Paco, las perlas de tu boca eran silencios embarazados

 
 
       It was my last year in high-school – code name in old spanish’s studying system: COU – which is mandatory only if you’re planning to go to university.

What the hell was I still doing there?!! I cannot tell, but I clearly recall I had decided not to go to university and do a 3 year image module instead. For me it was then cristal clear I wanted to understand and be able to decypher the surrounding world of images. So… I spent the best part of the year smoking joints, fucking, playing volleyball, tripping to the beach and… writing… in no particular priority order 😛

Through high-school I met all kind of “teachers”, from the professional ones that took everything seriously and were very disapointed at my waste of potential, to Hitler worshippers, dubious yet very friendly and lived bisexual beings, unbearable little dump smelling mouth rats, to the ones who wanted to be cool, the cynical old masters trying to get to retirement as sane as possible or the ones who didn’t give a fuck.

Paco was neither of those. He instructed language and literature; at the time we used to make fun of him, specially his inability to pronunciate the “r”; so we recite this paragraph of a poem the pearls of your mouth. Paco was from a village that is commonly regarded in Spainish culture as the place where brutish people are borned and thus many jokes start with someone from this village: Lepe.

Irony from the destiny, through my 5 years (I failed one) of HS public study, Paco was probably the only grown guy who understood me and respected me. At the time I was too dazed and confused to see that, but after 20 years – I must now have the age Paco had when I was his student – it is touchingly evident how this guy influenced me.

For starters he talked to me and listened to me, Paco also understood that part of being a teenager is breaking rules, questioning authority, trying new things and so on, so he was pretty flexible about some clowning and some joking during his classes, from time to time he would also engage the hormonal mayhem which was puzzling to say the least. In one of our talks I told him I had zero interest whatsoever in his subject matter, I also confessed that I didn’t really know what I was doing there. He was an awesome humble guy and as such he didn’t take what I told him as something personal, instead he proposed me a deal: You like to draw and write poems and stuff don’t you? So you can come to my classes and do whatever you want as long as you don’t disturb the others. Of course I cannot pass you, but if you change your mind you can study during summer and go to September exams.  

And so I had a warm place where I would spent several hours a week drawing intricate nightmarish stuff and writing many many popoozas. Since recently I have been going through all of them (thousands of pages) and must say, most of it is so obnoxiously repetitive, nonsensical or full of agony, formal yet chaotic and… a search, a search for my own code, my own language, a search for answers and the meaning of dreams, unstable emotions, overwhelming passions… and off course the unknownable… that is not worth even reading. And despite this fact, at the time, Paco was always very curious of what was going on in my little notebooks, ja ja ja. Almost at the end of the year he even offered to proofread them and give me feedback and so he did. He corrected ALL of my orthographic mistakes and took little humorous notes with a very light pencil. Paco didn’t say I like this or I don’t like that, intead he pointed out some writers I might be interested and just underlined some parts.

 

That (have to refrain from crying as you would not see my beautiful shiny tears) touched me beyond anything I can express, despite all the shitload I was going through I had a clear goal to achieve. I spent the whole summer studying, no beach, no friends, no parties… not easy to do if you’re turning 18!!! I was a devoted studious disciple of the spanish grammar… and of other disciplines. Aunt Rosa (she’s not really my aunt but a cool friend of mum’s whose hair is made out of fire and whiskey) helped me immensely too. In september I passed ALL of them. But in the language test I made a mistake that would have failed me with anybody else… I had to analyse a phrase and I mistook it. Funny enough this guy from the brutish cradle of Spain, so they say, understood that even though I had not correctly identified the type of phrase, I did analyse my mistake correctly and so it was not as important that I just accumulated knowledge as was that I knew how to use it =)

Today I am fully conscient that without me knowing it, Paco was a real teacher, he didn’t taught me with words, he planted seeds to grow in the future, now. I started to write when I was maybe 8 or 9, but since that last year at high-school I’ve been trying to write more freely, more true, more passionate and yet consciously. I knew then, after that year, that images and words, sounds and silences, all are part of a dainty ever-growing and whole pervading language.

