"Salí a la calle
y le dí de comer
a un chucho
masas de pan
con alfileres"
LOS ALAMOS TIEMBLAN...
Los álamos tiemblan al soplo del atardecer.
El otoño oscurece a esos labios tempranos
donde todo amanecía transparente, manzana.
El gallo solar retorna a las neblinas
a la estaca solitaria donde ya no es Pan.
Todos los caminos ya no conducen al cuerpo.
El otoño pule su lámpara de llovizna
en el bostezo de un lince, en el temblor
de los álamos,
en la pereza del caballo
hacia el heno,
de la gaviota hacia el mar.
La pereza de esos labios que-antaño-no eran
mudas cenizas.
Hace tiempo que ya no escucho nada
ni siquiera al zureo de las palomas mentales
ni al hojoso murmullo del dolor que a veces
suena como el idilio de Sigfrido
los revólveres nevados mutuamente se idolatran
y los verdugos memorizan como a un credo
el ars poetica de Horacio
anejo a mis ruinas todo queda encantado:
mis manos colmadas de luciérnagas
son más felices que mi deseo.
Como restos de humo al extinguirse una fogata
aún alardea mi voz llamando a las cosas por su nombre:
puente álamo révolver naranjas...
aún intento emitir señales grises de comunicación
pero así como el humo no tarda en disolverse en el cielo
así mi voz no tarda en disolverse en las palabras
que también se extinguirán
sólo permanece el aroma esencial de las cosas:
muere el melocotón en los labios
no su aroma en el tiempo.
Cerrados para mí los paraninfos
-allí deciden el precio medio de las palabras-
vuelvo al poema que sólo aspira
durar
lo que la flor del ciruelo
o el vino en la copa.
Sin deberes como manzanas sucias
sin más exilio que darse un paseo diariamente
por las afueras de la serenidad
viviré cerca del lobo
echado en la más alta
colina
junto a la aurora boreal:
él es el único que ha comprendido
el por qué
de tantas huídas tantas carroñas mentales
el por qué de haberme arrancado los ojos
para no ver más la Esfinge
los destrozos de la siega final.
Hoy es la última función
de tu voz-máscara
cada noche te encierras
en la palabra
o su celda más limpia
la luna desova sus larvas de luz
en un nevado vitral de tus ojos
la ciudad enferma amanece con tos de niño.
BARCELONA
en las hojas de los plátanos de sombra
brillan las gotas de un sol puramente
transitorio
te acarician los jazmines con su perfume
como los dedos de una samaritana
la cerveza en una terraza del Pí
pierde su espuma como estos labios
el aroma de unas palabras
que intentan definir
definirme:
"no soy más que un perro perdido
olfateando sus propias huellas
de regreso a su casa junto al mar
un pájaro desnortado
que aún
no sabe dónde anidar
cegado por un eclipse
de sol"
SANDRA
sandra se ha mudado de casa sandra
se ha mudado de piel o de crisálida
ya no vive
allí donde el dolor se parecía
a una comadreja
sonriendo malignamente
sobre sus muslos blancos
sandra ahora vive en un ático de cristal resistente a la luna
cristal blindado a los murciélagos y a los hombres
todo el mundo puede ver ahora su corazón que late
con el ritmo de un arcoiris sobre la Alhambra
con el ritmo de un manantial que murmura
entre naranjos
palabras azules palabras perfumadas
como la última rosa que tocó Boabdil
sandra ahora vive con el Gato con Botas
quien todos las noches se disfraza para ella de Sherezade
y la convierte en leyenda la más hermosa leyenda
jamás contada
sandra todas las noche vuela con su gato sobre Granada
en una alfombra tejida con pétalos de estrellas fugaces
ya no vive allí donde el dolor se parecía
a un gorrión muerto sobre la hierba
a un revólver bajo la almohada
UNA MUCHACHA
una muchacha
con ojos de chacal
escarba en las ruinas
de mi nombre
escarba en las ruinas
de mi cerebro
una muchacha
con senos de ciruela
claudia
olisquea en mis cenizas
con un beso me resucita
ya no está
I WILL BE...
I will be whoever I was
in the present.
