Резултати претраге страна 38

Zamba of the desynchronized

If I were a trobadour
like the ones who drink and invite
the roads of the lord
or of who scratches his back.
 
I'd wander over there
broadcasting all day long
what whill come from you
in a melody shape.
 
All that I say yesterday
I already said it tomorrow
I'll love you since always
and I loved you still.
 
Though I'm not a trobadour
like the ones who wandered before
through the blooming road
of not signaled lands.
 
A historian will say
that those things never happened
but I feel the freshness
of a coming past.
 
And I remember that I'll say
what they said tomorrow
I'll love you since always
and I loved you still.
 

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Slacker

I'm an imbecile, I'm half moron
I'm null, I'm a retarded
I never overcame the fool age
I have wood on the head
I don't know if you can see
the idiot face or the crappy look
though I'm also a clumsy
and if I get tired someday I turrn into a goon.
 
Slacker, Slacker
 
I'm a clodhopper, a stupid, a silly
I don't even know where I'm standing
I don't figure out anything
I'm dumb and dumber, I'm a dazed
I have an ice cream crushed in my forehead
I have detergent in my mind
I'm half dopey, and three quarters goofy
I'm stubborn, I'm an asshole
 
Slacker, Slacker
 
I'm a dimwit, I'm a dope
I'm jackass and a crackpot
I'm a slacker I'm a high rank imbecile
I'm half douchebag, a good-for-nothing
I'm a berk, I'm a simpleton
a sleepyhead who never wakes up
I'm a danger, I'm an useless
I'm half dull, I'm like a
heaven punishment, a true scourge
I'm a mess, I'm a pain
I'm way worse than a zero at the left
I'm a plague, I'm a fucking imbecile
 
Slacker, Slacker
 

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I can't live without my Movicom

Every monday morning
I get up, I put on the suit
and the tie. And though I can forget
the rest, there's one thing
I don't forget, when you see me
if you look. There's an object
that I can't stop carrying,
because I'm a social being above all.
It's impossible to have a life
that isn't sealed by the communication.
That's why I always come out with my Movicom.
That's why I always come out with my Movicom.
With my Movicom, With my Movicom,
com com com com com com com com.
 
If by the street you ever
see me walking, and you think
that maybe I'm talking all alone,
look that I'm not, that suddenly
I'm talking by Movicom.
So beware, don't disturb me.
Though it might call your attention,
the conversation isn't your issue.
Every call is expensive,
I can't spoil myself
with any interruption.
Because my Movicom bill will go up-
And I can't live without my Movicom.
Without my Movicom, without my Movicom
com com com com com com com com.
 
Formerly, all the people
if they wanted to communicate
in the distance, it was a matter
of yelling. And then came
that invention of Graham Bell.
But today all that
as for me, it no longer runs.
I was left behind like the dinosaurs.
Because nowdays,
the simple fact of talking on the phone
implies a load of agreements,
if you're not doing it through a Movicom,
assembled in China, Korea or Japan,
or with the inscription Made in Hong Kong
Hong Kong Hong Kong Hong Kong Hong Kong.
 
There ends my dear listeners
this small discourse.
For more details, I'll give you the number
that you must dial to find me,
as long as you have the warning
of being brief in your calls
and not abusing of my availability.
To harvest the conversation.
So far this month
I had to sell my stereo
and pawn my water heater.
And all that to keep my Movicom.
Nobody will take off my Movicom.
Borombombom, borombombom,
always with me my Movicom.
 

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Werner

Werner was an ignorant, immoral, morbid, sordid, liar, ugly, naughty, dirty, abominable, perverted, late, luxurious, stubborn, lazy, selfish, academic, messy, unskilled, hateable, mean, shy, idle, schemer, concieted, lewd, careless, gross, culture vulture, greedy, libertine, haughty, traitor, flirty, arrogant, proud, presumptuous, unwise, night bird, outlaw, vain, obnoxious, too full of himself, clumsy, mistrustful, cheater, swindler, malicious, tasteless, irascible, fatuous, obstinate, vicious, scornful, filthy, abstruse, rake, cruel, gossiper, vulgar, heartless, rude, misterious, boastful, balky, wicked, shameless, tightfisted, hoggish, vague, informal, picky, intractable, smug, malicious, suspicious, spoiled, stupid, nosy, swank, useless, senile, impolite, flighty, loud-mouthed, dreadful, pig-headed, unloyal, immature, despicable, ill-mannered, gullible, incompetent, insolent, betrayer, unsteady, annoying, moron, rustic, brazen, distrusting, unsociable, hostile, hurried, troublemaker, unfamous, butt kisser and foul-mouthed.
 
You're lucky, daughter, that you didn't marry him.
 

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Vertigo

When I see you,
I don't know which is the north,
I don't know which is the south,
I don't know where is the east,
and I can't distinguish the west.
 
And is because of that,
that I go anywhere
far from your love, my dear.
And then you have to come to rescue me
from the arms of any other woman.
 
Don't put that chain over me.
Don't put that chain over me.
I promise I'll orient myself,
when I'm able to look at you,
without suffering that vertigo that makes me fall in love
with any living substance
walking under the sun.
 
When I see you,
I don't know if I come or go,
I don't know if I already came.
I can't know either which is the way,
nor how to walk it nor to return.
 
Everything mixes up.
I don't know which is wiht you,
I don't know which is with who,
nor if there's something I shold know abour someone,
or if all the world is just for you.
 
When I see you, I don't know which is.
 

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Paper dreams

I dream that my bird is a hummingbird
but with fangs like a boar.
And its chant sounds like a siren
through San José and Yi.
 
I dreamed that the whole world was a mistake
and we had to pass liquid paper on it
I also dream with newspaperss printed in brown paper
to pack them better.
 
The little children who go to the kindergarden dream
that one is Sylvester and the other is Tweety.
 
