Los Invoco

Bueno gente, en buen plan, siento que ya es de carácter imperativo el que nos reunamos este Dies Infaustus como congregación en el templo pagano Noosfera. Es en buen pedo vayan, me quiero mamar con ustedes. Uno no conoce al otro hasta que lo ha ayudado a vomitar, en el acto sagrado de expulsar los malos demonios que atormentan el festín, haciendo uso del dedo de la verdad. Jesús convirtió el agua en vino, lo menos que podemos hacer por él es emular este acto en un jerga de lujuria y placeres Dionisiacos. Ya hemos vivido juntos grandes memorias como el Double Dragon de Polanco; fue hermoso. Si pudimos superar esa crisis, somos capaces de todo, incluso de volar (ya saben que pedo...).

Para cuando crean que todo va bien...

Bueno, tomando ventaja de que hoy es día de pelarse mutuamente, aprovecho para recomendarles (o advertirles) qué hacer con 49 pesos. Para los que habitualmente visitan Ghandi, tal vez se hayan dado cuenta que recientemente venden igual películas. No crean que blockbusters ni la así llamada sección de "cine de arte" en Mixup. Venden, para variar, buenas películas y sobre todo películas no gringas que no encuentras ni en internet. Mi trauma actual es "Saló, o le 120 giornate di Sodoma" ("Saló, o los 120 días de Sodoma"), la última obra del genio Pier Paolo Pasolini. Es LA película que te va a dejar deseando que nunca te hubieras siquiera percatado de su existencia. Relata las memorias del Marquess de Sade adaptadas a la nobleza italiana terminando la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Es en mi opinión con base a lo que he vivido, visto y oido, la más grande enterrada de tacón a la dignidad humana. Veanla.

The Shores of the Whispering Cove

It was a cold November night
Upon the silent Charleston shore.
As she lay there, crying, screaming;
Her tears filling the wounds that he bore.

Faith had to be the cruelest of all witches,
With her most evil curse being love,
Tainting her heart with forbidden passion,
With desire that would be no more.

Who but the daughter of the Marshall,
Young, sweet, a darling in all her prime,
Had to be infatuated by the lowest state of existence?
By one who’s only right was not to have any at all.
A slave it was whom held the love, of lovely Miss Eleanor.

Every Sunday night she walked along the shoreline.
She waited. As all lights were out,
An only the moon was on the lookout,
When even the sea was too tired to make a sound,
A silent whistle was heard; deep; hiding in the profound.

The softest melody, so sweet it was;
It even made the ancient willows weep.
He whistled, and she listened.
He smiled, and so she laughed.
He blew her a kiss, and she was carried away.
He spoke of love, and love was all she would know.

It all was joy and joy was everything,
Until the day the Marshall was made aware of the fault.
“I have been told”, said he,
“That you have been seen at midnight,
Sharing a kiss along the shoreline,
With no worse and no less than a coon”.
Her face grew pale as her fists grew firm,
Her eyes staring faintly at the floor.

The Marshall went on, “You know?
Only because you are my daughter
are you not hanging from a rope.
Let it be clear that I am filled with anger
At this act of filth and dishonor!
Be you mad? Be you sick?
Be the devil lurking thy soul?!
How dare you lay eyes upon a servant,
A slave and nothing more?!”
“It is love…” “Love? Love!
Love is between a man and a woman;
Animals shant ever know love!

Never shall you lay eyes upon a dark skinned fellow again”.
“But father?!” “Shh! Don’t you dare speak another word.
The negro shall be executed, never the less, never the more”.

Eleanor wept the thickest tears that night,
At sunrise would her beloved be hanged at the docks.
It was she who had cast this fate upon him,
And it was she who should warn him of such.

She ran barefooted in the middle of the night,
Her lips trembling and her eyes shaking.
“Gwat eez it?”, the black man asked.
“My father…”, she said, “he knows,
you must leave, he’s coming at dawn”.

