in songs

No I´m not catholic dear
I don´t care about God
God does not care about me
So we are even
If I believe in something it´s in poetry
and not in popetry
or sodomythic priests with a gold credit card
the only thing is that I can´t avoid that feeling of compassion
everytime I walk down a rainy street and see for example
a blind guitarist collecting a little handful of coins
and that feeling includes myself
when late at night I take my pen and my insomnia
in a silent room -only a dog barks in the distance
underneath the darkened veil of a skull-like moon-
and try to put in order this mess that we call poetry
to finally surrender to what´s obvious:
there´s no posiible order in this weird wonderful chaos

So you just get closer dear
somehow the touch of your skin eases sorrow
your voice sounds like a violin in flames
and the blazing wonder of your long curly hair
and the shade between your breast
are the perfect places
to hide from the dead diamonds of rain
that never stop strolling like sadness
down the windows of my lightless past

dublín, agosto de 2007

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