The day before yesterday I dreamed I was studying english
in a book all written in japanese.
And tomorrow I'll dream I study pig latin
but backwards.
 
When in this neverland
they hear voices asking 'Is the wolf there?'
Another voice answers 'I'm not but if you miss me
you'll see me soon.'
 
The little children who go to the kindergarden dream
that one plays the bow and the other the violin.
 
And tomorrow I dream that you are yesterday,
and your grandfather is yet to be born,
though your two grandchildren bring you to the kindergarden
a Menier alfajor.
 
The autumn comes, all is of paper.
The notebooks have laurel leaves,
and their springs are curls of your black hair
dyed in pastel.
 
The little children who go to the kindergarden dream
that one is the beginning and the other is the end.
 

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All with sponsors

He got up. Alondra.
He got dressed. Calvin Klein.
He brushed. Colgate.
He took breakfast. Nestlé.
 
He got up to date. Hitachi.
He hurried. Tissot.
He shaved. Gillette.
Whistling. Polygram.
 
He worked. IBM.
He wrote. Sylvapen.
He corrected. Liquid Paper.
Couching. Lucky Strike.
 
Then he ate. McDonalds.
And got relief. Yastá.
He harmed himself. 100 Pipers.
He concealed. Chiclets.
 
He entertained. Atari.
And gained knowledge. Paidós.
He got amazed. George Lucas.
He debated. Foucalt.
 
He fell in love. Los Panchos.
He got better. Ginseng.
He perfumed. Rabanne.
And he came. Playboy.
 
He lubricated. Texaco.
Paying. Master Card.
He rubberized. Pirelli.
And he died. Peugeot.
 

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All for me

So many workers working,
giving up their lives
without ever seeing the light.
So many children begging,
or that one who's selling
in some bus.
So many families who can't
make the ends meet and prepare
their emigration plan.
Thousands of workers who work
to an unbearable beat
......and it's all for me.
 
So much misery, so much
lack of life jumping
at my sight everywhere.
So many families begging
to God because they can't
pay the rent.
So much disgrace for the poor,
who when he gets the paycheck
he can't redeem
all the bills I placed,
because what he produces
.......is all for me.
Is all for me.
Is all for me.
 
All for me.
 
So much poverty suffered
by the people who think
the want to live better.
So many increases in the prices.
Life is a trapeze
for the worker.
So much wealth produced
that never in his life
his producer will see,
because it goes to my profit
and the law gives me the right
..........to use it for myself.
 
So much packed garbage
of safe sell
by the publicity.
So many ways of disturbing
at the expense of the crude
popular innocence.
The gods who listen to my prayer
send me the outcasts
of our society
for Manos a la Obra
make a work
........just for me.
Just for me.
Just for me.
 

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Your world and mine

Your world and mine are different. Try to understand.
If it was possible to overcome the distance
I'd be running to get your love.
Your world and mine are different. You don't speak spanish.
Because you live on Mars. I live on the Earth
and we feel differently the sunbeams.
There's no water in your ground to quench my thirst.
If you want to bring, I'll be always at your mercy.
And if you come to see me in my hometown,
the science will lock you in crystal cells.
And they'll study you, and they'll stuff you,
and they'll reduce our love to yesterday memories.
 
Your world and mine are different. You shouldn't insist.
I have no hopes to get in the NASA
and I'm scared of riding a space shuttle.
Don't keep saying that there's life on Mars. You're the exception.
The rest are rocks, absolute desert
and expired volcanoes like our passion.
You can offer little oxygen.
Your atmosphere is poor. You should know it.
And thre's not a damn fleur de lis
that can improve the air of your country.
There's no living space in your native ground,
for the foundations of our matrimony bed.
 
Your sky and mine are different even by the color.
Yours is pink. Mine is blue.
Because you're the girl, I'm the boy.
Your body and mine are different by their constitution.
You can't touch me and I can't hold you.
Chemistry won't accept our union.
You world doesn't have clouds for dreaming
nor oceans where we can sail.
Only argon winds. Illusionless world.
You don't understand because the creator didn't give you a heart.
 
Your world and mine are different. If you come to my house,
some neighbours by seeing your shape,
will believe that is Spielberg who came to film.
Your body and mine aren't consistent. We will never be three.
And if I'm wrong and someday you give birth
to a son, his name will be Alien 10.
The boy won't learn anything in school.
He will eat all his schoolmates
in a flash. And he'll eat us too.
So forget me dear, this love will never have support.
 

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Superman

It's true that I learnt to defend myself in life
That if somebody ever goes against my stuff
If a burglar, if a thief puts my house in his aim
The little that God gave me, as long as it is possible
I'll safeguard it with the greatest efforts
that's the truth, but it's not enough with that
I can't believe myself more than what I am
I'm a wild, normall, common, limited, insufficient man...
 
Superman! Don't forget about me!
Superman! Don't forget about me!
Superman! What am I without you?
Remember me! I want to be always like this!
At your protection! Superman!
 
By knowing that you're here, I always sleep calm
and I can live in peace, without worrying about anything
If someday I want to take a walk at night
I can do it indeed thanks to you. Thank you!
Thank you! My only great fear, what really scares me
is the fact of thinking that you weren't there years ago
and if you leave someday, the things that could happen
Tell me that you'll stay! That you'll keep protecting us...
 
Superman! We depend on you!
Superman! We depend on you!
Superman! Give us faith! Help us!
Always defend us! We give it all for you!
God's messenger! Superman!
 
If you don't show up one day, then who would take care
of the things of my boss, who thanks to him I work
If you don't show up one day so much wealth in the world
instead of belonging to their legitimate owners
would be a prey of some unprincipled bandit
like the one who for getting bald and ugly
had to wage war on his fellow men,
How far can reach, Superman, the baldness?
 
Superman! Give me your protection!
Superman! Give me your protection!
Superman! When you're in action!
From my couch! Full of admiration!
I sing this song to you! Superman!
 