I am whoever I'll be
adrift in the past:
that pipsqueak feeding on
earthworms, mud, clouds;
that boy once yearning to be
the son of the Moon
impregnated by a wolf.
CERA UNA VOLTA IL WEST(SERGIO LEONE,1968)
We all keep-like Harmonica-
a secret as it were gold
nuggets in the pouch.
We all know somehow to play
a wondrous melody in a whisper
to the loved one or a sick cat.
We all know how to fire
-trigger happy- against the same ones
we love.
We all have in a way like Harmonica
got through deserts on horseback
chasing trains dust clouds and mirages
running after despots and wild demons.
We all keep concealed
some mysterious past
we all have had a brigand
as sidekick a merciless millionaire
as the last target last coup de grace
in dreams.
We all dream to quench the thirst
in a well with fresh and clean water.
We all once upon a time have fancied
on rescuing some prostitute from some brothel
in New Orleans Paris or New York.
We all have wanted to save a destitute widow
from the banker who intend to evict her.
We all know somehow like Harmonica
to play the music of the spheres the pristine
music of God in the desert.
We've all by some means escaped
unharmed from the desert
shooting wildly with the eyes closed.
SUNDOWNER
"Getting on to sundown''"
I
Sniffing a sunflower
in the middle of Piccadilly Circus,
ah what a grandstanding gesture.
No one stares.
No one cares
but the knowing smile of Eros
in the fountain at the crack of dawn.
Another hides his grin behind the clouds.
Early morning flaring in sodium light.
Juvenile crows flap and hop
from a linden tree to my boisterous laughter.
(Just after copulation
-said Schopenhauer-
the Devil's laughter is heard)
And nothing can mitigate
the lusciousness of this hour.
II
Why the icecream van is chiming
Mozart's Requiem at such a sunny day?
I am the flotsam of meself.
At home in any walk of strife.
The mirror inside the cigarette case
reflects not my face
but the emerald smile of a raven
fluttering by.
A beggar also smiled with a chipped tooth
of biting the hard cold of hours.
A red fox licking a pool
of yellow spit red vomit
from the wrappers of a Chinese takeaway
alongside a famished Victorian ghost
and a seagull that never sleep.
III
Why the icecream van
still chimes the Requiem?
In a blazer blue
like Chatterton's breeches
a Piccadilly rent boy
produced by the fog
is beaming upon my shadow.
And I beam at you oh Silvie
still running away with the wolves
in the woods of Senlis.
My travel-stained notebooks however
have no traces of her last perfume,
her last teardrop...
Oh Silvie
IV
A black busker in the corner
rapping about the colour of sadness
at dawn
(it's purple)
near him a slavic woman sleeps rough
by a trolley suitcase and a wooden box
with her mother's ashes.
A traffic warden zipped up the fly
stopping his three colour pee
against the lamppost.
Men of cloth pass by
impassive on trottinettes.
And a West End cocotte
riding pillion on a red motorbike
waves goodbye to her own shadow
running away to the other direction.
V
Along the towpath in gloaming light,
on a Raleigh bike I saw Helen smile
at a homeless drummer just before
heading for Troy.
I checked the reality
bamboozled by the light,
returning to the shadow
to turn it
(as Eliot did)
into a transient beauty.
With my cracked monocle like a god
recently sacked from his duties,
I checked the reality.
And entrusted my sanity
to the last nasturtiums
standing in late summer.
VI
Mary Magdalene-wise I
the unsung hero of myself
still have seven demons to be cast out,
and all of them are poets.
Always bridging abysses, pothering
abysses to nowhere.
"The moon is 240 000 miles from Charing Cross"
Quicker one would reach to the moon
than to any soul down here.
The final stanza of my best poem
is always missing, and allus will be.
VII
Like a shoeshine boy the red
leather boots he dreams,
I polish the moon reflected
in a shop window
weathered, fly-specked.
A chirpy dustman whistles arias
attuned to the pouring rain.
A glass of vermouth
is my agony aunt by night.
She bids me to take a swim
in the bath of Venus
but I end up kissing the porcelain
in the bog near an insomniac sparrow
looking up to the stars.
VIII
In the middle of a vacant square
a gramophone with green trumpet
blaring foxtrot that echoes in the night.
