
viernes, 5 de diciembre de 2008
Rent the following

jueves, 4 de diciembre de 2008
Things keep changing
On the road
jueves, 27 de noviembre de 2008
Music to listen: It's alright, by Guns N' Roses

It's alright, it's alright
Where to go and where to see
It's always been that way and it can never be
Well it's alright, it's alright
Give it all and ask for no return
And very soon you'll see and you'll begin to learn
That it's alright, it's alright
Don't you know that it's so good for you
You can be making love and see it all go through
But it's alright, it's alright
Told you once about your friends and neighbours
They were always seeking but they'll never find it
It's alright, it's alright
Music to listen: Poses, by Rufus Wainwright

hoy me acuerdo de:miércoles, 26 de noviembre de 2008
lunes, 24 de noviembre de 2008
I said, Music to listen: Waltzing Matilda

I've got what I paid for now
see ya tomorrow, hey Frank, can I borrow
a couple of bucks from you, to go
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll go waltzing
Matilda with me
I'm an innocent victim of a blinded alley
and I'm tired of all these soldiers here
no one speaks English, and everything's broken
and my Stacys are soaking wet
to go waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll go waltzing Matilda with me
now the dogs are barking
and the taxi cab's parking
a lot they can do for me
I begged you to stab me
you tore my shirt open
and I'm down on my knees tonight
Old Bushmill's I staggered, you buried the dagger in
your silhouette window light to go
waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll go waltzing
Matilda with me
now I lost my Saint Christopher now that I've kissed her and the one-armed bandit knows, and the maverick Chinamen, and the cold-blooded signs
and the girls down by the strip-tease shows go
waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll go waltzing Matilda with me
no, I don't want your sympathy, the fugitives say that the streets aren't for dreaming now
manslaughter dragnets and the ghosts that sell memories
they want a piece of the action anyhow go
waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll go waltzing Matilda with me
and you can ask any sailor, and the keys from the jailor
and the old men in wheelchairs know
that Matilda's the defendant, she killed about a hundred
and she follows wherever you may go
waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll go waltzing
Matilda with me
and it's a battered old suitcase to a hotel someplace
and a wound that will never heal
no prima donna, the perfume is on
an old shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey
and goodnight to the street sweepers
the night watchman flame keepers
and goodnight to Matilda too
music to listen: That old green gentleman

Little deaths in musical beds
So it seems I'm someone I've never met
You will only hear these elegant crimes
Fall on your ears from criminal dimes
They spill unfound from a pretty mouth
And everybody gets there, everybody gets there
And everybody gets their way
I never said I missed her when everybody kissed her
Now I'm the only one to blame
Things have changed for me, and that's okay
I feel the same, I'm on my way, and I say
Things have changed for me, and that's okay
I want to go where everyone goes
I want to know what everyone knows
I want to go where everyone feels the same
I never said I'd leave the city
I never said I'd leave this town
A falling out we won't tiptoe about
When everybody gets there, everybody gets there
And everybody gets their way
I never said I missed her when everybody kissed her
Now I'm the only one to blame
Things have changed for me, and that's okay
I feel the same, I'm on my way, and I say
Things have changed for me, and that's okay
I feel the same, and I say
Things have changed for me, and that's okay
(Well, things have changed for me
Come on every body, let's dance and sing)
I feel the same, and I say
(I'm singing it all night long
So come on everybody and join the party)
Things have changed for me, and that's okay
(Well, things have changed for me
Come on everyone, let's dance and sing)
I feel the same, and I say
(I'm singing it all night long
So come on everybody and sing along)
Things have changed for me, and that's okay
I'm on my way, and I say
Things have changed for me
Music to listen: Maybe Tomorrow