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A song written by an imbecile

A rainy afternoon, and in the living room,
a truco hand. And on the radio, my dear
a song written by an imbecile.
 
A friend talk, an old tablecloth,
a homemade cake, a tea cup,
And on the radio, my dear, a song written by an imbecile.
 
An apple pie, newspaper supplements,
a blind beat. And on the radio, my dear
a song written by an imbecile.
 
A rainy afternoon. We can't get out.
We remain at home sitting to listen
on the radio, my dear, a song written by an imbecile.
 
A boring afternoon. Too much making love.
Listening the transistor radio which plays my dear
a song written by an imbecile.
 

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Mašala

Kako si lepa, ne mogu da te se nagledam
Ti si moje sve, ne može sve da mi stane na te stranice
Nakon ovoliko pisanja moja olovka se potrošila
 
Kako si savršena , žao mi je da te dotaknem
Kako lepe oči imaš, na suncu se u lešnike pretvaraju
Gledaj gledaj, nestalo mi je vazduha
 
To nije san već život lično
Već od sada naša ljubav je veća od svih ljubavi
 
Da kažem mašala, da nas ne ureknem
Ti si vlasnica opvog srca, izjavio sam to
Da kažem mašala, da nas ne ureknem
Danas živi, a sutra sanjaj jer si ti uvek sanmom
 

It's zero

I could spend my life turning the pages,
Looking for who I am in other faces,
I could spend my life changing skins,
It's zero.
 
I could do like everyone else and close the book,
A story like ours can't survive,
I could spend my life watching my back,
It's zero.
 
I'm not backing out, I tell you that I love you,
That since you've been gone, I feel cold in my veins,
I've always been scared of bitter, colourless mornings,
And even though I survive beyond your sun,
I despise my nights, I hate my awakenings.
Your leaving hurt me like being stabbed
In the skin.
 
I could always lie to whomever wants to know,
Who wanted to leave, who lives in the dark,
But in front of my mirror, all scenarios,
Are zero.
 
I'm not backing out, I tell you that I love you,
I don't want to spend my life hiding my sadness.
I've always been scared of bitter, colourless mornings,
And even though I survive beyond your sun,
I despise my nights, I hate my awakenings.
Your leaving hurt me like being stabbed
In the skin.
 
I could spend my life writing to you on the walls,
Dying of boredom, suffering torture,
But screams of love don't bother you.
Waiting for you to come back,
It's zero.
 
I'm not backing out, I tell you that I love you,
I don't want to spend my life hiding my sadness.
I've always been scared of bitter, colourless mornings,
And even though I survive beyond your sun,
I despise my nights, I hate my awakenings.
Your leaving hurt me like being stabbed
In the skin.
 
No, I'm not backing out, I tell you that I love you,
I don't want to spend my life hiding my sadness.
I've always been scared of bitter, colourless mornings,
And even though I survive beyond your sun,
I despise my nights, I hate my awakenings.
Your leaving hurt me like being stabbed
In the skin.
 

Serenade

I will sing to you with this guitar that my grandfather
used to win the heart of who with time
would become his actual wife.
 
A serenade full of important passions
inspired in poems of the books
that you gave me to read when we met.
 
And I stand here like a moveless picketer
to dedicate you my song until you go out to the balcony
and listen to the message of my heart.
 
I know that my guitar and the strength of my singing
will ovecome the 19 floors that there are to the place
that your flat occupies in this monoblock.
 
You will listen to me. I have many things to say to you
and I chose this way of the serenade
because it looks more enjoyable than sending an email.
 
And besides, you leave them unreplied many times
maybe you don't even read them and you erase them
without suspecting they could give you a reason
 
to live in a different way
to the one you knew. Because by my side
you'd know once and for all what love is.
 
Come to the balcony. Lean on a little and you'll see
that when you listen what I have prepared
to sing to you, you won't resist it.
 
I'm here, at the foot of your building
practicing vocalizations for when you decide
to pay me attention, you understand my feelings
 
and for listening closer what finally
your heart will discover as the purest truth
you'll feel the impulse of coming to me.
 
Because it's so. When one glimpses the happiness
that was hidden, one can't contain oneself
of going the soonest as possible beside that being
 
who put light in what before was in the shadows
without passing by the gloom that in a single flash
cleared so much clarity from the dark.
 
And by listening this serenade that I'll sing to you
I'm sure that you won't hold yourself
and you'll jump from the balcony.
 
I wait for you here. I will catch you with my guitar.
Its strings are elastic and is very fine
the wood used to carve the tuning fork.
 
You can jump. I see that you took my advice,
you're coming to my arms, my dear, you're reach...Oh!
 

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Water Orchid

lailaiya lailaiya
lailaiya aaa
 
It seems like I can reach if I stretch my hand out
What should I do with my swollen heart*?
I put it** in the clouds
 
Missing you missing you
Longing becomes tears,
Hoping to wet your heart
 
Doesn't it hurt you? Is it true?
Everyday I miss and cry
Is love always this painful?
Tell me
 
In case at least my tears could reach you, I cry
 
(lailaiya lailaiya lailaiya aaa)
 
Missing you missing you
Longing becomes rain
 
Doesn't it hurt you? Is it true?
Everyday I miss and cry
Is love always this painful?
Tell me
 
Should I become tears? Should I become rain?
Will I reach your heart then?
Is love always this painful?
Tell me
 
In case at least my tears could reach you, I cry
In case at least my tears could reach you, I cry
 

Bonfire

Versions: #2
A wise man can say, wound are healed by time.
Every bonfire will burn out and die.
Wind will dispel its ashes without a trace.
But as longs as fire is carrying on and on
Every master saves it until its light is gone,
Either in disaster or in cold days.
 
If night is long they make a little fire
to save their strength and fuel at a time
Keeping in silence firewood and hearts.
But once you will find a man who’s not alike
Who doesn’t want to do like people try
He will build a fire you’ll see it from afar.
 