A woman glitters like a flapper muse,
dances with her own shadow.
And a fat cop in the corner
also spins around himself
hugging the nightstick
IX
The amber light at sunset glimmers
off the council blocks.
The apricity of the happy hour
when bank clerks from the City
rush for a skinful a fish and chips
a pole dancer.
The melancholy joy of a funfair
on a pier like a trembling rainbow.
Coconut slices receive the trickle
of waterdrops reflecting the sunset.
In the bouncy castle
jumps alone and guffaws
the Devil in blue.
X
The moon is still having a chinwag
with the stars.
Even the moon thinks less of me
because I only can shine
on a few words.
A mist of rain perfumes my sunflower.
And a solitary hooker in a corner
plays a hurdy-gurdy
I stand her a coffee
and she stands me to pluck a rose.
XI
The mudlarkers along the river sing
ballads of love.
Crumpled newspapers
fly in the wind, melancholic herons
over the gantries, a leaden sky.
Moonstruck foxes sniff each other
in a graveyard's shadow.
XII
In Hyde Park Corner on a soapbox
I shout and shout,
mumble and mumble
to an audience of dirty pigeons and gulls.
It's raining galore.
My grandstanding gesture
-a Keats book in hand-
to save the world
with a thing of beauty.
I am the golden trumpet of God..
(Every nation of strumpets
has its golden trumpet)
XIII
Like Peter Sellers whistling
the soliloquy of Hamlet
I stroll along Regent Park
shrouded in early fog.
Fed up with being an understudy
in the play about the endless
war between God and Devil.
What is it like the boredom
of the stars when they are tired
of brightening the universe?
On overcast mornings
I try to summon up my inner light
but all I can get is the flickering
beacon of my last defeat.
XIV
Streetwise, ambling off the empty avenues
like a hoofer rehearsing a tap-dance.
Raindrops tinkle over my bowler hat.
A flick knife has glinted in the alleyway
or was a friend of Dorothy's glance?
Whatever, I scoot off to my favourite bench
in the Embankment to sleep.
At dawn, very often, the spectre of Lord Byron
wakes me gently for a fag.
XV
The night smells of jasmine rice
and a waft of sour sweat from lovers
making love somewhere under the sky.
Out of the blue, a feral cat nuzzles
into my legs glancing me with pupils
like fog-lights at the morning,
my head is away in another dimension,
my heart is beating in another country.
My hands just about to play wanton with a pipistrelle.
The night smells of jasmine rice and gun powder.
XVI
A wayward crow pecks at the eyes
of a drunkard kipping on a bench
under the red skeleton of a brolly.
A man walking his invisible dog
on the leash looks at the crow,
laughs off.
XVII
Under this mild sunshine of May,
playing dead like the opossum.
It takes courage to keep oneself alive
at this early century in London
hugging a dustbin...
Comedy is eating fruits
from the dustbin,
plus time.
Swallows, swallows take me
to Shambala
on your golden wings:
far from the worsening cost of loving
far from the worsening cost of living
far from the worsening cost of leaving.
XVIII
Some concertina is mellowing a jazz
in Leicester Square, rather a song of mercy.
Auden said the song of mercy is the Devil's waltz.
I dance just in case, with a hangdog look
to the Shakespeare bust, just in case I am
the abscond God who muted
the Devil's laughter, the wolves of word.
Comedy is to be sipping a cold latte
at Highgate cemetery in a cold morning
plus eternity.
(God really exists. Just
he's working undercover)
XIX
"Be my guest, crestfallen clown,
in this barrel of mine where I - sleepless Diogenes-
will live out to my last bread or breath.
Sit down there near my white dog who never
barks to anyone but the sea.
Let's partake of this bowl of green lentils
by the smouldering fire a la belle étoile..
Don't spill your tears over my shoulder
like your slapsticks all over the big-top.
Let's laugh off the world tonight on end:
I, juggling feckless words; you, the stars.
Forget the trappings of wealth and power
and look how my dog frisks about damselflies
on the hedges and two wenches lezzing up
in the corner. Did you suss that the magpies
giggle when I ritually pick my nose?
