Time winters

People are bored to death at the waiting line
but not us, not us, not us
You needed proof so you went
and tried on your own
but not here, not here, not here

I got tired of waiting and stepped out the line
I may have said it before
I used to wait for it to be the last
Didn't I use to be bored all the time?
I used to always start with "I..."

You used to shine way too much
but not on me, not on me, not on me
You said "maybe later, don't know"
I wasn't gonna wait anymore
and never will for anybody

Waiting and withering one and the same
I'd rather lose all color and shape
than bore to death at the station
I'd sell my name, past and cult
than watch snow winter sacred garden of Time

There must be something else
and I had it always right inside here
I felt it even at my darkest
and after many times of fall
I learnt to shine to its mighty warmth

Most of you people are always wrong
but not us, not us, not us
you who never have believed
never withered of waiting
never lost a train under the snow

never board a cargo leaving at night
never read a paperback under the stars
stolen from a bargain shop in a western town
about the taming of a wild beast
and later dream about life in the past

can't understand the winter of a soul
So come on! We'll take you on!
You who founded guilty of a terrible sin
to live without leaving an indelible stain
but not us, not us, not US


to who we were

Sunday evening fever 4ever

Haven't been here lately, eh
no excuses, busy with something else
lof, work, usual inner desperation and
classic ups  downs & downers
when lof ended last time I
found it several times somewhere else
coffee places, pubs, always up north
I saved the city night after night so
once a week had breakfastdinner by 7am
the only living boy in Edinburgh
about to break apart but alive
terrible but endless coffee there
could sip it til 10am and read
I read as much as in '99

see, there probably are better books
than the ones we like to read
but we don't like them as much
always follow your heart about that
maybe Hank was not the best of men
but he wrote better than any other
about the only things that matter
life, absence, fuckt and getting olde
it will keep happening 
so try and learn from the master
and if you don't like him don't read

don't you ever attempt to read a book
go watch a TV talent show
buy english food and contraceptives
listen to pop idols or rap or trap
enjoy some time off at Benidorm
celebrate marriages and births
pay taxes and vote Leave
oppose to autodetermination
defy gravity from a balcony
GOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL
never take a sick day at work
ask for as many extra shifts as possible
invite friends to your wedding
in the middle of their holidays
buckfast your cold blood
if it makes you happy
or get drowned in the sea for all that matters
fucking disgraceful shit as a prick

A-N-Y-W-A-Y
"one more creature dizzy with lof"
While in Aberdeen last spring
staying at The Lost Guest House 
as a lost guest, needless to say
a hellish noise woke me up at 3am
like a wild boar from Hades
snoring like dead meat in fangs
outside my room
I thought it was all over
finally He had found me
just when I had a writing job
or at least writing occupation
or something bloody related
about Scotland or so

I was not ready to leave
I stood an hour in the dark
listening, waiting, breathing
sweating along that noise from hell
finally a night concierge that wasn't me
found the boar AKA drunkard guy
got lost in corridor and slept next 
awake he got away and awake I wept
for having escaped once again
as I keep running away from it
not everytime

recently I finished a horror story
"The Eyes of The Gorgon"
been in my head for years
I also mentioned it here 
throught some lines in shitty poetry
about an old friend of mine
and that was it THE END
so the story is about possession
daimonic and somehow ramuntic
and 90% autobiographical
currently waiting to win a contest
or ten or as many as possible 
same as another recent short one
"All that's best from dark and bright"
thanks Byron from Lord to Lord
about another old friend of mine
which I desperately lofd for a while
always forever for a while
but the best is yet to come

30 hours awake now
better get some rest
if you ever come back here 
you know where to find me
if you ever want to wake me up
it won't bother me that much
as it may have before
I'm never short of lof
but I could do with some more
all that's bright about life and lof
and ruock and movies and art
and seks and boox and you
"you" as in the plural form
a very plural form

I wrote this in a wink
same as a quick act of lof
with someone you liekd lang ag0
not a masterpiece but 
just to see I'm still worthy
I still can do it
I still can have everything
and let it loose to win it again
this fever won't ever go down
but I'll go down on you
as a thousand plural form

 © Laurie Lipton 

New anthology

The closest I’ve been to success

Was seeing the sunset reflecting in my book

Not a great one but filled with mithology

Not a chance of being successful in here

This land is not even desertic but grass

could not be yellower - green never lasts

But last afternoon was something else

Far from all the others - too many for me

When sunset dyed the pages orange

I looked up for a sec - mithology was there

All alive, walking, dancing in my garden

This land is my land - a dinosaur roared

Stomping the Earth not again - I know

It was their time not mine and smoke

could be smelled in the air - fire on the mountain

Maybe cavemen next door but not Ringo

Then spirits arose from the ground and

performed their strange rituals and if I

was there looking they could not care less

Somehow all these magic numbers

gave me a sight I ran to my book to

scratch some untongued words in the corners

Five fall futuressly fighting for

foul faking fire from foot feeding

Félix Francisco Casanova

"Canarian Rimbaud", my balls

A giant wooden totem resembling an owl

Took place where the cabin was - or wasn’t?

