Camiños, V

(

está escrito en pedra

o amor é

unha espiral

unha agulla

unha porta á eternidade

unha bágoa furtiva

unha folla na que guindarse

e ti e eu fugacidade

coma lapa

consumíndose na escuridade

)

  

Lou reed - It was a pleasure then

it was a pleasure then

Could you just be here again

To know what there was to see

When all the Sunday people

Were so quiet in the dark

Afraid to be better the next day

La la la ...

It was a pleasure then

When we could sit and stare again

Until the stars fell through the cloudy trees

Onto the grass

Stars to smile with us

Until they too had tears in their eyes

Tell us this and tell of how much we must not agree

It was a pleasure then

To see the dyiing days again

In the horror of the night

Never, never, never, never, never, lise

Keep it secret

For to hide somewhere at last

As long as we could see

The sky confessed this crime

Of futile tasting hate romance

Above our shattered minds

It was a pleasure, It was a pleasure

La la la ...

The velvet underground & Nico - It was a pleasure then

La mala literatura - km.

Parábola del árbol y el gato

Charles Bukowski - Dinosauria, we

elexía. Liberdade

na noite fría dos que sofren nos soños

nos soños profundos dos fogares baleiros

nos fogares profundos das noites sen repouso

dende o tempo escuro do acalado momento

escoito os mortos daquel tempo

escoito os nenos daquel tempo

tentando burlar con pantasmais supervivencias

á morte que axexa tras o noso silencio

berrando dende aquela o teu nome

dende aquela o teu nome

co berro libertario dos que non teñen nome

non nome

sacado de semente que non dá máis semente

non nome

nin morte do verso que os faga sobrevivir

Ama Morriña

E Pessoa mergullouse aló pra decatarse

E dixo aquele peso en mim -  meu coração

E Lois Pereiro mergullouse aló tamén pra decatarse

E dixo amarte, vida, amarte case sempre

Castel(a)os derrubados e trobadores no desterro

Proclamas de paus na auga que amosan revoltas

Fillo, fillo,

Xa nada se pode facer por nós en troques

Rosalía nai morriña

Semente que non dá semente

Temores de cego cantigas de amigo pobriños dos nenos

Xulgados polo sorriso seguro tras do cigarro e os cartos

Mortos nos mortos cos mortos nós mortos

Aínda algúns hai que percuran nas ondas nas noites festivas

Nas ondas de radio nas ondas do mar

Esas nídias brisas esa quente caricia

Ou non.

Coñecemento é sobre libertade e responsabilidade

Saudade da lenda saudade da beleza

Da fenda limpa de diamante ou riso dun minuto

Arrepíos no ferro e ronseis varados

O arrecendo a herba e alga e chuvia esquencerase

Soldados de cuspe lanzados ás nosas bocas abertas

Presente a construirse que ollarán como pasado

Contrapunto e metalinguaxe

O esplendor perante o abismo no soto cos puños en alto

E Manoel Antonio embarcou na alba para mergullarse tamén

Ventre de peixe espada de aluminio luar como a tua pel hai uns días

E Rosalía nai morriña saloucando aló baixo os salgueiros en flor

Charles Bukowski - The man with the beautiful eyes

Robert Creeley - The language

La mala literatura - La fuerza que nos une

Hadda Been Playing On The Jukebox

(Written by allen ginsberg)

It had to be flashin' like the daily double

it had to be playin' on tvit had to be loud mouthed on the comedy hour

it had to be announced over loud speakers

The cia and mafia are in cahoots

It had to be said in old ladies' language

it had to be said in american headlines

Kennedy stretched and smiled and got double crossed by lowlife goons and agents

Rich bankers with criminal connections

Dope pushers in cia working with dope pushers from cuba working with a big time

syndicate from tampa, florida

And it had to be said with a big mouth

It had to be moaned over factory foghorns

it had to be chattered on car radio news broadcasts

it had to be screamed in the kitchen

it had to be yelled in the basement where uncles were fighting

It had to be howled on the streets by newsboys to bus conductors

it had to be foghorned into new york harbor

it had to echo onto hard hats

it had to turn up the volume in university ballrooms

It had to be written in library books, footnoted

it had to be in the headlines of the times and the mind

it had to be barked on tv

it had to be heard in alleys through ballroom doors

It had to be played on wire services

it had to be bells ringing

comedians stopped dead in the middle of a joke in las vegas

It had to be fbi chief j. edgar hoover and frank costello syndicate

mouthpiece meeting in central park, new york weekends,

reported time magazine

It had to be the mafia and the cia together starting war on cuba,

bay of pigs and poison assassination headlines

It had to be dope cops in the mafia

who sold all their heroin in america

It had to be the fbi and organized crime working together

in cahoots against the commies

It had to be ringing on multinational cash registers

world-wide laundry for organized criminal money

It had to be the cia and the mafia and the fbi together

they were bigger than nixon

and they were bigger that war

It had to be a large room full of murder

it had to be a mounted ass- a solid mass of rage

a red hot pen

a scream in the back of the throat

It had to be a kid that can breathe

it had to be in rockefellers' mouth

it had to be central intelligence, the family, allofthis, the agency mafia

it had to be organized crime

One big set of gangs working together in cahoots

Hitmen

murderers everywhere

The secret

the drunk

the brutal

the dirty rich

On top of a slag heap of prisons

industrial cancer

plutonium smog

garbage cities

Grandmas' bed soft from fathers' resentment

It had to be the rulers

they wanted law and order

and they got rich on wanting protection for the status quo

They wanted junkies

they wanted attica

they wanted kent state

they wanted war in indochina

It had to be the cia and the mafia and the fbi

Multinational capitalists

strong armed squads

private detective agencies for the rich 

and their armies and navies and their air force bombing planes

It had to be capitalism

the vortex of this rage

this competition

man to man

The horses head in a capitalists' bed

the cuban turf

it rumbles in hitmen 

and gang wars across oceans

Bombing cambodia settled the score when soviet pilots

manned egyptian fighter planes

Chiles' red democracy

bumped off with white house pots and pans

A warning to mediterranean governments

The secret police have been embraced for decades

The nkpd and cia keep each other's secrets

the ogbu and dia never hit their own

the kgb and the fbi are one mind

Brute force and full of money

brute force, world-wide, and full of money

brute force, world-wide, and full of money

brute force, world-wide, and full of money

brute force, world-wide, and full of money

It had to be rich and it had to be powerful

they had to murder in indonesia 500000

they had to murder in indochina 2000000

they had to murder in czechoslovakia

they had to murder in chile

they had to murder in russia

And they had to murder in america

Rage against the machine - Hadda been playin' on the jukebox

querido michi...

T. S. Eliot - the love song of Alfred J. Prufrock

T. S. Eliot - The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

   Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

   In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

   The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

   And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

   In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

   And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair -
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin - 
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

   For I have known them all already, known them all -
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
   So how should I presume?

   And I have known the eyes already, known them all -
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
   And how should I presume?

   And I have known the arms already, known them all -
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
   And should I then presume?
   And how should I begin?

   Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

   I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

   And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

   And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all" -
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
   Should say: "That is not what I meant at all."
   That is not it, at all.

   And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor - 
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
   "That is not it at all,
   That is not what I meant, at all."

   No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -
Almost, at times, the Fool.

   I grow old ... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

   Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

   I do not think that they will sing to me.

   I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.