“I ain’t no goin no place”, he said,
“Not if you not be with me, Elnore”

“Marshall!”, a voice was heard, “Here she is,
Just as you said she would”.
“Eleanor!”, said the Marshall,
“Didn’t I order not to leave your room?
What are you…? You!
Grab that man! Shoot him!
And don’t you dare let him go!
You heard me, gun that nigger down!
Let him rest his eyes upon my daughter nevermore.

The soldiers started shooting frantically.
A bullet hit him in the back of a lung;
Eleanor shrieked in terror as a second one reached for the front.
But when she saw the last rifle aim at his chest, she couldn’t take no more.
Standing between the gun and his heart,
She felt the cold iron swiftly piercing her core.

Laying in a pool of mud made by sand and their own blood,
Eleanor made the slave a last request:
“Whistle for me one last time, but sing to me not of love.
Tonight’s victory is freedom, for we are unchained of this earthly bonds”.

As the waves carried the corpses,
A bed was left in the sand.
Some sailors say that to date
You can still hear some whistles
At the shores of the Whispering Cove.

Canto a Valentina

Ríete, Valentina.
Ríete, búrlate si quieres,
Pero por favor sonríe.

Que ya no soy solo yo
Sino todo el pueblo
El que no soporta más
Que portes una cara sombría.

Ríete, Valentina.
Alégrate, mira que hoy el sol
De nuevo ha querido adentrar
A tu celda de lágrimas vacías.
Que la aurora se ha vestido de gala
Tan solo para sentirse digna
De perderse en tu mirada.
Y la brisa ha prometido no soplar sus alientos
Más que para levantar tus cabellos dorados.

Hoy es un hermoso día…
¿Acaso no te das cuenta, Valentina?
Sal a tu balcón tan siquiera,
Quiero ver tu rostro,
Y que tu rostro vea de nuevo
La belleza de la estancia en esta vida.

Alégrate, que aquí estoy yo, Valentina.
Que he vuelto al pueblo solo para verte.
Y en esta ocasión he traído mi guitarra,
Y no solo eso, sino también un cesto de manzanas.
Mira, incluso te he escrito una canción, Valentina.
Solo a ti, solamente por ti, y únicamente para ti.
Vamos, te la tocaré, baja…

Pero antes, dime,
¿Por qué estás tan triste, Valentina?
¿Por qué estás tan triste?
¿Es acaso porque quien te dio la vida,
ahora ha delirado y acabado con la suya?
¿Es porque la cuarta estación, el invierno pasado,
Te ha arrebatado al único hermano,
A la criatura inocente, a quién tanto cariño tenías?
¿O será por la noche en la que a ambos velabas,
Y que inconcientemente leías sus cartas privadas,
Que te diste cuenta que era la verdad,
Que era la realidad, que desde hacía ya tiempo alguno,
Ninguno de ellos honestamente te amaba?

¿Es eso lo que te entristece, Valentina?
¿El descubrir que al final no es mutuo el amor
A quien uno tanto se lo ha profesado?
Es algo ciertamente digno de la locura.
Es algo que verdaderamente incita al odio.
No se le puede llamar desilusión,
Pues la ilusión nunca existió ante semejante arrebato.

Tú, puedes estar tranquila, Valentina.
Pues los objetos de tus pasiones
Ya no se encuentran entre los vivos.
En cambio, yo,
Debo de haber sido sellado con la marca del diablo.
Porque no hay instante, no hay parpadeo que pase
Sin que nubles mi vista y sin que te vea, Valentina.

Ha sido así siempre, Valentina.
Desde que éramos niños, Valentina.
Siempre yo detrás de ti,
Y tú por delante con la frente en alto
Arrastrando las piernas con cada paso
Creándote un egoísta y solitario sendero
Y yo, como tonto,
Tragándome el polvo que dejabas en el camino.

Me rodeé de ilusiones, de sueños, de fantasías.
Y sabiendo que no eran más que esto,
Aún así te perseguía, porque me querías.
Me hacías saber que me querías, pero no me amabas.
Tú solamente me querías.
Pero yo te amaba, Valentina.