Time played foul and I didn’t move

From hammock delighted to see the show

Then some Navajo redskins danced around

the owl totem and all around was wilderness

and I was naked with too many skin that could

serve to make leather for all their tribes

dwelling over the hills - big pillars of smoke you

could see maintaining the invisible

temple from above the clouds

And if there is a temple there is a Goddess

and that one I know who she is as I climb

onto her temple and I kneel before her to

kiss whatever needs to be kissed and

sometime after I choose some poetry to

read on her lap to recitate to whisper with

all my body and is a good thing no one can

comprehend even if there are so many

vulturing around her so many eyes on

so many Tarkovski’s 1979 masterpiece - ah

You can’t read poetry anymore it no longer

exists on this World - try others if you dare

Only good poetry will come from my lips

and onto her lips - all of them yes yes yes

Though here I will no longer live in time

Considering I was always living late

So if you want poetry I’ll throw a rhyme

I’ve always live full of hate

Demon witch of the Shining Peaks

Not that long ago in dream years

I inhabited a hotel during winter season

Built by the indians buried below

Or so I heard, thing is, listen

There was a room somewhere

Unsure about the floor but

When the elevator threw those

Giant currents of blood

Almost like open red curtains

Showing black&white a path

To a room is a room the room

Above the indians with no summer

And beneath the basement BAM BAM BAM

Heart of the Overlook Hotel howled

I maybe was the one to watch over it

Sometimes it was the other guy

And sometimes there was this sign

“beware the woodsman Cooper”

Strange mithologies walked among us

Thought I rarely saw living human beings

Never felt alone never was let alone

No friends allowed anyway

A room this room the room

Listen to me here ok

Everywhere I have lived

Had this same room

First at parents house in the city

Later in that small house in a village

Lost in the woods of a mound of a hill

When I flew across the ocean

And all the different places I dwelled

This room was always next to mine

Now my room is the Overlook

Overlooking a town between the peaks

First they were all mad then all dead

And now they have changed so much

They barely appear in time for the show

Not like the TV would work fine here

I only find fun in hitting it with my axe

It belonged to a watchman long ago

He liked to visit that room very much

There was this other guy with the same taste

For danger and girls and fire

He used to come from town in disguise

Then his hair turned grey

Then he became the mask

Or should I say he was always the mask

From pure air they descend as the shadows

Of night that spins the world

Black and white and blue

Covered and uncovered in red

As the curtains welcoming us

To their dance of time and space

If you follow me down some time

I’ll go down slow on you

And if you don’t feel like

You can always put me inside

A souvenir snowglobe

“Greetings from The Shining Peaks”

And take me with you anywhere

They’ll probably let you in the room

Always had this things for girls

As that strange case long ago

It all happened there

The man who solved it is still there

Despite recent facts

Is not really happening again

This spirit people from pure air

Will greet you they will

Put a demon in your witch

The one you have always wear inside

We spoke about witches last night

Remember?

When I knew you were the one

And we moved inside each other

Our fate was sealed it has always been

Since that black night watch

When I told you everything I know about them

The room next to mine danced of evil joy

The woodsmen gave the watchman the axe

They told him to fell a victim

And so the story goes on

No love will save us

But is nice to make it with you

In the waiting room

While the spirits get ready for us

To catch us in their bag of death

Seven worlds below us

The indians are coming

They paint our faces in a tomahawk

The dwellers in the treshold as they say

Your portrait so damn pretty

That could blow the Overlook away

And walk with fire

And dance with BOB and the little man

And all these masked people at the ballroom

A mob ready to lynch the king

Universe is just this

As it always was and always will be

For David, Mark, Steve, Stanley and C.