Not everything has come to be. Not everything is done by me.
I still can see some colours of the day.
No sorrow’s for my fire. My fate protects my way.
 
The clever and wise saved their fire best
Nobody was warmed with it but them
Nevertheless, they waited for good time.
And you were too wrong. You have no fuel now
because in an hour your fire has burned out.
But you warmed people and still you survived
 
Not everything has come to be. Not everything is done by me.
I still can see some colours of the day.
No sorrow’s for my fire. My fate protects my way.
 

Santa Bernardina del Monte

In order to save electric energy, the authorities of Santa Bernardina del Monte decreed that at twelve AM of the day twenty five to set the clocks back one hour, therefore showing the eleven PM of the day twenty four. That way the people who had to get up at seven AM on the day twenty five wouldn't have to turn on any light, because in fact it would be eight AM and the sun would be already on full activity.
When the time came -twelve AM of the day twenty five- the people of Santa Bernardina del Monte, dutiful like they were, set their clocks back one hour. Were then -or were again- eleven PM of the day twenty four. One hour later, the clocks would show again the twelve AM of the day twenty five. The people of Santa Bernardina del Monte, dutiful like they were, set their clocks back one hour. Were then again eleven PM of the day twenty four. One hour later, the clocks would show again the twelve AM of the day twenty five.
- What do I do, mom? -asked a young boy-. Should I set the clock back?
- Of course, son: we must be respectful with the decrees of the authority -replied the mother.
All the inhabitants of Santa Bernardina del Monte behaved in coherency with that precept. But an hour later the clocks would show again the twelve AM of the day twenty five. Again, the peaceful inhabitants of Santa Bernardina del Monte set their clocks back one hour. They started then to wait the passing of the sixty minutes remaining to set the clocks back again. But some were sleepy and went to sleep, not without leaving established shifts beforehand in such way that there was always someone awake at the time of setting the clock back.
On the next morning were still eleven PM of the day twenty four. One hour later were twelve AM of the day twenty five, and immediatelly after were eleven PM of the day twenty four again. The offices and the businesses were at nine hours from opening. One hour later were at eight, but in less time that a rooster needs to sing -end effectively many were doing it- they were at nine hours again.
The inhabitants of Santa Bernardina del Monte, of keeping themselves in that state, they would have perished of starvation. However very different was the cause of their death. Three days after the time change, an officer of the central government, who was passing by the town, understood the attitude of the natives like a general strike for indefinite time, and reported it to his superiors. Little after, ten thousand soldiers went with helicopters and tanks to Santa Bernardina, annihilating the insurgents. The clocks of the town, then, were left divided between two categories: the ones that damaged bythe bullets, were stuck in a time between the eleven PM and the twelve AM, and the ones that kept working freely, being capable of reaching beyond the twelve AM with nobody grabbing them by the hands to set them back. Anyway, some hours after, they by themselves were showing the eleven PM again, like if they felt nostalgia for their well-behaved owners, may them rest in peace.
 

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Romance of the orchestra and the tail pipe

The orchestra was going on a bus. They were taking the concert the had done in the city A, to offer it in the city B. Some days after they would pick it up to bring it to the city C. The woman who played depending on the cases the third clarinet, bass clarinet, or nothing, had took her head through the window and she was enjoying the wind, wich changed the hair setting. There wasn't wind, in fact, but the motion of the bus at certain speed pretended it to be. That bus had no windows that could be opened, but the clarinetist had used the red hammer that was in the middle for emergency cases and she had broken the glass and she was leaning out her head through there. She was fed up of her work. Like most of her orchestra fellows, she hated music and her biggest wish was to be able to quit that job and not devote herself to anything. The glass breaking and the fact of leaning out her hear through the window, was a symbolic mean that she had found to express her wish of leaving everything. A bassoonist who was sitting by her side leaned out his head too for the glass breaking had left enough space. But while the clarinetist was looking up to the sky, the bassoonist was looking down. He was also fed up of the orchestra and of having to study difficult passages without knowing to read music completely. Because honestly, he was only familiarized with certain usual combinations of figures. But when he came upon different sequences, he was only playing some approximation. And he played them with low volume, trying to hide behind the sound of the other instruments. But when it was a passage with nothing behind where to hide, he was feeling like giving up. And as his temperament was more self destructive than the clarinetist, he was looking down, expressing his symbolic wish of dying under the wheels of the bus. 'What are you looking at?' asked the clarinetist, anxious before the chance that he had found a scape. 'Nothing, nothing' he said, hiding his suicidal fantasy. 'What's that?' she asked, pointing at something appearing in some part of the edge of the bodywork. 'I don't know, it looks like a tail pipe' he said. 'A tail pipe, it's my chance to scape' she thought. And she jumped entirely through the window trying to reach the pipe. The bassoonist saw how she was successful in her business, being sucked by the pipe and dissapearing in its interior. Despite the noise of the engine and the wind, the bassoonist could hear some seconds later some kind of clarineted burp, which was the chosen form by the pipe for expressing its satisfaction by the ingestion made. Some of the other musicians went closer to poke around and the news was spreaded to the rest of the bus. With great jubilee, all the sections of the orchestra went going through the tail pipe. But the bassoonist didn't take courage to jump. He didn't know if that tail pipe would lead to happiness or to a sudden death. But his temperament was more like for a gradual death. He went to sit next to the driver and looking at the clouds coming together in the horizon, he said 'Crazy weather, isn't it?'
 

