Barbie & Ken

KEN SE VA DE MALIBÚ Y BARBIE LLORA

Supo que todo había terminado
cuando él cerró la puerta, sin portazo,
ella allí, con las luces apagadas
la casa de los sueños por fin muda
su voz, por primera vez en quiebra.

El plástico dolía como carne,
como una piel en llamas
y por debajo, asomaba la verdad:
todo era mentira. Un simulacro
con sonrisas de pincel, falsedades
de diseño, vestidos de alta gama
para tapar la suciedad
de genitales mutilados.

Ahora
ella sube por las escaleras
revuelve los cajones, llora
encuentra fotos y las rompe,
y al fondo, en alguna parte
detrás de tejidos y zapatos
busca la clave del engaño.

Dónde,
dónde está tu amor, Bárbara,
con tu cuerpo dislocado
con tu corazón de fábrica
cuya percusión destroza
tu pecho casto y sin pezones.
Tu cabeza sobre la vela,
la peste de plástico que arde,
tu rostro perfecto se derrite.

Ahora estás con nosotros,
a éste lado de la muerte,
se acabaron las flores del camino
el horizonte iluminado entre colinas.
Esto es el desierto, la incertidumbre,
un latido ciego de sangre que te obliga
a mendigar cada pétalo de rosa.


KEN LEAVES MALIBU AND BARBIE CRIES

She knew everything was over
when he shut the door, without a slam
there she was, lights off,
the dream house mute at last,
her voice, for the first time broken.

Plastic hurt like flesh,
like burning skin
and beneath, the wound of truth:
all had been a lie. A simulacrum
with paintbrush smiles, design
phonies, luxurious dresses
to cover up the stains
of mutilated genitalia.

Now,
she climbs the stairs,
she stirs the drawers crying,
every photo she finds she breaks,
and there in the depths,
beyond the cloths and shoes
she seeks the clef of the deception.

Where?
Where is your love, Barbara?
With your disjointed body
your factory heart
with a drum that destroys
your chast, nipple-less breast.
Your head over the candle,
the stink of burning plastic,
your perfect face now melting.

You are among us now,
at this side of death,
and there are no more flowers in the path,
no green hills of shimmering horizons.
This is the desert, the uncertainty,
a blind beat of blood that will force you
to beg for every petal of the rose.

Un cuento de poetas

I played my part well.
I kept my smiles hidden,
I was the smoking gun in the background
Of the photo, I had a whiskey shot
For every night I spent alone
Piazzola playing for me
With no confession for the priest,
With a skin to remove
Little by little, in every word I type.

I played my part well.
It was a fanfare of shadows,
A dazzling collection
Of bitter stars, sad endings
And roads to the horizon,
A joke that turned me
Into the skinless monster
That drags his intestines on the stage
And ruins the celebrations
Of other perfect men.

And even though I learned by heart
Each note of the devil’s solo,
This is not what I wanted:
And so I dream, a house by the sea,
Some castle in a cloud
With nightingales and robins
Bright red in the break of day
As I play my guitar in the balcony
And sing creation’s majesty.

No loud music on the radio,
No sleepless dust in corners,
No wine-stained curtains
In the windows of my wound.
Just a simple line, a brushstroke
Of corny, ingravid metaphors,
To hold the weight of infinite stars
Against the mad machinery of time.

Better off with a guitar

Better off with a guitar

I can speak of your eyes,

And not only compare them to the sea,

To the emerald, I can do more,

I can light them up in magnolias,

As anaphors flow out my mouth

With metaphors, and hyperboles, and rhymes,

Your eyes, sunlight raining in the autumn,

Your eyes, music trapped in wind;

Your eyes of burning jasmine,

And here I remain, quite fed up

For I can’t say much of your mind,

Even though it’s easy to rhyme

It is, frankly; quite blind.

And upon rising my voice

To reach some glorious ending

I get stuck, abandoned without choice

My waffle and my trite verses descending,

And I am so bored of your eyes

For it is not there where I look

As I fall into demise

And I vomit on my book,

And I never drag you to bed

And I make no anagram with your body

And I never give you head

Because this poem is lame and shoddy.

And here is where I always end,

Alone, and flaccid, and misspend

As I remember what my friend said

While sucking his cigar:

If you want to fuck,

You’d better play the guitar.