What a dust-up of sparrows for a crumb,
can ya hear the canned laughter of ghosts
in the ruins of that Odeon cinema?
Don't mind my odorous feet and clobbers
and take a swig of my last brown ale.
Don't sob anymore, slip off your blue clogs,
that rubber nose of dimmed red reflecting
my toothless smile...What dragged you along here
in tearful sadness, far from the joy of your trade?
A bird you love? Getting the boot? Vernal melancholy?
The exhaustion of daily making laugh the ones
who later sink into doom and gloom?
Whatever grinds you down it's already past,
and present and future doen't exist inside
my barrel, my big-top. We are only the dreams
of that slumberous moon in the sky......
.......The clown suddenly fluttered and flew away:
maybe I was just wittering to a herring gull
who came to steal my grub in tinfoil paper,
my soul."
XX
This is am I a sparrow
blasé to the peacocks fluttering at dawn
blasé to all the golden feeders of this
odorous town,
the blasé man about town
only patiently writing
the memories of rain into
the blossomed waterlilies.
Pecking at any windfall of the sun.
Sub specie durationis.
This am I a sparrow
perched on the first sunbeam
gather ya rosebuds while ya may
Let's smell the day.
It's not really expensive to have a soul.
Let's be spry even if we're doomed
to be fumes in a dunghill.
I do my best.
Like Childe Harold, unworldly,
I wend my solitary way
sub rosa.
Farewell.
XXI
Skirl of bagpipes
by a jetty. The moon
yawns on the horizon.
Swaddled in a hanky
the wilted last rose
she gave me in dreams.
A flummery of thrushes
in snowed-up elms
forebode the springtime.
On gathered rainwater
mirrors the acacia
its yellow smile.
Cocooned in a raindrop
the nightingale still sings
after falling dead.
A goddess by the sea
gave me a lap dance.
Just a blue poppy remains.
The dimmed light of dusk
veiled the violet waves
breaking into a landfill.
The moon wetnurses a fiddler
tipsy on a bench. A bat
smiling over the moon.
Raindrops as ladies smiling
alighted gently
on the scorched grass/
A Dover-white sky
Lit up the pond
Rippled by my tears.
I saw the Constable's
white horse galloping
away into the horizon.
XXII
Stripped bare to the winds of March,
swimming from pier to pier, from star to star,
I squired nymphs to a frothy pond at midnight.
They didn't depart after all.
Like a white horse that canters along the sea
lust was lurking in their glances.
The blackbirds over the Heath mimicry
the echo of my voice steeped in water.
The thymy air is redolent of some Paradise
lost and found in a split second of reveries.
A freight blue train along Highgate blew
its husky horn.
I dared to eat the peach.
I was the unsung hero of my own salvation.
Bathed in Tiepolo pink at dawn I woke up:
the nymphs still simpering
near my dew-glowed shadow.
XXIII
I looked myself into the glass
of that shop window blinking in red
and told to my own reflection:
you pal
reminds me of Eliot's
brown God
All Gods at midnight
are browned
off
XXIV
I smell the days
like an idiot savant
smelling the numbers.
I scavenge the nights
like vulpine figures
searching my own shadow.
I traded my shadow
for a bottle of wine.
In the Salvation Army hostel
I slept and dreamed...
I dreamed...
The last solo flight
to the last me.
XXV
The banquet of Trimalchio is over
and only paltry shimmers of reality left.
The last twilight has rendered
its last epiphany.
Everything gives off the odour
of fatberg, durian, dirty backsides, rain,
the inimical pea soup fog
of a London morning.
There's no sun anymore at the horizon
but the smutty smile of a mortician
his pot nooddle steaming the vesper lights.
I have wronged the most
and been myself the least.
Spirit-wounded vagabond
(the sea the only bosom friend of mine)
What'll be like my parting words
from this world on my way
to the next one?
XXVI
The green eyes of cruelty watch me
staying put at stoplights for very long.
An eternity of meditation,
rather in pure picnolepsy,
as if getting into the wood of madness,
reveries foaming in the clouds.
A Damascene moment.
The almond eyes of kindness also
keep staring at me. At stoplights.
A black cab pass by slowly
like rehearsing to be the god hearse.
