Noches suecas

Alexandra Dahlström y Rebecka Liljeberg en
Fucking Ämäl (Descurbriendo el amor), una película
de Lukas Moodysson.

2da. parte.

Estás caminando
a un costado de tu empatía.
Sobre la línea, la fina línea
entre tu estupidez
y la grandeza.
¿O simplemente querés quemar rápido tu cuerpo?,
para saber si al final era todo un sueño.
Y estás convencida
de que tu vida pide esos golpes.
Y tus amigos,
uno a uno,
se olvidan tu nombre.
Es que es tan triste verte destruir lo que te rodea
para creer que realmente tenés problemas.

Y si no me costara tanto
admitir que eso me tiene… excitado…
… no estaría,

siguiendo tus pasos,
sobre tu espalda,
rogando que caigas
sobre mis brazos.
Desando ser…
lo que no es
(desfigurándome).

¿Estás consciente? ¿O inconsciente?
¿Estás soñando?
¡¿Qué estás soñando?!
Y me tortura saber que sería tan fácil…
… robarte un beso, ahí acostada;
saquear tu cuerpo,
¡volverte loca!,
sentir lo que ella siente
cuando te toca…

… Es asombroso,
y algo triste ver
que aún te estás divirtiendo.
¡¿Nadie te lo avisó?!
La fiesta terminó,
¡la fiesta terminó hace tiempo!
_____________________
1ra. parte.

Estás preciosa, querida...
 ... pero nadie te espera.
Tus noches son un llanto
mientras ella se desvela...

... Estás ansiosa, angelito;
la vida te espera.
No hay escaleras al cielo
donde las calles son de tierra.

¿Qué tenés mal en la cabeza,
que me envenena?
¿Para qué vivir corriendo?,
si todo está tan cerca.

Sos caprichosa, preciosa,
y fatalmente aburrida.
No hay mucho en tus excesos,
sólo la muerte... ¡bienvenida!

Estás loca, angelito...
... lamiendo los problemas.
Te esforzás tanto en ser distinta.
Será, será... ¡así es la vida!

¿Quén andás buscando en esos juegos,
que nadie sabe jugar?
¿A dónde llevás tu deseo?
¿¡No nos vas a invitar?!

Ambas partes fueron compuestas inspiradas en
la película mencionada arriba.

To C... (parte 1)

Creo que el arte es el lenguaje que trata expresar la obsesión
de un artista por la belleza.

Este es mi más auténtico intento por encontrar las palabras
para describir esa obsesión.

-Todavía no estoy seguro de la razón por la que comencé a escribirla en inglés-.

1. Midnight dreams around your absence

A painful number of poems,
all over the floor.
An endless number of words... roaming
around your memory.
Ten years, maybe... more... don´t know...
... and still I can´t choose a reason why I can´t stop
    thinking about you.
Why does everything get lost
    between the shadows of your moods
that my mind can´t trace;
in your watery eyes, dragging my will to drown.
The terrifying feeling of knowing something´s already lost,
the misleading fact of being so close... so far from you,
the blues of a teenage fever...
... the stranged sensation
    of watching the death of the child I once was
in a blink of your green eyes;
the untouched memory of a few glances.
Me, undressing you.
You, thinking about someone older than me,
or maybe your father.

A shameful number of songs
That I hope –with a little more faith
    in my luck than in my brightness–
they can speak, in a few hundred of melodies,
what my words can´t.

I put your name to everything I ever owned
like a desperate call you never answered.
Poor thing. So... I try to hurt you then
with an endless number of thoughts... thoughts of lust
roaming around your body,
going into your head, stretching my senses
till I can shake yours...

... You were the impulse of all my fantasies,
you are the moment when my soul breathes,
you are the despair that waits for me,
    patiently, every single night,
even though I try not to think about you...
... I still look for you in every woman I see.
Some cold kindness.
I offer to her, in the most sincerely faked way, everything
you never expected from anyone:
someone who would understand you,
who would embrace you,
a father for your children... the one you never had.
But I can´t help it.
I close my eyes and you´re there
and I need to let these thoughts slip away again,
so I save your memory for another less shallow moment.

To C... (parte 2)

2. Whenever you want (delirium)

I will stand at your door,
    when you have already forgot I ever existed,
holding the keys of a castle
    –wherever you want it–;
a golden carpet waiting for you at the hall,
a wedding dress that you´ll never have the kindness to wear,
laying in the saloon floor, just like me...
... dying to live.
A violet´s garden ´cause, you know, you love roses.
No more reasons than that...
... just to drive you mad every once in a while.
And I´ll leave traces for the way to the bedroom
    with all the gifts I once promissed to you
    but they never reached you.
A cold bed.
Dust between the sheets; cobwebs in the ceiling
and in my head...
... It´s all ours, whenever you want it.

And I want to loose it all,
just because of my obstination.
To proove your mother even so I deserve you.
    Then I´ll ask you to simply drop your finger
    somewhere in the map
and that´ll be where our empire will raise again.
And never more you will have to cook for those crows
that would happily swallow, without even tasting it,
a piece of fat if you´d
put a price to it that they know they can´t afford.
Golden plates wait for you, for your best dish,
that you will throw with lovely anger to my head...
... however you want... whenever you want it
I´ll stop by the bar
and I´ll make a toast to you, to see you blushing
and a toast for the fortune we have lost, for one last time,
before you kick me out through the back door.