Today is almost twenty years later and although I don’t even recall his surname I am plenty grateful that LIFE crossed our paths. I must be now the age Paco was when I was his student and I would underline those same loose lines, part of them run below -)



Te presentas en negro tintada,
atrapas mis ojos
y del corazón alado,
encerrado en la infinita abertura
que es su boca,
los labios rellenos de labios.

Tu lengua es la lengua del tiempo
cultivando;
hace mella en mi boca
eternamente humedecida
por el roce de esos labios.
Marfil choca marfil,
dedos de piel,
calor líquido…
…hombres luchando.

Tus hirientes dientes clávanse en mi yugular,
chorros de tinta,
baluarte e infierno en mis poros,
el color del olvido eterno y frutálico,
una memoria oxidada,
un conducto hepático dañado,
una ducha de sangre y vísceras.

Y es mareo el camino hasta-laverno,
como nube verde, paladar rojo,
gritos de auxilio al filo del abismo.
Fría y cortante noche de invierno,
de tu mano que es estéril recojo
las semillas mías… de paludismo

 
• • •
 

Como en un río, la palabra de amor fluye…
desde su nacimiento inquieto y goteante.
Mil hojas en un sólo viento
mil lágrimas en una pena sola.

Veo llover en tus ojos
llenos de peces ingenuos.
Soy lago y soy pez,
una ración de pena,
el llorar diseccionado…
en símbolos de piedra.

El tañir de una campana en el desierto,
metálica sombra profunda de deseo,
sonidos besándonos con su rostro líquido
los párpados.

Te huelo,
te siento por dentro
té frío Don Simón.

La acelerada caída del telón
con imágenes encadenadas a gritos
tropiezan con el aire…
es la sombra donde nos ocultamos
del miedo, en su forma de serpiente.

La mente que encarcela
los sentimientos,
en un talud de dolor,
es el mar que no cesa
golpear eterno
de sí mismo contra el sol.

de nuevo empaparé mis palabras
en el enorme perdón.

 
• • •
 

Moldeando su cara,
así me lo encontré,
infinitas son las posibilidades
en el lago de tus ojos

Alivia de tu carne el dolor
para que la herida nunca sane,
perdido en la tempestad sé
de unos labios que me darán la calma

Gris plomizo para un sabor
cementado en boca de plástico,
mastigadas palabras como castigo
al abandono del placer sentido…
Inteligible parece el cántico
orquestado sin alma ni motor

Inocuo lagrimeo contorsionado
en el pálido rostro falaz,
me encuentro buscando la verdad
en tu tenebrosa selva sin claros

 
• • •
 

Bajo un tremendo dolor
se oculta un infinito placer,
tras la oscura cortina
todo lo abarca
tu sonrisa… feliz

¿Quién maneja
las ruidosas cadenas
con las que la noche
ata mi locura?

Cuelga el teléfono
dime… ahora… cuánto!
Cuelga tus sentidos
del perchero de mi alma;
te llevaré por un viaje,
arrancaré los paisajes
maravillosos, que en tu interior
se forman cada amanecer

 
• • •

 
Mis deseos todos
en un punto concreto encadenados,
futuro en lo que somos
de presente aplazado

¡¡Turbinas de carne por
hélices de piel!!
Oscuras pero lustrosas partes por
la unidad que siembran en un ser

La llama encendida
de la llama apagada hermana,
una ostenta la vida,
la otra es un recuerdo en la nada.

El sol padrino de tantos,
la luna en los tanatorios;
la mentira y cerrojazo,
su certeza en vomitorios,
señor!!

 
 
PS
… and BTW ¡¡¡VIVA LEPE!!!!

About m)◘(x

ni! for now
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