Todos tus pretendientes te rechazaron.
Eso era de esperarse.
¿Quién si más que un loco se quedaría
lamiendo los pétalos de la rosa
Sabiendo que jamás llegará al néctar prometido?
Es más cuerdo el demente que se arrebata la vida
Que aquel que prefiera pasarla a tu lado.

Sin embargo, yo soy ese loco.
Yo soy quien aún te ama, Valentina.
Aunque tú nunca me hayas amado.

Y ahora lloras y me sonríes no porque me ames,
Sino porque no te queda nadie.

¡Qué ironía la de este mundo!
Donde ya que por fin me permites tomar tu mano,
Y llamarte mía aunque en verdad solo seas tuya,
Es entonces cuando mi sol desciende,
Arrivando el ocaso de mi vida.

Recuerda que la vida, Valentina,
Con todo y sus dolores y alegrías
Y aun viéndose horrenda y nada justa,
Es como una flor, querida mía.

Que si la flor marchita y muere…
Entonces llora, ¡Llora Valentina!
Y si la flor florece, renace, y vuelve a vivir…
Entonces ríe, ¡Ríe como nunca Valentina!

Pero si se va con el viento, a través del sendero,
Si se va y esta vez sabes con certeza que ya no volverá…
Entonces canta,
Si quieres, no por mí,
¡Pero canta conmigo Valentina!

Heads and Tails

On every Thursday night
Right after the theater closes
When the birds stop singing
And the bells stop ringing
And the eyes are numb,
Like a faith undone;
The good ol’ Arnie Turner,
With his banjo’s rambling strings
And while sitting on a bench with no wings,
He chanted up an immigrant song.

Some passed by
And some stood still for a while.
On dreary nights;
In jolly darkness,
No matter what the mood may be,
Good ol’ Arnie Turner
Always had two cents for me.

When the Big Ben rang eleven times
And Arnie strum his last few chords
When just about no one could see them,
Mary and Raymond would pass by.

A lovely couple they were, Mary and Raymond.
The sweetest one, I dare to say
And every other pairing’s envy
Was just about needles to be said.

He was a lawyer,
One of the few honest, I may add.
Always proud and full of honor
A true man to his duty, and to his wife.

She was the neatest “Mädchen”
A treasure to sight, in deed.
For no girl felt no jealousy
Of all men making her their creed.

They were the kindling soul of London
Their passion, as fierce as a lion.
It was almost fantastic, unreal
For a world as cruel as this.

But only the walls had heard
And only the hills had seen,
That a love of such
Was only meant for dreams.

No one could know the dangers
Of the couple’s plot at home.
No one would ever dare to believe
That something might just be wrong.

We only see one side of the coin
We see only half a truth
We only hide one side of the coin
We hide only half a lie

It is impossible to be always merry,
Always jolly, it can’t be.
For the sun only rises in the morning
Knowing that darkness shall end the day.

Raymond came home from a hard day’s work
Wanting no more that some supper and rest.
But, when he opened the door and came in,
He did not find Mary there, nor any food or bed.

He ran outside to find her,
He was getting desperate now.
His head was drowning swiftly
In an ocean of cold sweat.

-Mary! - He heard,
From a voice not known to him
He followed the cry through a ragged old path
Into an ally in which no men
Should ever leave out intact,
Only to find his woman
In the arms of another man.

He didn’t think, or at least that’s what I heard.
He drew out his gun,
Cocked it faster than any skilled marksman could,
His anger made all light there fade
And only the frigid silence was to be heard

BANG, BANG, BANG!
The echo roared through the godless streets.
The blood rolled through the city’s gates,
Killing the smile that belonged to faith
And staining the joy that was once unbetrayed.

No one knows what happened
And the good ol’ moon is scared to say.
I only know that from that day on,
A life was ended in the most tragic way.

For every Thursday night,
After the theater closes,
Good ol’ Arnie Turner
Only has one cent for me.