para marta p.
este es el último del año
no va a haber más
se acabó
el último de un año de pasillos vacíos
huesos como esponjas
pulmones inflados
desesperación
y algo de lujuria
un año podrido
en conserva
rezumando
un año en la cloaca
al borde del abismo
con un pie fuera,
maniobra heinrich,
sangre en las pistas,
escapes,
nyc,
boca a boca
***
un año solo en la carretera,
portugal,
bajo la lluvia grandiosa,
correr entre las flores amarillas
y carretes de 35 mm caducados
un año de enfermedad,
frustración,
parálisis,
y salvavidas,
ángeles que te visitan y no sabes qué hacer,
unas manos que podrían sostenerte el tiempo suficiente,
estás seguro,
pero estás tan fuera…
un año de coches destartalados,
bañeras en pelotas,
holocausto,
y echarte de menos
la alucinación de un delirio tremendo
12 meses
de fe estúpida,
y de darse cuenta,
y de giocometti,
y la tinta negra bajo la piel
extendiéndose poco a poco,
y jack frost
y danny lyon, morrison hotel, friedlander
un año abrazado a un ordenador portátil,
y a pesadillas que vuelven,
y a secretarias en juzgados con mármol marrón en las paredes
piedra que refleja tu cara
justo en el peor momento
cuando intentas agarrar la mano a alguien en una habitación vacía
***
un año
de furgonetas y calor pegajoso
violento
compulsivo
lumbago, piercings, china
kansas city, winter haven
pescadores que vuelven con la barca llena,
apestando a tripas de mañana,
gasolineras vacías,
paradas de metro kilométricas en la noche americana
un año de apretar los dientes,
de lanzar palabras con el bolígrafo,
de diáfanos estudios en Brooklyn,
cerveza fría, hierba, viejo punk, vinilos en el village
un año,
micah p, tumbas para extraños, cocodrilos
primal scream, ukrania y marta…
y tu noche en la gran vía cuando ya no pude más
esa noche que,
sin querer,
sin tener yo mismo ni idea,
me salvaste
y alguien ,
no se aun muy bien quien,
pasó a mi lado durante 20 minutos,
entre las sirenas de los bancos,
giró su cabeza hacia mi
y no me vio
***
un año detrás de un visor,
saltando de rama en rama,
andando solo por la calle,
conciertos en el mercury,
graffitis en el andén,
y tirar la mala suerte desde el tejado de un edificio junto a las orillas del río
y quedarme con ella,
con la buena suerte,
y la condesa a punto de romper a llorar junto a mi
en ese jodido suelo plateado,
bajo la luna,
hasta los huevos del viento,
pelados de frío,
allá arriba,
sin querer movernos
un año tratando de escribir cosas como estas que
tienes entre las manos ahora,
pensando en qué coño pensarías tu ahora,
cuando lo leyeras,
y la fiesta no ha estado mal,
ya me tomé mis píldoras azul y rosa,
el champagne y los cristales rotos
***
un año. este año.
de lanzarse en plancha y romperse los dientes
de pequeños libros azules,
parís,
berlín,
y tanta distancia,
y esa bailarina vapuleada
que llora,
demasiado,
y se miente,
demasiado,
y se agacha
y oculta su cara
hebuterne,
uñas
sexo en el sofá
como un grito, una calada
***
un año
si
5:00 am
1 de enero
2011
y una niña preciosa
se me abraza al cuello
en la escurridiza oscuridad del pantano de extrarradio,
por muy capital del mundo que sea,
y me pregunta: “where do you come from?” “you truly light up the skies”
“thanks for bringing me here” “i love you”
y no sabes de qué va todo eso…
mientras la miras, apoyado en la puerta
desnuda,
y su cuerpo parece un pequeño algodón de azúcar,
y piensas que, aunque sea ahora mismo,
sólo ahora mismo,
eres un jodido hombre afortunado
por que, además tiene unas milagrosas pastillas que te ayudan a dormir,
con la nariz metida en su tierna tierna carne,
***
un año,
este,
de faldas indigo,
pendientes de perlas,
manitús,
y demasiada gente tomando demasiados medicamentos
un año de susurros
parásitos
y llamadas a larga distancia
un año. este.
