Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de frÃa plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la están mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduño,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
¿Pero quién vendra? ¿Y por dónde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
Verde came, pelo verde,
soñando en la mar amarga.
--Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo per su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los puertos de Cabra.
--Si yo pudiera, mocito,
este trato se cerraba.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Compadre, quiero morir
decentemente en mi cama.
De acero, si puede ser,
con las sábanas de holanda.
¿No ves la herida que tengo
desde el pecho a la garganta?
--Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca.
Tu sangre rezuma y huele
alrededor de tu faja.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Dejadme subir al menos
hasta las altas barandas;
¡dejadme subir!, dejadme,
hasta las verdes barandas.
Barandales de la luna
por donde retumba el agua.
Ya suben los dos compadres
hacia las altas barandas.
Dejando un rastro de sangre.
Dejando un rastro de lágrimas.
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata.
Mil panderos de cristal
herÃan la madrugada.
Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas.
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento dejaba
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
¡Compadre! ¿Donde está, dÃme?
¿Donde está tu niña amarga?
¡Cuántas veces te esperó!
¡Cuántas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo,
en esta verde baranda!
Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mecÃa la gitana.
Verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de frÃa plata.
Un carámbano de luna
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche se puso Ãntima
como una pequeña plaza.
Guardias civiles borrachos
en la puerta golpeaban.
Verde que te qinero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar.
Y el caballo en la montaña. -Federico Garcia Lorca
It just so happens that I'm tired of being a man.
It just so happens that I walk into tailorshops and movies,
withered, impenetrable, a flannel swan
that steers a cross a sea of origins and ashes.
The odors from a barbershop can start me bawling.
I only want a little rest from stones and wool.
I only want to see my last of institutes and gardens,
of merchandise, of eyeglasses, of elevators.
It just so happens that I'm tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It just so happens that I'm tired of being a man.
And yet how delightful it would be
to threaten some accountant with the head of a lily
or murder a nun with a blow on the ear.
How beautiful
to go through the streets with a green knife
and holler out loud till I die of frostbite.
I don't want to keep being a root in the darkness,
irresolute, pulled from all sides, till a dream leaves me shaking,
dragged down through the seeping bowels of the earth,
absorbing and thinking, stuffed with food everyday.
I don't want all that grief on my shoulders.
I don't want to keep on as a root and a tomb,
alone underground, a wine-cellar stocked with the dead,
frozen stiff, half gone with the pain.
So the day called Monday starts burning like oil
when it sees me pull in with my face of a jailhouse,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks of hot blood in the direction of night.
And it shoves me into certain dark corners, into certain moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones sail through the windows,
into certain shoemakers' shops with their odors of vinegar,
into streets full of terrible holes.
There are birds the color of sulfur and horrible guts
that swing from the doors of houses that I hate,
there are false teeth forgotten in a coffee pot,
there are mirrors
that ought to be crying from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas wherever I look, and poisons, and belly buttons.
I walk around with my calm, with my eyes, with my shoes,
with my anger, with my memory failing,
I move on, I wander through offices and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards where clothes are hung from a wire:
underdrawers, towels and nightgowns that cry
slow tears full of dirt.
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed--see here it is--
I hold it towards you. -John Keats
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume,it has no taste
of the distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, and buzzed whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore
and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along
the fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me
rising from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? Have you reckon'd the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are
millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.
I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries.
I want to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.
I don't want them to tell me again how the corpse keeps all its blood,
how the decaying mouth goes on begging for water.
I'd rather not hear about the torture sessions the grass arranges for
nor about how the moon does all its work before dawn
with its snakelike nose.
I want to sleep for half a second,
a second, a minute, a century,
but I want everyone to know that I am still alive,
that I have a golden manger inside my lips,
that I am the little friend of the west wind,
that I am the elephantine shadow of my own tears.
When it's dawn just throw some sort of cloth over me
because I know dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me,
and pour a little hard water over my shoes
so that the scorpion claws of the dawn will slip off.
Because I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
and learn a mournful song that will clean all earth away from me,
because I want to live with that shadowy child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.
I will not toy with it nor bend an inch.
Deep in the secret chambers of my heart
I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch
I bear it nobly as I live my part.
My being would be a skeleton, a shell,
If this dark Passion that fills my every mood,
And makes my heaven in the white world's hell,
Did not forever feed me wital blood.
I see the mighty city through a mist--
The strident trains that speed the goaded mass,
The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed,
The fortressed port through which the great ships pass,
The tides, the wharves, the dens I comtemplate,
Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate. -Claude Mckay
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
The Soul selects her own Society--
Then--shuts the Door--
To her divine Majority--
Present no more--
Unmoved--she notes the Chariots--pausing--
At her low Gate--
Unmoved--an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat--
I've known her--from an ample nation--
Choose One--
Then--close the Valves of her attention--
Like Stone--
A fountain's pulsing sobs--like this my blood
Measures its flowing, so it sometimes seems.
I hear a gentle murmur as it streams;
Where the wound lies I've never understood.
Like water meadows, boulevards are flooded.
Cobblestones, crisscrossed by scarlet rills,
Are islands; creatures come and drink their fill.
Nothing in nature now remains unblooded.
I used to hope that wine could bring me ease,
Could lull asleep my deeply gnawing mind.
I was a fool: the senses clear with wine.
I looked to Love to cure my old disease.
Love led me to a thicket of IVs
Where bristling needles thirsted for each vein.
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
The light breaks where no sun shines;
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glow-worms in their heads,
The things of light
File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.
A candle in the thighs
Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.
Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
Slides like a sea;
Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears.
Night in the sockets rounds,
Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes;
Day lights the bone;
Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin
The winter's robes;
The film of spring is hanging from the lids.
Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics dies,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
The great machete blow of red pleasure right in the face there was blood and that tree called flamboyant and which never deserves this name more than just before a cyclone or pillaged cities the new blood the red reason all words in all tongues which mean to die of thirst and alone when dying tasted like bread and the earth and the sea like ancestors and this bird shrieking at me not to surrender and the patience of screams at each detour of my tongue
(the finest arch and it is a spurt of blood
the finest arch and it is a lilac ring about the eye
the finest arch and it is called night
and the anarchistic beauty of your arms made into a cross
and the eucharistic beauty--and how it blazes--of your sex in the name of which I hailed the barrage with my violent lips)
there was the beauty of minutes which are the marked-down trinkets from the bazaar of cruelty the sun of minutes and their pretty wolf snouts which hunger drives out of the woods the red cross of minutes which are moray eels on their way toward breeding grounds and the seasons and the immense fragilities of the sea which is an insane bird nailed dead on the gateway of carriage crossed lands there were to the point of fear as with the July report of toads of hope and of despair pruned from the stars over waters right where the fusion of days guaranteed by borax justifies the gestant watchwoman the fornications of grass not to be observed without precaution the copulations of water reflected by the mirror of magi the marine beasts to be taken in the trough of pleasure the assaults of vocables all gun ports smoking in order to celebrate the birth of the male heir simultaneously with the apparition of sidereal prairies on the flank of volcanic scrotums
scolopendra scolopendra
until the eyelid of dunes over forbidden cities struck by the anger of God
scolopendra scolopendra
until the crackling and ponderous defeat which drives dwarf cities to take command of the fieriest horses when in the thick of the sand they raise
their portcullis over the unknown forces of the deluge
scolopendra scolopendra
crest crest cyma unfurl unfurl as a sword as a cove as a village
asleep on its leg-like pilings and on saphenas of tired water
in a moment there will be a rout of silos sniffed close up
chance pit face of a mounted condottiere armored in artesian puddles and the little spoons of libertine roads
face of wind
lemur and uterine face with fingers dug into coins and chemical nomenclature
and the flesh will turn over its great plantain leaves which the wind of dives outside the stars signalling the backward march of the night's wounds toward the deserts of childhood will pretend to read
in an instant there will be blood shed where the glowworms pull their little electric lamp-chains to celebrate the Compitalia
and the childish tricks of the alphabet of spasms which constitutes the great boughs of heresy or complicity
there will be the indifference of the ocean liners of silence that furrow day and night the cataracts of the catastrophe in the proximity of wise human temples in transhumance
and the sea will roll back its tiny falcon eyelids and you will try to grasp the moment the great feudal lord will ride through its fief at the speed of fine gold of desire along the neuron roads look at the birdie if it has not swallowed the stole the great king bewildered in the hall full of stories will adore his very pure hands his hands raised in the corner of the disaster then the sea will once again be on pins and needles be sure to sing so as not to extinguish the morals which are the obsidianal coin of cities deprived of water and sleep then the sea will very softly spill the beans and the birds will very softly sing in the seasaws of salt the Congolese lullaby which the tough old troopers made me unlearn but which the very pious sea of cranial boxes preserves on its ritual leaves
scolopendra scolopendra
until the cavalcades sow their wild oats in the salt meadows of abysses their ears filled with the human humming rich in prehistory
scolopendra scolopendra
as long as we do not reach the stone without a dialect the leaf without a dungeon the frail water without a femur the serious peritoneum of springhead evenings
-Aime CesaireTodo el amor enuna copa
ancha como la tierra, todo
el amor con estrellas y espinas
te di, pero anduviste
con pies pequeños, con tacones sucios
sobre el fuego, apagándolo.
Ay gran amor, pequeña amada!
No me detuve en la lucha.
No dejé de marchar hacia la vida,
hacia la paz, haia el pan para todos,
pero te alcé en mis brasos
y te clavé a mis besos
y te miré como jamás
volverán a mirarte ojos humanos.
Ay gran amor, pequeña amada!
Entonces no mediste mi estatura,
y al hombre que para ti apartó
la sangre, el trigo, el agua
confundiste
con el pequeño insectoque te cayó en la falda.
Ay gran amor, pequeña amada!
No esperes que te mire en la distancia
hacia atrás, permanece
con lo que te dejé, pasea
con mi fotografÃa traicionada,
yo seguiré marchando,
abriendo anchos caminos contra la sombra, haciendo
suave la tierra, repartiendo
la estrella para losque vienen.
Quédate en el camino.
Ha llegado la noche para tÃ.
Tal vez de madrugada
nos veremos de nuevo.
Ay gran amor, pequeña amada!
-Pablo NerudaSo, I like poetry, and I am AWESOME.
Also, I can't cook for shit, very messy, too proud, lazy in practical aspects, always late, listen to the radio, protest too much, really loud, curse all fucken day long, talk a lot, hate cheerleaders, childishly loyal, neurotic and paranoid, never eat enough vegetables or drink enough water, superb liar (but keep this superpower on lockdown cuz I hate liars), romantically shy but otherwise very extroverted, love faggots n pot, people pointer, will cackle super loud if u fall and more if u bleed from it, total pack rat, master of verbal hooliganism, love to hear myself talk and read myself write, etc.
Cuz I don't wanna disrespect nobody, this page contains artwork of Max Ernst, Edvard Munch, Van Arno, Osvaldo Wayasamin, Humberto Moré, Blaine Fontana, Fernando Botero, Craig LaRotonda, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Nobuyoshi Araki, Renee Magritte, M.C. Escher, Frida Khalo, Nigel Conway, Salvador Dali, Paul Gauguin, Josh Taylor, Pablo Picasso, Leonor Fini and Gustav Klimt. Thank you, artists, for being so dope.