Picnic

En un increíble momento de gracia
Se ribeteaban versos, a puntadas de ensalada
De verano, de tomates y patatas
De mantelería fina y tierna cubertería de usar
Y tirar.

Sonreía y se imaginaba vista desde fuera
Como una escena de un anuncio de champú
Lisa y sedosa su
Sonrisa de agua, de patata, de sal y limón
Sus dientes repletos de poesía
Dientes panteístas llenos de alegría
Y de mantelería fina y cubertería aún mejor.

Una caña con migas de pan,
Las hormigas correteando pierna arriba,
El zumbido de su amiga, el sueño panzón,
El revolcón sobre la mantelería fina,
Poniéndose a tiro,
Y los vasos rojos de cartón.

A.

Echoes

What you read now will disappear.
Will flow and blow away in a momentary
graceful state. Occupying again the space
occupied in my shallow embrace.

A
*Free interpretation of one of Jorge Drexler's echoes.

suicidium; sui caedere

Suicide.n. The intentional killing of oneself. Ironically, in most states (US) suicide is a crime, but if successful there is no one to punish.

Carmen's Interlocutor, my drawer

Carmen Martín Gaite said that her need for writing came from her constant and failed search for the perfect interlocutor and insisted upon the fact that people wouldn't need to write if they had someone who would listen. She was so obsessed about this some critics considered her work mono-thematic, saying that frustrated search was the one and only topic of her novels. I won't go as far as calling this lady "obsessive" but she did write a book called The Perfect Interlocutor.

In my case, the search is a little more modest. Around 1994 I started writing a diary. I can't really recall the exact date as all my memories of primary school are just that, primary school, and I seem to have stored all memories from 1988 (when I believe it's my first memory) to 1997 in the same box. Nearly ten years of infant life tangled in the same drawer, all mixed up with socks and knickers. (That it's clearly an exaggeration for I would never dare to mix socks and knickers, that'll be simply too chaotic).

The fact is, I seem to be writing increasingly less. Funny that, increasingly (like those red lines in graphs) less (like skimmed yogurts). I am one of those people that would expose themselves to the slightest sympathetic smile and will dump all their mental dribble there and then. Should I be quieter and write it all instead? I do need to improve my writing skills.

a.

The Sugary Turmoil of a Rugger Bugger (pink icing version)

Icing decorations:

Tulle tutu.
She spins and spins like sugar.
Tutu tulle.
Confectionery light pink frugal
Sugar for baking,
For dancing,
For spinning around her.
Like the sprocket wheel of
A desperate housewife in a condo gym.
Bugger.

Rugger. Ruggering balls, kicked around her,
Buffeting her like a prawn in a 10 dollar buffet.
Macho men eating nachos, cheesing off, edible fair.
For baking,
For fasting,
For fluttering around her.
Like the dustless wing of
A desperate moth under children power.
Buffalo wings.

Under the icing decorations:

What are little girls made of?
"Sugar and spice, and all that's nice;
That's what little girls are made of."

What are little boys made of?
"Snaps and snails, and puppy-dog's tails;
That's what little boys are made of."

A.

"¿Conoces al boticario del pueblo al lado de Candelario?
En vez de cabeza,
Tiene una cereza.
No ve ni torta, claro."

(Do you know the apothecary
from that village next to Candelario?
Instead of a head,
He's got a cherry.
He's as blind as a bat, of course)

Laurence Saum wrote something like this years and years ago and for some strange reason his daughter remembered it today.

Bleak Rabbits

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
He always left them behind,
Every morning I would find
One of them.
Heydays, even two.

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
He would ogle down to them
With tender resolution,
A pamper touch,
A cushioning nest,
They deserved a good
Long day rest. In
His denim left pocket.

Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.
I would get dressed
And perfumed in ink scent, I
Would give a cursory look
On the skew, a
Scanty glimpse
Of his stationary jewelry.
Color scrutiny,
Bleak black or dark blue.

Why would he left them behind?
Didn't he care for them?
He was devoted to their shape,
Color and baneful intentions.
I had seen it happen,
Seen them laying abandoned,
On my murky desk,
Waiting for the grasp
Of his right brown hand,
A lift, an elevation,
A jean, a tight warren,
For pens, for they are not rabbits,
Long, lank, bleak,
Black or dark blue.

A.