comiendo galletas de la suerte
como un yonki
corriendo en jones beach
besando vicodina
un año de amigos que caen
de musas que caen
de sueños que caen
de bancos que caen
de vendedores de humo
de los idiotas que lo compran
***
un año de cámaras viejas
de risas compulsivas
de entrar en calor
de vudú y mañanas soleadas en myrtle avenue
con tu camisa y la americana desabrochada
y la corbata en el bolsillo derecho
y las almendras en el bolsillo izquierdo
y pelando un plátano a dentelladas y
los zapatos sucios,
y el puente de williamsburg levantándose como un dinosaurio
un año como una camisa de fuerza
que se despide
hoy
con un beso dulce y
un mordisco en el labio inferior
hijo de puta
justo como a mi me gusta
i feel something weird tapping at my window
is a 40th floor
and all i can get is this smell
too sweet
too mellow
making me sick
like rotten orchids
like empty wallets
a thin girl crying in a hotel room in tripoli
looking at the window
saying broken i love yous to an otherwise imaginary cell phone
and broken skulls
and dirty cheap black shoes
i feel something weird
crawling in my back, sucking the blood directly from my neck
so smoothly
i am not able to tell if it’s me remembering your kisses
or if its just another antique tactic by the night vagabonds of montparnasse
with their red painted nails
and me jumping in the sunset light of an
evening in paris
with all these stories to tell you
only if you
if you have the space between your tears
you and your teeth back again
and your colourful needles,
i can see them,
and they hurt
and i just look at you trying to find some warmth
some humanity
but all i can touch is the white dust of your last pill in my fingers
turned into little mongolian horses
yakuza tattoos
and black high heels
and iggy pop
i think you know the rest
you are just a movie star
without a gun
or a guy
or a star
or a movie,
babe
luckily enough i am here to save you
only if i had the caravan
and my tools
i have all of them and i am dying to lick some
very specific
parts of your
body
some
very specific
like your sweat drops
or your fears
and the first three cities you can think about…
… and i know i should not think about it
but i am sure
even for a second
that you have been the only one able to love me
through all this chaotic mess of tissues
and planes
and other chicks
and it smells like you again
but this time the perfume is older
something like wood
and red dirt
and chinese ink
and of course is not yours
is hers
because you are now back in your grounds
trying to hunt your stupid prey
with your feathers and glows
and your broken widows
and everything will start again
although i am leaving
turning myself into something else
because that’s is absolutely
what i do or what i never will do
so throw the dice again
mine is a six
and those black moles in the bones
are too narrow even for your tongue
and that evening in paris is all i can look at right now
wishing i could have find oscar wilde
in the corner
in that very same corner where
i wrote those lines in my wrist just to be able to remember them
before they flew away
never to come back
never
because the wind under your eyelids
is so heavy i just want to get naked and
show you my scars
and smoke this black cigarette
and sing "like a rolling stone"
just as if i were at the roof of the chelsea hotel again
and you were the great empress of rock
and lose my voice
and the opium pipes were filled with dead umbrellas
and fireflies and maybe some bob dylan black velvet boots
that evening in paris
my sweet
everlasting
tender
dream
opens up and makes me think about a baudelaire poem
or a mason drawing or the stuff that comes to my mind
when i see her naked
in an spicy dressing room
mid town manhattan
her breast looking like
the inside of an orange
something i cannot avoid but tasting
this evening in the outskirts of madrid
looking at the pink lights of the marble like cathedral
over there
and looking at this golden box
with all this stuff in it i cannot understand
with names i cannot even pronounced
with relationships i cannot even comprehend
talking in a language i am not able to hear
boosting my willing to dissect the latest records
and close my eyes
and not speak anymore
but you know that already
um?
because you were
and are
like a spark in the dark
a rope for the falling
a song for the deaf
because you were an ivory piano
in my coal hands
a bare naked soul in an overcrowded mall
because
when the fog disappears,
is just you i see
because when i am bound to sink
you are the only one near
this is for you,
the most beautiful woman on earth
because i’ve been a blind asshole
and you have cried for me
and you came looking for me
when nobody else did
because i think about you almost everyday
and i wish you did the same with me
because i know you do
because i hope you do
because i want you to know this
because i need you to know this
and feel the kisses i never gave you
and the love i never made to you
and the breakfast i did not cook you
and the films we haven’t seen together
and the places we haven’t visited
and the book i never gave you
and the words i never said to you
and the poems i never wrote
because…
you are the most beautiful woman on earth
because whenever i think about you
you warm up my chest
because i gave you almost nothing
and you give it all
because…
because i miss you so much right now
while i see the planes
and the roads, and the cars,
and the seas, and the oceans,
and the trees, and the time,
that i should cross to see you
that i should burn to get to you
you…
the most beautiful woman on earth
and i recall the empty streets of new york at dawn
and the street lamps in rome
and the ruins in my hometown
and warsaw
and the danube
and the bridges
and the songs
because…
because you are home
still
you are
even though
we almost have not met
even though you are so far away
and i am still lost
my dear
my love
because i miss you
and i wish we were in the same bed
you loving me as nobody else has
because you are
the most beautiful woman on earth
you've got a beautiful smile,
and a red plastic diamond ring that cuts like a knife,
a big warm comfortable bed
and an American car that runs about a mile and then it drops dead
but you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you ain't got everything right in your head
you have a screaming mother and a house in the fields
a bob dylan record and a dark cat that yields
but you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you ain't got everything right in your head
you've got your shiny teeth
and a cell phone that talks
and all the bankers they a-kneel
kneel down at your feet the moment you walk
but you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you ain't got everything right in your head
you have a funny ex boyfriend and some auburn hair
you like to paint me with my fist in his mouth like a Russian bear
all those flowers are dry, even though so hard you try
you say you love me but you know sometimes you lie
but you ain't got everything right in your head
but you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you got yellow daffodils and a little horse
and your father has servants that have never been told
the difference between right and gold
you are a sweet kid and a merchant of air
honey, what’s the difference between poetry and a chair?