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Recitalis Interruptus

The recital was about to begin.
The attendant was placing the tips in his pockets.
The lights of the hall went off
and from the stage went on.
The audience applauded.
Alex Estragón made his appearence and saluted the audience
with a graceful bow.
Then he sat at the piano and began
with the 2nd prelude of Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier.
It was the first piece appearing in the leaflet
but the spectators haven't gathered
at the hall by the repertoire but for
the hight hierarchy of the player
and his international prestige.
While he was playing, it started to seem for Estragón
that there was some kind of murmur among the audience,
and didn't understand what was going on.
He imagined that maybe they sold
more tickets than what the hall capacity allowed
because he thought he heard protests.
He also thought that maybe the air conditioning was broken
and that the disturbance was for that.
He tried to focus in the music and not pay attention.
But when he began with Chopin's Heroic Polonaise,
which had more silences between some chords,
he could hear clearly that a spectator
was shouting form the stalls: 'Hey. My niece plays that.'
The pianist ignored the comment and continued,
but an old woman said: 'Yeah. My granddaughter too.
At first I didn't recognized it, but she plays this piece.'
'And how does she plays it?' Asked the one in the next seat.
'Way better than this man.' she said.
'She plays it more paused, calmer.'
'Yeah, this man is histeric' said many.
'Besides anybody can play this' said another.
'Yeah. I have the CD' said a guy.
'If I knew he would play this, I wouldn't come.
I'd stay quiet at home,
listening the CD and watching TV.'
Estragón, nervous and embarrassed, went out of scene
and asked his manager what the fuck was going on.
'Well Alex' answered the saddened manager.
'You're gonna have to change the rubric.
People don't want covers.'
 

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Return to normality

Finally it passed, it ended, the terrible terror.
The ferocius nightmare that fortunately is almost gone.
It let us wake up under a sun of new faith.
 
Finally it's broken, it's defeated, it's dead, it's over.
Or it's about to be over. It's known that it will be over.
Many people came out, it's back here.
 
Why it happened, I don't know. Some say it was
the triumph of reason, or the strength of the population.
The thing is that we meet again with a tradition.
 
Of peace, well-living, of voting from time to time
and enjoying your days without anybody saying
what is allowed to listen, see or write.
 
Finally cleared, died down this rain of horror,
downpours of authority, 'Documents, sir, where are?'
'Don't take me. I have them at home right there.'
 
I know. You'll say, 'more is needed, some things are left behind.
There are some troubles standing' But we see advances daily.
A commitee is working next home.
 
Maybe we could have in some time that they give
a solution to that issue of the old unemployment
for everyone to become part of the nation.
 
There if it's also given, by the tought struggle
or a subimperial gift, the greatest total freedom,
we could stick to the national anthem.
 
And yes. we have to hear over there that living is hard.
That the wages aren't enough neither to feed a child.
It always happened like that more or less.
 
If else, go ask the old men at the bar
if here in the fifties, the real income was high.
If the union life was just a decoration.
 
That way will rule again here in Uruguay,
what was always the normal. You might say it's not the ideal,
but we must safeguard what is traditional.
 
To ask, to achieve the supression of the expensive soap
of the state of exception, and recover the nature
of citizens not subjected to dissapearing.
 
For a natural Uruguay, where the rich will be
always rich, and the poor over there, if he ever pretends to reach
equal rights, will bring the state of exception.
 
Which, in the end, like when it's carnival,
and the murga is about to leave, it says goodbye and also,
that someday it promise to return, and rule.
 
But today, just think, that it leaves, that is almost not here.
the ferocius nightmare that fortunately is almost gone.
Though you know nobody died of almost.
 
Finally. Finally. What?
 

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I wanna see you die of natural death

-It's been a long time we know each other, we need to talk,
you look calm but I can't bear this
-Tell me what's your pain, what's your problem I'll support you,
inside certain limits I'm willing, I want to help you
-The problem is complex I don't know how to start
-Well you just did it now you need to know how to continue
-Exactly I don't know how to start that continuation
-That's easy because you have the lyrics of this song with you
-What I'll say to you is a bit incoherent
-Say it anyway
-I will say it
-I'm listening
-Well let me talk
-I let you and you don't talk
-You always cut me
-It's not intentional
-But you must silence
-I can't because of a musical reason
.Well then I'll change the music and you must listen,
what I wanted to say and that now I'll sing to you.
 
I don't wanna see you anymore, I don't wanna see you anymore, I don't wanna see you anymore,
I wanna see you again, I wanna see you again, I wanna see you again,
I don't wanna hear you, I don't wanna hear you, I don't wanna hear you,
I just want you to talk and hear the things that you'll never say,
don't say no to me, don't say no to me, don't say no to me,
always say yes to me, always say yes to me, always say yes to me,
don't say yes to me, don't say yes to me, don't say yes to me,
always say to me that you don't want me to say no to you.
 
-Indeed is a bit incoherent your baloney I didn't understand,
I wish to know in what part of the drag you involve me,
don't come with things of past times that won't return,
which by the way in their time didn't went farther from the hallway
-Your romance with Juan, your romance with Juan, your romance with Juan,
I won't tolerate it, I won't tolerate it, I won't tolerate it,
I wanna see you with Juan, I wanna see you with Juan, I wanna see you with Juan
-And I think that you should have a meeting with the psychiatrist
you cheated me with another I saw she wasn't the same girl of yesterday
-It was just a fling, I swear it won't happen again
-I don't believe you traitor!
-Believe me dear, I recognize my mistake
-It's useless, don't count on me, I hate you, you're the worst.
 