Aswarm with blue crows the morning arrives,
a gauzy mist pearled with rainbow drops.
And the whitest birds
over my blackest thoughts.
Words petered away like tears and years.
Here I am upon my mettle.
Here I am upon the nettles
of reality stinging up and down.
At stoplights.
Off the Strand to Shepherd's Bush.
Here I am the village idiot mumbling
like an angel on the brink
of falling from grace.
The green eyes of cruelty shut for mercy,
see me no more strolling through the rain.
XXVII
An old lady at her cottage window
writes sonnets into her pension book
and through an opera glass observes
the planes in the blue sky dropping
warheads like flowers and pigeons.
An ale-poet looking for fleshpots
("la douceur des sirenes") found instead
a talking crow perched on the moon,
they did parley all the snow-scented night
about God, wenches and alchemy.
A rough-sleeper is cleaning his arse
with a swan neck. His cat stretches
its yawn up to the sunshine.
Feeding just on the smell of wet
cutting grass, the rough-sleeper
made his ablutions in a Mary-blue
pool of rain.
The wind tossing about the long lost
red cap of Holden Caulfield.
The raindrops tapping over the long lost
monocle of Tristan Tzara.
A woman opens a bento lunch box
and found a golden egg
laid by her dreams.
In the corner, near a blind violinist,
still sulks Raven, the dog of Caravaggio
expecting his arrival from Hell.
A voice over the tannoy
announced the Apocalypse
instead of the next stop
XXVIII
A sun-browned man
with a wooden leg
a whiff of bacon rashers
and eau de cologne
began to read poems
out loud louder
under the dimming light
of sundown
in a corner of Soho Square
peals of thunder
trickles of blue rain
in the hood of his duffel coat
a blackbird on his shoulder
the minatory gesture
of his finger to the sky
clashing with the amorous
lines of Sappho
(in Greek)
people nibbling sandwiches
listen and nod
nod and listen
like hushed cows
to a passing train
the Old Bill sealed off the area
just encircled the literary man
with a wooden leg
now blaring lines of Catullus
(in Latin)
XXIX
He goes round and round the ducks pond
like a lost luggage on the conveyor belt
with no one to pick it up. He stares at
the koi carp shimmering in droves.
Cherry blossoms fall over his bald pate.
The raindrops shaping pearls of silence
over the murky water, over his brown coat.
Trying all my life to be square in a round circle,
to be a round circle in a square.
XXX
As an hourglass pouring musical sand
(the passing of time suspended)
I hear the hum of milk floats, seagulls,
blue tarpaulins beaten by the rain,
the wind playing around with toilet roll scraps
the thunderous drill of daily bread or dread,
the heavenly sound of waves
kissing the wharves
the autumn leaves rustling away and back
over my drizzled gravestone.
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen
XXXI
Time whizzing by
like a bullet train to nowhere.
The moon reflected on
a golden puddle of sick.
The bluish high-rises of London
fading slowly into the dazzling
momentum of sunset.
The night finally bared its teeth.
XXXll
The revolving door
at the entrance of Heaven
winds me round
on end.
(London, 2021-2024)
MRS DALLOWAY
"I would buy the flowers myself.
It's a beautiful morning of June,
the war is over
my shattering bout of migraine
ebbing away.
But I don't want the flowers Richard
uses to bring me home:
hybrid tea roses.
so run-of-the-mill,
so bourgeois.
I would buy the flowers myself:
dahlias, cyclamens, violets, hollyhocks,
the wild bunch Sally used to pick for me
under the moonshine in Sussex..
Aeroplanes,
red and blue balloons,
doves flying over London.
The war is over so my war
against moths and nightmares.
I would buy the flowers myself
at the florist in Westminster.
But not that hybrid tea roses
redolent of boasting men
always talking about Wagner,
money, whorehouses, and armistice.
Dahlias, cyclamens, hollyhocks.
I want to get inebriated
with the wild aroma of Sally.
I want to get drunk with Sally
like boasting sailors
in the beer gardens
of Wapping Old Stairs.
I would buy the flowers myself.
I am off, Richard!
be back soon.
Maybe to finish my novel
about someone called
Virginia Woolf."
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