you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you ain't got everything right in your head
You and your sweet paper like eyes and your almost pink skin
and your psychiatrists, and the Stalinist so thin
you know he loves to point his finger at your little girl lies
Oh Lord, I can’t wait until he dies
you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you ain't got everything right in your head
you got a thousand chimpanzees and a Siamese snake that sings like Skip James
if you haven’t seen him, he will set your money to flames
you have your papers and your magazines
and the sweet taste of those pills made of naphthalene
but you baby, you, ain't got everything right in your head
you ain't got everything right in your head
you have your skinny notes,
and your mathematics quotes, and a shaman that talks,
and your pale excuses and your expensive coat
but you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you already know you ain't got everything right in your head
you cry when you wake up, you cry out in style
good lord you even cry when you smile
it’s about to end this babe or you are gonna end up dry
you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you know you ain't got everything right in your head
you have your fix, you have your prick
you have your big shot, the slave you bought
you decide whether you want your fingers to be sticky or not
oh, Do I have to tell you the difference between a lover and a clock?
because babe, you ain't got everything right in your head
it was cold
and it was winter
and the snow covered the grass
like a goodbye kiss
from a moving train
it was cold
and it was winter
and she felt as lonely as a nail beneath the skin
it was dark under a yellow rose
and it was three unborn daughters ago,
i remember,
since you left
my dear love
it is winter
and my pain gets deeper with every step i take
damn this iron jim crow barrier
that hurts like a fire snake
i remember us naked in the hay bed
our skinny, teenage bodies, like a sad quick depart
your kissing my neck, my tearing apart heart,
my nails in your tender chest skin, your arms holding my breath
i remember i cried and tremble with every white little death
there were no birds
there were no flowers
there were no oranges
or ribbons
in the home we once shared
i was desperate
i remember this
i remember i felt like falling from a broken cliff
from his broken mouth
from his shattered skull
it was cold
and it was winter
and the snow covered her and the grass
like a goodbye kiss
from a crying lip
i opened the door of our little wooden house
and all the snow flakes
flew inside
like a summer breeze
and laid on my hair
and in my face
and on my pure silk dress
the naked trees looked like skeletons
a rotten smell came from i don't know where
she was so pretty
she was so pale
a crow was standing at the empty well
I can recall his eyes
his arms
the way he touched me
like a wolf’s eyetooth
like a dried up flower
but i hate myself because her face vanishes in the blue haze
it was cold and it was winter
and every word i ever said to you
aches in my finger like a wooden splinter in the summertime
it was cold and, like a worm,
i came digging from the ground
i came crashing through the storm
i came breaking all the doors
it was cold and it was winter
and the last thing I ever saw
was you asleep by that little timber
you with your beatific glow
and your paper-thin face in your brown cotton hands
easy like a killer
and i remember a single teardrop fell
somewhere over the snow
over the cold wind
over your closed eyes
over a gun
over our footsteps
and over a ring
today i feel like 37 cuts in the wrists
like a dirty magazine cover
like a burning outlaw running for his horse
a happy cow in the slaughter house
today there’s people fighting with the police in the street
and the land is begging for money
and the cold blue of this mad city’s sky is so sharp it hurts my eyes
today i feel like a drive-by shooter
a rotten diamond
like a stupid dirty pigeon
today it’s enough,
and there’s a deaf afghan with an ak47,
and the fat, dead eyed, stalinist king
is looking at his own face in the mirror
with a proud grim in his mouth
today i feel like a beaten up greyhound with silver hair,
like a fallen angel too sad to complain,
like a black ink drop from your pen about to fall,
just inches away from the paper,
inches away from that woman you are about to draw
today it’s cold,
and blurry,
and i have lost too many trains,
or too many trains have missed me,
who cares?
what’s the difference?
it is a ghost town anyway
today amy,
my dear,
my far away friend
i wish i could be with some ladies
riding in a white pontiac convertible,
my hand on the wheel,
my hand on my eyes,
her left hand in my neck,
listening to the rolling stones,
on the road,
you know what it means,
the road,
whatever road,
our kind of road
today i feel like a rotten stop sign
a melancholic hyena
a singing scarecrow
a sweet goodbyesolomon under the temple’s wall
the road amy, i told you about it already...
today amy
i have run out of life belts
life boats
life jackets
life vests
life rings
life floats
rain wear
tape
today
i hit the white walls in my room with my fist
and prepare myself for the operating theatre
lights, camera, action
today,
writing this poem is the only thing that keeps me from dying
and, at the same time, is killing me,
weird
um?
today, amy
i have the stupid idea
that i know better than ever
that you are,
quietly,
sincerely,
listening to me
while i re-read these lines,
loud,
like a mother fucker