To C... (parte 3)

3. The desolating image of a man

The desolating image of a man eating alone,
reading alone,
walking alone, from one side to another of his house,
crawling through the walls,
trying to stand for himself...
... falling asleep alone;
picturing someone sitting in the chair that´s beside him,
knowing that her face is real
–it exists somewhere else, away from him–,
that her face, in that instant, is a fraction of another reality...
... that is the saddest image one can ever see.

I try to think about something abstract,
something rethorical, ethereal...
... as my only shield
    against the menace of another misogynist
    mind game I play to myself.
My brain is a blur,
you are on the other side of the bed
whispering something to your girlfriend´s ears.
Then I start to think that,
    at this moment,
there must be nothing more abstract than your presence.

I want to ask if you would like to marry me.
I just want our children to be as beautiful as you are.
You know, life is short.
There´s no need to answer.
You don´t have to sign anywhere...
... it´s just a word anyway.
The tip is my confession.
A little too many words jealously arranged,
the guarantee that everything that´s good in me
    belongs to you,
the scientific evidence that I´m just an effect of your cause,
the unavoidable truth that you are the pulse
    of every move I make,
a few words that I will treasure
to pray them to your soul...
(whenever you want it).

To C... (parte 4)

4. When memories learn to remember

In that pool table there´s a girl who looks just like you
and she wears the same clothes you used to wear
since I can recall.
I just can´t go over there and ask her...
... “Do you know her at least?”, I mean... don´t know.
I sink my nose into the glass of beer
and then I walk into the “ristorante” where you´re working now.
I get closer to the chase-bar and ask for a coffee,
with more milk than coffee... “and chuker please”.
“Anything else?”, says the waiter like if he was challenging me.
“Yes, in deed”, I speak, “I want that girl
    in the back of the kitchen bring it to me...
... the blond girl, with green eyes... watery green eyes.
Look, if they get sadder, heaven will cry.
And her smile will take your sleep for weeks.
The blond girl that, when we were children,
used to wear some blue jeans that drove me nuts.
She used to win every game we played.
She has the same name that all my problems... and all their solutions,
Her name is C... Ask her if you don´t believe me!
If she doesn´t bring it to me, I won´t pay for it.
And if you want to kick me out, well do it...
... but let her do it.
She loves it”.

A day in the life

Un gran tema de The Beatles,
compuesto por John Lennon y Paul McCartney.

I read the news today, oh boy,
about a lucky man who made the grade.
And though the news was rather sad,
well, I just had to laugh;
I saw the photograph.

He blew his mind out in a car,
he didn't notice that the lights had changed.
A crowd of people stood and stared.
They'd seen his face before.
Nobody was really sure if he was from the House of Lords.

I saw a film today, oh boy,
the English Army had just won the war.
A crowd of people turned away
but I just had to look,
having read the book... I'd love to turn you on...

Woke up, fell out of bed,
dragged a comb across my head.
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
and looking up I noticed I was late.

Found my coat and grabbed my hat,
made the bus in seconds flat.
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke,
and somebody spoke and I went into a dream...

I read the news today, oh boy.
Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire.
And though the holes were rather small,
they had to count them all.
Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall...
... I'd love to turn you on...

Acercamientos entre la nada y el propio ser

Nunca esperé nada de vos o de mí...
... o pretendí que fuera así.
Nunca quise decir una sola palabra en mi vida.
Nunca quise otra cosa más que mirarte
y descubrirte a cada segundo;
poder sorprenderme con las cosas más simples.
Nunca quise ser carne... o ser huesos...
... nunca quise nacer o morir, o acompañarte
o tener que dejarte.
Nunca quise ser tu encierro.
Nunca quise que mi sombra aparezca en tu pensamiento.
No soy un hijo ni un hermano,
no soy un padre,
no soy tu novio,
no soy un amigo.
No puedo ser nada... simplemente nada.
Soy algo que existe porque sí
y muere porque sí,
entre todas las cosas infinitas porque sí.
No soy la imagen que está en ese espejo, no soy yo
lo que están mirando tus ojos...
... simplemente soy lo que tus ojos quieren ver.
Nunca supe realmente hacer nada de lo que aparentemente sé hacer.
Podría llamarlo suerte.
No importa demasiado.
Nunca supe cuántas decisiones equivocadas tomé...
... o cuántas más podría haber tomado quizá.
No puedo ser nada... y disfrutarlo.
No me gusta más que romper...
... cualquier cosa;
hacerte sentir que estoy inundando
con agua caliente tus venas.
No, nunca quise ser tu encierro...
... nunca quise estar en tu entierro.
Nunca esperé nada de vos hacia mí...
... nunca quise otra cosa más que mirarte
y descubrirme en vos sorprendido.
Nunca quise decir una sola palabra en mi vida.

Cacería

El cuadro pertenece a Sergio Licht.

La cacería empieza hoy y
la propaganda arroja la ilusión
como granadas de un estilo de vida
que paga con vidas
y siembra el progreso
sobre cenizas.

Tan preocupados por verse brillar
que no se acuerdan que es música lo que hay atrás de
esos mercados de rock que enseñan a ser rock
y a romper guitarras que ya están pagadas.

    ¡Castigo de dios!
La violencia miente y dice que
merecemos la peste,
    para después vender medicinas dudosas
que borrarán las ronchas.

La cacería empezó hoy
y nadie sabe si terminó o quieren más...
... al este y oeste,
    te convence o te muere.

Si a tus costados, sólo hacés agua;
van a ir por las costas hasta tu garganta.

Somos los hijos del neofanatismo,
y el hambre ciego, nuestro fin y principio.

(Quienes quieran saber cómo va
la música de esta letra, entren a este sitio:
www.purevolume.com/ultimosprimeros)