©.Jared Lyon

Ficciones a la publicación de las obras completas de Félix Francisco Casanova, poeta

Hace años me pasaron un artículo de periódico a doble página con el retrato en grande de un efebo de portentosa melena, casi rostro de mujer, presidido por un par de ojos claros que podían leerte el alma con prefacio, relato y epílogo en un par de segundos. El chaval, poeta de corazón, había muerto en extrañas circunstancias antes de la veintena, en Tenerife, a mediados de los 70. Extractos de sus poemas hablaban de su tenue relación con el teléfono, de La misteriosa Voz que le besaba desde el otro lado. En un descuido, olvidé el nombre del autor, pero la foto me persiguió largo tiempo. Me ha hallado, por fin, minutos antes de mi primera cita con C, en la librería de una ciudad que no es Tenerife. Liberándome de la petrificación, cojo el ejemplar con ambas manos dado el volumen del mismo. Demipage ha editado las obras completas de Félix Francisco Casanova, y el nombre, esta vez, echa raíces. Me sumerjo en el prólogo de Fernando Aramburu mientras espero a C y me sumerjo todavía más hondo, debido a su tardanza, en algunos poemas y el inicio de la novela "El don de Vorace", escrita en tan sólo 44 días. Casanova aúlla, confiesa, abarca universos en el puño como Borges. Atisbo, ahora y siempre, el poema "Conversación" para enseñárselo a C, porque en un futuro muy próximo espero que le recuerde a mí. Me adentro en 1974, larguísimo blues. Kosoff vive, y firma el solo de su carrera en la canción "Moonshine", cuya letra podría haber firmado Casanova. Habla acerca de fumarse un cigarro a la luz de la luna apoyado en su propia lápida. Me pregunto si alguna vez escuchó a los Free. Morirán el mismo año, 1976, 25 años Kosoff y 19 Casanova. Pero todavía queda para eso, pues C se digna a aparecer por fin y nos abrazamos como el poeta abraza al papel, interminablemente, tratando de abarcar todo lo que es físico, vertiendo todo sentimiento en un mismo acto. La simbiosis sucede, susurro a su oído los secretos del universo a la vez que Casanova se los susurra a La Voz y es el mismo momento, ambos, porque esta magia existe.

Hay un café junto a la ría que lleva el nombre de Kubrick. Mientras tanto, Casanova escribe un poema dedicado al Tarkus de Emerson, Lake & Palmer. En algunas traducciones antiguas se traducen los nombres de los grupos; así descubrí a "El Aeroplano Jefferson", pero Casanova va varios años por delante y es devoto de Pink Floyd antes de que lancen The Dark Side of The Moon, acaso la cosa redonda más perfecta que se ha hecho nunca. Tampoco llegó a enterarse nunca del asesinato de Lennon, ni del punk, ni de los años 80 en España. Se le conocen, eso sí, un viaje familiar por Bilbao, Madrid y Barcelona, y otro a París, que acaban con la maleta llena de vinilos. Procura publicar y ganar todos los certámenes que se pueden ganar en Tenerife, donde el personaje Vorace afirma tener una casa junto al mar hacia el final de la novela. C. y yo vivimos en el ático de esa casa, observando sus últimos días, que son los primeros nuestros. Como fantasmas que lo acosan, estoy ahora seguro de que algunos de sus poemas son sobre nosotros, pues nos ha percibido alrededor. Creo que sabe que conocemos su fatal destino, y así lo hace entrever en los escritos, y esto justifica el desenlace de la novela. Vorace, inmortal para siempre, buscando la muerte de todas las formas posibles sin conseguirlo, organiza una fiesta de disfraces para todos sus amigos con la respetable intención de prender fuego a la casa. Tan sólo falta el reloj de Poébano. En los confusos capítulos finales, su cabeza se desgaja y es arrojada al mar convertida en una centella. Un relato de Maupassant termina con el protagonista desgajando su propia cabeza de su cuerpo durante su misa funeral, cayendo a dentelladas sobre el cura. Maupassant también escribió el aterrador relato sobre presencias malignas en casas que llamamos "El Horla". Creo que C. y yo hemos sido el Horla para Casanova/Vorace y él nos prendió fuego en venganza. Y basta cogernos de la mano para comprobar que no se ha extinguido.

Al atardecer entrelazo la mano de C. justo antes, o después del beso. Quizá durante, con este monstruo ya no caben medidas porque el tiempo se le ha enroscado a la cola y el Uróboros que late en mí sólo quiere mordérsela. Miro a C., le miro la mano y se le transparenta un poema. Se lo leo en voz alta, pues no es otro que "Conversación":

No quisiera ponerte nerviosa.
Es la primera vez que algo
nos va a separar,
porque es la primera vez
que te produciré auténtico
miedo.
Así que empiezo otra vez:
quiero ponerte nerviosa,
quiero que tiembles
y quiero que aprendas
a hacerme temblar. 

 (...)