-I can't love you, you're my sister
-How do you know it?
if you weren't there when that happened between mom and those three men.
-Don't disclose her private life, nobody must know it.
-Quite the opposite dear, that private life feeds us
-I wanna see you privately
-You're my brother
-I am for real,
but here on the theater the things aren't like in the real life
-Don't pretend to do it here on the stage?
-Why you don't want?
-It's better at home in the back that nobody sees us
-That's not possible what will Radiolandia say about me
-I don't know because I have an exclusive deal with Para Ti
-There's danger, we must take care
-I know, I always did
but now I won't because I'll leave you
-Leave me, why?
-Our love is over
-I assure it isn't
-I repeat it is
-There's no need to repeat
-Yes because you're that way
-I am that for you
-You're nothing to me
-Don't say baloney
-You're the baloney
-And you're the salami
-Shut up idiot, silence is healthy
 
-I don't wanna lose you but if we fight I will win
-I don't wanna fight, I wanna see you die of natural death
-I don't want you to suffer like the horses, I'm gonna kill you
-I'm gona crush you, you'll live in the blueprint of our city
-If you weren't my sister I'd pull your hair
-You're not able
-Yes, I am
-No you're not, come on
-Yes, I am, come here and see
-We shouldn't fight, think that the show must go on
-It's true, we still have some shows to share.
-So I propose that we make a peace treaty right now
-I paid my fee of arguing for today, I don't want more
-Ok, et's rest
-Let's make peace
-I remember mom
-She always said that we don't fight
-That's true,
but on the snack time you always placed a toad in my bread
-But you strangled my best doll
-It attacked me
 
-You know it's a lie!
-Mom believed me
-You were the oldest
-That has nothing to do
-It had but it's over,
because mom is gone and she was who priviledged you always,
now we're not children and it's our work, our profession
it's fine to who knows to catch the favours of their producer.
 

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Answers to a young poet

I don't know if you know that your head is failing,
don't come telling me that thing that you're a poet.
Because I never saw you on any library,
even though I checked the files by authors,
besides of consulting with very good professors.
But it's useless, you're not neither on the restroom walls,
it means that what you write is a swindle.
 
I don't want to say to not write pretty things,
and if you like to write you don't need to give up.
But man, please, overcome that nonsense
of picturing yourself like a Moratín a Neruda, or a Darío.
If you don't go much farther from being a good scholar of mine.
To be a poet is something more than supply your thoughts,
to be a poet is that when you die they make monuments of you.
 
The true poets, when they come to life,
they bring instead of a bread, a statue built,
in the memory of the great work that is expected of them.
When you came here you didn't bring any hint
that could show that your hair is bronze.
You have no base, your pens are stolen,
and what you write will never worth anything.
 
So get out of here, take your manuscripts.
Don't disturb me, get out or I'll scream.
I have things to take care, I can't pay you attention.
This is an editorial, not a joke field.
And you're not a writer, but a simple shameless.
And what you scribble in agoraphobia nights
you can show it to your girlfriend on sundays.
 

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At Tempi Valley

At the Tempi valley, like I tell you
at the Tempi valley
the fear of the train drivers
Is an old, like I tell you
Is an old plane tree
loner and impetuous
 
It drinks from, like I tell you
it drinks from the blurry, holy water
of the river
It drinks and, like I tell you
it drinks and spreads its roots
deep into the unspeakable
 
And when, like I tell you
when it gets angry
it leans and falls into the railways
It pulls, like I tell you
it pulls the train from its ears *
(and orders the train)
'Do not go past Gevgelija' **
 
He told me, like I tell you
the Pineios river told me
this secret, babbler as he is
That (the plane tree) was, like I tell you
it was a human in the past
and he had children who went to foreign lands ***
 

Psychoanalist

Before singing the last song, I want to tell some things of a little more personal nature. I'm psychoanalist. It's a profession that I achieved once. And well. Sometimes I like to disclose a little the intimacy of my patients. At least when I consider that this could be useful to other people that allow us to learn from the other's mistakes and anyway, to grow like human beings, right? And well, I have this patient, she's called Teresita, it's been some time that she comes to me and it seems that she broke up with his boyfriend, which it makes me feel glad because that boy wasn't the right one for her. I don't say it myself, her parents were sying it too. And it's not that I was jealous because of course, in the role I carry out doesn't correspond to me that kind of feelings, right? Though I have to confess that in that level I did some progress because the last sessions I had with her we've been doing them grabbing our hands. And I think that I can make even more progress, In fact I could have made progress faster, What happens is that, well, I must take care of listening to what she says too, to work on that. I can't be thinking of the other thing all the time, right? Besides sometimes I'm wondering if I really need to make too much progress but...no, I think I need. I will do it because so many years of analysis that I did, gotta have some use for me, or not? By the way she likes it. At least for now she hasn't protested at all. I don't know if she believes that the technique is like this, or if it's by transference that she projects me things of another person that she likes or she liked, right? that I'm not really the one she likes. But well, it has to start with something. So, let's see how this keeps going, how it develops. The most important is that she keeps going, I'm insisting too much to her lately, I'm telling her that she can't interrupt, that she has to... I understand that it's getting hard because I can't charge her the same I charged her last year, right? but, no no no, but she has to make an effort because it's very important. As much for her as for me. Because I don't want to hide what I feel, I don't believe in that neutrality that the psychoanalists believed before they could hold, right? because looking at you with a poker face is not being neutral. And let's suppose that they put a nothing face, but in fact there's no such thing as a nothing face. It could be a face of not wanting to express anything, but anyway the things come to the light, because the psychoanalists aren't graduated from the Hollywood's Actors Studio to be able to perform so well. They're very naive if they believe that they don't show anything. I show it all. I show it all to Teresita and for me it has to be that way. If they want it they could fire me from the psychoanalists association, but I won't give up my principles and I won't give up what I pursue of my patients either because well, I live from that. Although there are many who are owing me more than a month. That's a problem because the more they owe me, the crazier they get and they need to see me more. So the debt is increasing. To many I had to send them the thugs to be able to charge them. But anyway, sometimes some pressure is good. About us, the technical term we use is 'shock therapy' and has a clear cost, because you have to hire specialized staff, That cost is included in the patient bill, if they don't want to cover it, we apply the therapy again to them and at the end they end up paying twice. That's why I always insist to them, I harp on them. I make them remember, I tell them 'don't delay, don't delay the payments.' But there's no point. There are some who don't understand, right? their neurosis obstructs them completely their sense of responsability, right? Even there are some who develop some kind of subject blocking. They can't talk about what they owe me. It's like a taboo. They can talk about sex for three hours suddenly, they have no limits. You gotta cut them, you gotta remind them that their time was over, but the money subject inhibits them completely. That's why we gotta work too much to be able to break that defensive shield and it isn't easy, I mean. There are some who for getting a dime from them, it's really not enough neither with beating them up. You have to resort to other measures like for example... to kidnap the mother or the father. There when you touch the Oedipus, the begin to reach. Fortunately for myself I have a commisary who supports me in this. Because when the reports of kidnappings come, he leaves them squeezed in a box because, he understands about psychology, he knows what a therapy is and how much it costs. And, well, with the percentage it costs more but what can we do. We gotta work on team to do the things in the right way. The time of individualism is over, it's gone. We gotta learn to share what one has, because if we don't learn from that, this country doesn't get any better.
 