I've been down and
I'm wondering why
These little black clouds
Keep walking around
With me
With me
It wastes time
And I'd rather be high
Think I'll walk me outside
And buy a rainbow smile
But be free
They're all free
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
I look around at a beautiful life
Been the upperside of down
Been the inside of out
But we breathe
We breathe
I wanna breeze and an open mind
I wanna swim in the ocean
Wanna take my time for me
All me
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
So maybe tomorrow
I'll find my way home
Non, je ne regrette rien



jueves, 20 de noviembre de 2008
Sing mayaví, Sing

sing along...
But Not For me, Performed by Chet Baker.
They're writing songs of love, but not for me.
A lucky star's above, but not for me.
With love to lead the way
I've found more clouds of grey
than any Russain play could guarantee.
I was a fool to fall and get that way;
Heigh-ho! Alas! And also, lack-a-day!
Although I can't dismiss the memory of her kiss,
I guess she's not for me.
I was a fool to fall and get that way;
Heigh-ho! Alas! And also, lack-a-day!
Although I can't dismiss the memory of her kiss,
I guess she's not for me.

sábado, 15 de noviembre de 2008
I shot a man in Reno

“Bukowski cried when JudyGarland sang at the N.Y. Philharmonic, Bukowski cried when Shirley Temple sang"I Got Animal Crackers in my Soup"; Bukowski cried in cheap flophouses, Bukowski can't dress, Bukowski can't talk, Bukowski is scared of women, Bukowski had a bad stomach, Bukowski is full of fears,and hates dictionaries, nuns, pennies, busses, churches, park benches, spiders, flies, fleas, freaks; Bukowski didn't go to war.Bukowski is old, Bukowski hasn't flown a kite for 45 years; if Bukowski were an ape, they'd run him out of the tribe...”
A quiet conversation piece

“ And so, we become quiet. it is another strange evening. The people come to me, they talk, they fill me: the future rabbis, the revolutionaries with their rifles, the FBI, the whores, the poetesses, the young poets from Cal State, a professor from Loyola going to Michigan, a professor from the University of Cal at Berkeley, another who lives in riverside, 3 or 4 boys on the road, plain bums with Bukowski books stashed in their brains...for a while I thought that this gang would intrude upon and murder my precious moments, but I’ve been lucky, lucky for each man and each woman has brought me something and left me something, and I no longer must feel like Jeffers behind a stone wall, and I’ve been lucky in another way for what fame I have is largely hidden and quiet and I’ll hardly be a Henry Miller with people camping in my front lawn, the gods have been very good to me, they’ve kept me alive and even, still kicking, taking notes, observing, feeling the goodness of good people, feeling the miracle run up my arm like a crazy mouse. Such a life, given to me at the age of 48, even though tomorrow does not know is the sweetest of the sweet dreams.”
Charles Bukowski -Book: Tales of ordinary madness-
viernes, 14 de noviembre de 2008
Old Writings Chapter 3: Madrid, 2004.

Listen up
Pongan en plazos nuestras velas, vuestras venas, los limites montados, nuestras marcas tentadas por el chic, por los glams de una esperanza que no nos quiere, que siempre resultamos aburridos de la nada universal.
Extintores bajo presión, alineados todos los trastes para el renombre de nuestros vómitos; que abusamos del alcohol anoche, y no tuvimos humo nuevamente.
Corrijan las planas noches y demostremos que el caos ayuda en frascos, en sometidas esquirlas de nuestras ideas burladas por la precisión de vuestros caracteres editados en volteretas inofensivas a sus vistas preliminares, compuestas, rotundas, sorpresivas al Mio Cid.
Aquí se juega con estos marchitos, con estos espacios, ya bien limpios, ya no esquematizados en sistemas de dicción propensa. Venga aquí mi fuerte, mis bienes necesitados.
Todo en fiasco, todos esperando mis consuelos, mis grandes libertades, mis mentores de vuelo, de lectura improvisada en bibliotecas sumisas, nunca vistas, siempre promocionadas en nuestra mente, en nuestros modus de largas palabras al roce de lo difícil.
Y siempre en las esquinas templadas, está el buen Whisky, la falta de nuestro hielo de estrellato, nuestros narcos, precipitados al calor de asesinatos de T.V., de redondas vigilas cuando queda muy poco, cuando rotamos exagerados los nombres de los grandes, de nuestros impuestos corajes.
A las 10:10 fue anoche en los sueños, vitrificando









