chloé
"listen, I told her
why don't you stick
your tongue up my ass
no, she said.
well, I said
if I stick my tongue
up your ass first
then will you stick
your tongue up my
ass?
all right, she said.
I got my head down
there and looked
around
opened a section
then my tongue
moved
forward
not there, she said
ahhahahaha
not there, that's
not the right place
you women have
more holes
than
swiss cheese
I don't want you
to do it
why?
well, then I'll
have to do it back
and then at the next
party
you'll tell people
I licked your ass
with my tongue
suppose I promise
not to tell?
you'll get drunk,
you'll
tell
o.k., I said
roll over and
I'll stick it in
the other
place
she rolled over and
I stuck my tongue
in that
other place
we were in love
we were in love
with except
what I said at
parties
and we were not
in love
with each others
ass holes
she wants me to
write a love
poem
but I think if people
can't love each others
ass holes
and farts
and shits
and terrible parts
just like they love
the good
parts
that ain't
complete love so,
as far as love goes
as far as we
have gone
this poem
will have
to do".
why don't you stick
your tongue up my ass
no, she said.
well, I said
if I stick my tongue
up your ass first
then will you stick
your tongue up my
ass?
all right, she said.
I got my head down
there and looked
around
opened a section
then my tongue
moved
forward
not there, she said
ahhahahaha
not there, that's
not the right place
you women have
more holes
than
swiss cheese
I don't want you
to do it
why?
well, then I'll
have to do it back
and then at the next
party
you'll tell people
I licked your ass
with my tongue
suppose I promise
not to tell?
you'll get drunk,
you'll
tell
o.k., I said
roll over and
I'll stick it in
the other
place
she rolled over and
I stuck my tongue
in that
other place
we were in love
we were in love
with except
what I said at
parties
and we were not
in love
with each others
ass holes
she wants me to
write a love
poem
but I think if people
can't love each others
ass holes
and farts
and shits
and terrible parts
just like they love
the good
parts
that ain't
complete love so,
as far as love goes
as far as we
have gone
this poem
will have
to do".
the best love poem I can write at the moment
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills".
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills".
alone with everybody
charles bukowski
o como alguien es capaz de recitar, y llegar a la verdad de las cosas, a su esencia, escupiendo todo arrastrado por una marea de latas de cerveza, llenas.
porque al fin y al cabo, todos somos saliva, semen, sangre, huesos y a veces no tenemos ni cerebro, aunque lo disimulemos con todo lo demás y queramos ocultarlo.
llevo cuatro días sin dormir - que yo recuerde - , el té a sustituido a la sangre, la nevera está intacta, la cama sin hacer, la habitación sin barrer, la mesa es una escenificación del kilimanjaro con rachas del k-2 en su extensión mas caótica, si ofelia volviera a nacer me envidiaría o peor, me haría una lobotomía in-situ, eso si, yo soy más calmada siempre, o al menos ahora, soy como gwendoline y campañilla pero sin alas y con vocecita calmada-calmada.
el gato se une en todas mis fiestas privadas, le encanta ver como leo sin leer, mis actos públicos tienen límite de entradas: yo, yo y yo misma, me gusta la luz tenúe, el alcohol es siempre verde o rojo, mis trajes de gala son camisones de 2€ y fumo con pitillos dorados.
supongo que dentro de algún tiempo eliminaré todas estas entradas absurdas, las escribo directamente sin releerlas, en el fondo lo hago sólo por practicar los acentos, hacía tanto que no tocaba las teclas de acentuación que ya no sabía ni que existían, en el fondo los textos decentes siguen estando en los cuadernos que apilo en las estanterías y que guardo en el bolso.
esta mañana me aburría y conté ocho.
en el fondo conoces a alguien, mucho, y de echo lo conoces como la palma de tu mano, de repente se aleja, y sabes porqué, no sabes hasta cuando, ni si se abrirá esa especie de coto de veda, porque de verdad esa persona vale la pena, esos colores que pasan a ser blancos y negros coloquiales.
en ese momento, si sabes apreciarlo, te dará la llave, que nunca devolverás, porque no debes devolverla nunca, porque en el momento que te la dan significa que te la has ganado por méritos propios al entender los dos lados del cristal-espejo, al entender los significados que entraña un mundo que no sabe que es la supervivencia entre caras que juegan a confundirse con extraños que siempre son sujetos de ser borrados. como también, por supuesto, son sujetos de ser totalmente borrados el segundo y tercer párrafo de ésta mierda de post.
1 Comments:
"(...) the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills".
truth hurts
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