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How embarrassing

He was a very minor poet.
He thought he was valuable
but like a professor
said to him, his poem didn't worth even
the time that a proof-reader would take to read it.
 
He was a boastful poet.
Despite of being sentimental,
instead of the heart
his most accomplished poem only reached to the pancreas
or luckily a little upper, to the sternum.
 
He was a disastrous poet.
My grandmother in her free time
wrote better than him.
 
He wasn't an ordinary poet
because the comparision
between his work with a million
of the most mediocre works of his time,
would make him look bad or leave him grounded in a corner.
 
He was an inept, a retard.
His poetry wasn't such
because it was all bad.
He couldn't stick a word and if the horses pardon me
he wrote in the style like an untamed.
 
He was a terrible,
stupid, philistine, propagandist,
copycat, sappy and dumb poet.
 
When they pushed the button
and came the chain reaction
that a neutron expanded
all over the planet, there wan't left any poem
of the greatest writers of the civilization.
 
Our poet died,
and look what happened:
his poetry was safe.
And it was the only thing that from our culture
have rescued the aliens when they visited the region.
 
And in libraries of distant galaxies,
the only thing that is from us is his work.
 

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The black sheeps can have gray hair

Help me doctor, if you can please.
I'm getting saner, I'm getting worse everyday.
Now everything around is like a big sleepiness.
Help me to get out of this shock, this horror.
My greatest fear, my greatest danger
is that my life becomes a Knorr Suiza broth cube.
 
I can't believe the things I did yesterday.
First I went to the workplace that has me very irritated.
Then I went eating. And later when I came
home, I watched TV wth my wife.
Doctor, I feel sick. It's anti natural.
Little by little I'm becoming like the normal people.
I sense a brutal vertical falling.
I don't know if it's a stomach problem.
I don't know if it's temporary, if the process is gradual.
I don't know if I have cure not if it will create habit.
 
Doctor, what can I do? I don't want to suffer
this disease that crushes me and wants me to become
a knitting needle, and wants to make me
follow the weave in a crochet that I want to break.
I don't know what happened to me. Explain me doctor.
I was a black sheep and now look at my color.
I look like a power sugar alfajor, or better
a puddle of that thing called liquid paper.
And if there's a stain in my weak illusion
it's only by the effect of the carbon paper.
 
Help me doctor, if you can please.
I'm getting saner, I'm getting worse everyday.
Now everything around is like a big sleepiness.
I feel myself driven by a sewer pipe.
And what is worse, the place is tempting.
So please, help me.
No. Don't. I don't care. I'm fine like this.
I pay the consultation and well,
I'll come another day on any case. Bye.
 

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Problem

If we start of from the sure base
that to the monday always follows the tuesday
and that after the wednesday gives twenty four hours
including all the minutes, the seconds
and the quarters one after another,
and bearing in mind that theorem that holds,
that after the thursday comes the friday,
and that days ago the wednesday yielded to the thursday,
and that the saturday isn't anything
but an evil continuation of the friday
that sometimes ends in sunday,
transforming suddenly into monday,
then in tuesday, wednesday, thursday,
friday, saturday, sunday and monday,
tuesday, wednesday, thursday and friday,
and after in saturday and sunday
without ever skipping any monday,
nor a tuesday, wednesday, and maybe
stretching the thursday to a friday,
the saturday yearning for a sunday
destroyed by a sure monday,
invincible and hard like a tuesday,
like an unyielding wednesday
buried under a robust thursday
dead at the foot of a friday morning
that at night an expected saturday replaced,
but for few hours,
until the sunday became monday,
the one that became tuesday,
tuesday to wednesday, thursday and friday,
then saturday, sunday and monday,
if we start of from the sure base,
of what color is death?
 

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Time issue

Emm. Tell me. Can I ask you something?
Yes, of course.
In fact it's not a question. It's something I have to tell you.
Well, tell me. I listen.
Bah, to read to you in fact. Well, look. This is the issue. I feel like kissing you. Can I kiss you?
No.
How do you know?
How do I know what?
How do you know that I can't kiss you.
Well, you can. But I don't want you to do it.
No, why?
Because it's too soon.
Ah, eh. So, I'm not indifferent to you?
No, of course not.
And you don't hate me either?
Hating you? Not at all.
So I can kiss you.
No. I said no.
Why?
I told you, it's too soon.
But you don't love me?
Well, I don't know. It's not something one can say lightly.
I don't say it lightly, I'm talking to you seriously.
I know, but you gotta give time to these things.
You might be right.
What happens is that I find hard to contract my feelings.
What feelings?
I already told them.
No, you didn't.
It's true, I didn't. Well, look. Are feelings of kissing you.
Ah.
Will you let me?
No.
Why? Because it's too soon?
Yes. It isn't the moment for that yet.
And for what is a good moment?
For talking.
About what?
Oh, I don't know. Chatting. Exchanging ideas.
And after?
After what?
The ideas.
I don't know. We'll see.
Why? It will be too soon too?
Possibly.
Well. But in some moment it will not be soon.
Yeah, I suppose.
Well. What difference is between that moment and now?
A time difference.
Yeah. But since the first time you said that it was too soon, a lot of time passed, I guess.
Yeah, but if it's soon, wait some more.
How much approximately?
I don't know. Love can't be timed.
Ah, so you feel love?
I don't know. I still don't have it clear.
If we kiss, you could clear yourself up.
We had talked about that. Aren't enough the reasons I gave you?
Which? The ones that it's still too soon?
Yeah.
What happens is that that reason doesn't hold for a long time. As time goes by, it loses validity.
Well. Then I will give you another reason.
Which?
That it's too late.
 

