Just...

De un antes que se transforma en mañana y en ahora.

De una luz alterna que baña una barrera de humo

que se asemeja a una cintura.

Las hojitas veraneras de Whitman

SONG OF MYSELF

1

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

7

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?

I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it. I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and

am not contain'd between my hat and boots,

And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,

The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good. I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,

I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and

fathomless as myself,

(They do not know how immortal, but I know.) Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,

For me those that have been boys and that love women,

For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,

For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the

mothers of mothers,

For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,

For me children and the begetters of children. Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,

I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,

And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.

Walt Whitman

Leaves of grass

Yeah, Baby!

Luciernaga inmutable, atravesemos esta nèbula infinita,

cortemos la madera de tu tronco,

aceptemos lo insalvable de tu cadera...

¿vienes conmigo?

Yeah, baby!

Soy mi lienzo

(Carátula del disco "cuentos de hada 6" de Masseratti 2Lts)

Me multiplico en la cordura diaria

aumento la desesperación dilatada

estudio el movimiento, me lanzo

al desperfecto de lo no planeado,

de la razón fingida.

De tu cordura desplazada exhuda

un jardín eterno, encendido de nada,

floreado en carmesí, ausentado en

sí mismo, para luego, de un sólo

despacho, desplazar mi soledad.

Te siento en el exterior, mandibula

de diablo, satán de los corderos

ángel del vacío, sustancia retenida

en la sal, en el frío, en el sudor,

en el llanto.

Me pinto de sombras, dijo aquel verso,

me mudo al infierno, me desplazo

en trazos, punzantes,

amantes,

delirantes.

"Soy mi lienzo" me despojo de ti

disuelvo tu color en la obsesión,

degrado, agito, borro...

Soy mi lienzo, hago lo que quiero

ahora. La nada, el todo,

sólo como quiero.

Tendida bajo el sol, una gota azul

corre hacia el ocaso sin mirar atrás.

Barrida de las tinieblas, tú

la verás caer, digna e insolada,

repleta de lo que quiso.

En reversa, inconexa sensación de

olvidarte, finalmente.

BlackHollow, said.

A esa paz interior que tanto busqué a la cordura que hoy me acompaña a los días grises que se alejaron, que alejé... a mi más tierna fantasía de ser feliz, de seguir sin ti.