Fíjate en que esto ya no es un poema,
que yo no soy el mismo para ti
desde que empezó este diálogo.

Más adelante me reanudaré la corbata escribiendo ésto, aburrido y absurdamente atrapado a la razón de cierto empleo tiránico que adoro aborrecer. Casanova nunca tuvo que emplearse, nunca tuvo que reajustarse la corbata ni reventarse los nudillos en otra cosa que no fuera papel, nunca fingió pillarse la mano con la puerta para no ir a trabajar, jamás necesitó un día libre y no tuvo que infiltrarse en la oscuridad de la cocina para una merecida cena de medianoche al acabar el turno. De lo que supo es de enmascarar confesiones, cuya fórmula no pocos adoptamos, recuérdense los poemas en lengua extranjera dedicados a C. que publico sin parar sólo para captar su atención. Cuando Vorace alardea de ímpetu físico, su amante en la ficción ilustra sus encuentros sobre lienzo y carboncillo. En el cuerpo de C. escribiría todas las palabras que conozco ahora y me quedaría corto; Casanova nunca se queda corto cuando escribe poesía. Coge las palabras, les mete el lápiz por el cinturón y las levanta para mirarlas mientras patalean indefensas. En el aire les da vueltas, las estira para ver hasta dónde pueden llegar y sólo cuando han mutado en otra cosa las deja caer de nuevo al folio. Algunos tenemos que conformarnos con las salpicaduras que caen fuera de la mesa y trabajar con eso. Bueno, no en todo íbamos a perder. Casanova menciona varias veces su deseo de retirarse en las Orkneys de Escocia. Con el nuevo contrato literario de C. y el que me conseguirá, estamos más cerca que él. A pesar de todo.

C. y yo podríamos seguir hablando de la muerte, de la literatura, de la juventud que se desboca y se vacía antes de dejar de existir, pero es el tema más trillado que se me ocurre y tenemos muchos lugares por visitar aquí en 1974. Admiro a Casanova hoy más que nunca por no haberse creído en ningún momento que su sombra iba a ser mucho más alargada de lo que fue en vida, y bien está que esa sombra siga bajo el agua sin aparecer en las discusiones cotidianas del futuro donde venimos y al que no pensamos volver. Quedáos con vuestras redes sociales que nosotros seguiremos tejiendo nuestras redes en el acantilado de la casa junto al mar que Vorace jamás consiguió quemar, mientras nos sacudimos mutuamente la ceniza del hombro y pescamos desde el ático, nos clavamos las uñas y nos vamos al sofá durante noches enteras de adoración y dolor. Refundaremos Equipo Hovno, el proyecto juvenil de Casanova y amigos que satirizó tanta prensa tinerfeña en su día, y seguiremos la publicación donde la dejaron. Inventaremos palabras y poemas, nos impetuaremos físicamente hasta la extenuación y nos tatuaremos nuestros nombres alterados por nuevos caractéres. Y nos juraremos promesas bajo el sol donde los setenta nunca terminan, y releeremos sus diarios cuyas notas suelen acabar con "AAAAH COÑO!!!" y las nuestras también y forjaremos nuestra propia obra para que cuando nos leáis desde vuestro aburrido 2017 nos engrandezcáis como a leyendas, que es lo que seremos, porque es lo único que sabéis hacer. Censuromocionadme la boca si alguna vez me la véis lejos de C. porque será la única oportunidad que tendréis.

"AAAAH COÑO!!!!"

F.F. Casanova (1956-1976)

A Fernando Aramburu y Francisco Javier Irazoki, y a la editorial Demipage, gracias por haber publicado esta necesaria antología.

A C. como siempre desde hace poco y espero que para mucho.

Y a Félix Francisco, claramente.