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Persist and you'll succeed (1996)

I passed by your house yesterday
and I saw you sunbathing
eating hot dogs with mustard
with a glass of BOLS gin
and by seeing the apperitif
and by seeing you too
instead of having appetite
I lost it
So I went looking
for some Bach flowers.
But at the flower shop they said
'Sorry, I have none left.'
 
I passed by your house yesterday
to sing a song to you
you were at the balcony
and I sang it with the heart
and when I remember this
I feel like crying
you were with the walkman
playing the radio at full volume
So I thought DON'T THINK
that I'll get desperate
Tomorrow I'll come with a microphone
and an 800 watts power.
 
I passed by your house yesterday
and I glanced at you
next to the window
with a pretty nightgown
I went to buy a pajama
of that same color
and the Colon shops
were already closed.
So I went all over
from the Centro to Peñarol
and the only thing I saw was a weird man
who was wearing a baby doll.
 
I passed by your house yesterday
and I brought in a folder
my philately collection
in case they called your attention
but you weren't interested
about the Canada stamps
neither the Dominican
neither the Madagascar ones.
So I said to myself MAN
IS JUST A MATTER OF THRESH
with some perseverance
you'll find
someone who will buy them.
 

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Neurasthenic poet

Your skin is the region where old indescribable farmers harvested the substance of the purest sensual love.
 
The peace of your look is the funeral prayer that protects our souls from the perpetual misunderstanding of which cannot scape neither the most accurate words that we can find when we want to express what we feel.
 
Your voice is the harmony that modulates with its lasting charm the perfect agreement of life with time, which is governed by the beat of your walking, which is like a pendulum that rocks the swingings of the suspended hours in the tireless magic of the convulsive whirlwind in which I dance madly since I met you.
 
Your mind is the hideout in which live the liberated ideas from the hustle and bustle of successive exchanges in already past debates and symposiums, where were refuted the turbulent principles that backed them.
 
Your spirit is the essence that beats in the eternal transformation that wraps all the energy of the life underneath the dusty corners of the store in which I keep the pieces of the furnitures that could resist heroically our yesterday quarrel.
 
Your hands are the pulses of the beat in which passes the existance, blessed by the Holy Providence that was placed before me the morning when I took you out of the mud of the brook where you were splashing.
 
Your eyes are three doors that each of them lead to the Eternal Fire of the breath of a dragon chained to a bed leg at the bachelor flat of a corrupt diplomat.
 
Your face is the immeasurable mirror that calms and distributes with peacful parity all the lights refracted on the callus that are made in the cracked scabs of your skin because of that trashy make-up with which you plaster on.
 
Your lips are a bridge between the light and the frightening darkness, which I drag in my caothic wandering through a desert in which crowd around the ghosts of outdated mirages, turned into threads of an immaterial cloth where is hidden on every point of its effervescent weave a thought living on it since those long nights we spent, trying together to open that attached file in which came the serial number missing in the pirate CD that we bought with all the desires, the illusion and the hopes of playing Súper Mario.
 

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Perfumes

Perfume of artificial flowers she had
kept in a bottle
of smoke coming from
her dreams of wood stove.
Dresses made with flowery fabric
all alike
and the pattern
was of artificial flowers
that looked so natural.
Perfume of artificial flowers
taken from genealogic trees
and floors of three air-conditioned environments.
Bottled perfumes
in secretive and dark cells
in secretive and dark cells
built by old priests.
 
Words of perfumed senses she said
and always repeated them
looking for some truth
that she had lived in them.
Words that like flower arrangements
of funerals
were the soul
of many acclaimed rituals
celebrated in her manners.
Perfume of grammatical flowers,
scent of wallpapers painted
with flowers on the walls of an old office.
Perfumes of funeral
I felt when she said goodbye
I felt when she said goodbye
saying that she didn't want flowers.
 

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Not by the force

Once upon a time there was a country where the workers and the employees were earning very low wages, the youngs couldn't get a job and had to emigrate, the rents were way over what the people could afford, the retirement pays weren't enough for anything and besides they had to beg for them doing hours and hours of lines before the cash register, to later lose them at the hands of thieves who in turn did line to wait for the old men who came out of earning.
 
One day, that country, whose government had been elected democratically, fell under the responsability of a dictatorship which forced the workers and the employees to earn very low wages, prevented the youngs from getting a job, forcing them to emigrate, imposed rents that were way over what the people could afford, and retirement pays that weren't enough for anything, and which besides had to be begged doing hours and hours of lines before the cash register, to later be snatcheedd from the hands of their owners by thieves who in turn did line to wait for the old men who came out of earning.
 
But the population of that country opposed a strong resistance to the de facto government, ending defeating the dictators, and making very clear to them that, if it was a matter of living poorly, they had to do it by own will, and not because some bunch of captains felt like it.
 
So, after the democratinc restoration was conquered, and over the ruins left by the dictatorship, our heroes focused meticulous and thoroughly in the construction of a country where the workers and the employees earn very low wages, the youngs can't get a job and have to emigrate, the rents are way over what the people can afford, the retirement pays aren't enough for anything and besides they have to beg for them doing hours and hours of lines before the cash register, to later lose them at the hands of thieves who in turn did line to wait for the old men who came out of earning.
 

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