Black Night Watch

Such a bad night, I know
you went to bed too early
like you always do, eh
probably upset for what 
I may have said or
what I haven't said yet
thing is that you slept
peacefully in your anger
not knowing that I was
sitting at the foot of your bed
just waiting, guarding
watching over you
being aware of the things
that surrounds us now
that have surround us 
for a big long time even if
you haven't noticed yet
you had yours from the start
I bring my own ones with me
they've haunted me since 1987
but I won't let them touch you
I can't do nothing with your owns
you'll have to deal with them
in your own sleep so if
you let me watch over it
in this cold dark night
I'll do my best to protect you
waiting is the worst
I silently pass my finger 
across your hair I
kiss the top of your eyes I
read a book between your legs
I take notes at the backpages
and before I attempt to wake you up
for no particular reason 
here they bloody come 
not fair at all, I mean
Scotland had the Black Watch
The Southern Highlanders
The Royal Dragoons at Edinburgh Castle
I only have my fucking dick
can't fight a lot like that
here is the nightmare again
about my old friends in Germany
I see it as if it was an old german film
the voice of Marta while takes of Berlin
a big old grey block of buildings
María lives in 4th floor
in the hall lies the pasta machine
it has been making pasta for years
sending mac n' cheese to each flat
the trail for María is blocked
nobody has been receiving the pasta
is a block for junkies
María won't be eating pasta anymore
her dishes in the machine sound dead
Marta's voice fading out
I hate that film and you know
both of them are alive but
is how the things fight me
they took a friend of mine
I can't let them take another one
I don't want to breath if another
single friend is taken
I miss you pal, I love you
hurt and tired but still standing
you still asleep and beautiful
they can't get through me
I hear them scratching the door
demon witch, the masked guy and more
all of them launch their most powerful attack
and I fall for it, as I always do
this nightmare has been going on forever
the old man is possessed again
he was released a while ago but
apparently he was thinking about it
and BAM! the bad spirit fucked him hard
so now Mom and I are setting dinner
thinking carefully what to say
we know the thing coming is not him
they are coping ideas from "The Shining"
and it fucking works
Steve King would be proud
screwing with my mind since 1977
you Steve bastard give back my life
anyway the thing that looks like
the old man comes and I salute it
"OLD MAN YOU ARE LATE" I yell
not letting a single crack through my voice
and the things yells back at me
I keep playing the role
"OLD MAN, WHY YOU SHOUTING?"
and no answer, it just unveils true face
my long time friend demon witch
"oh come on who were you expecting"
says that horrible face without a word
and I wake up sweating and crying
they always find their way to me
but you are still there
moving unwell, disturbed in your sleep
you are so bright, I lay next to you
I hide in the Queendom of your legs
for you to hold me I desire the most
to tell me that everything is alright
an embrace and one of your healing kisses
while we watch for each other
as the things crawl slowly
they can never get to us if we stand
nobody will ever get to us
the sum of all our fears is big enough
daylight, animals in the farm are singing
another night we survive
yet another day we have to get it together
so much easier if we are two
or we are one

Don't mind a ghost

Today I was too late
missed action by 2 minutes
wasn't fast enough or maybe 
you were in the 70s again
so, this thing of ours, ah,
unnamed and yet unpacked
like the flat we should move to
the thing is becoming too big now
my things happen at your nights
things will happen at our nights
so whatever you are breeding
I'm feeding it 
grows on you as it grows on me
soon it will swallow me and I
well I will go smaller and smaller
ready to be consumed by the thing
we shall be consumed together
as the flat becomes a mansion
remember when we used to 
have furniture in between
as some practical damage control
and ended setting fire to it all?
we kept the burning embers so
now we have a mansion full of
black steaming furniture and
a notorious bunch of ghosts
you took yours and I took mines
our lovely family in our lovely house
though, I shouldn't be telling you this
I may become a ghost soon, too
you're consuming me faster and faster
too fast to enjoy our new life together
in our brand new mansion on the hill
dangerously close to a landslide
pointy sharp stones await below
a sea of flames with motorized sharks
I chose the location, happy with that?
not bad to get to choose the place
to get to choose to be consumed by you
by the whiskey sugar on your nipples
do I really have to continue?
the beautiful sex in the love of your sex
whatever it means
I lose seconds of life with any of your kisses
years with any orgasm if lucky
and I won't stop having a go at you
because you are my Big Crush in the 70s
and so I will be your Spectrum
haunting the mansion in your honor
you side A of "Making Movies"
you side B of "Abbey Road"
you side C of "The Wall"
you side red on our bed
you'll consume me and I love you for that
I'll haunt you and this mansion forever
someone has to lead this army of ghosts
phantom lords with nowhere to go
meanwhile keep me with a thread of life
waste me waste me hold me waste me
I'll hear the piano in the basement 
Elton and the Phantom of the Opera 
will play "Funeral for a friend/Love lies bleeding"
as for now just keep ahead
I won't back down now so won't you
this mansion I named Canterville
because as born to be Wilde Oscar wrote
"...if you don't mind a ghost in the house, its alright..."
as the flowers wither in the Garden of Death
I'll follow you around if you dare to
walk barefoot at night with a chandelier 
I'll be your hand, I'll be the fire
I'll be the grass and I'll be the kiss
and you can be just yourself
I know there's nothing better than that
I'll be the mansion, I'll be the hill
or if you just want me to be a cell
one of the miriads that breath in you
so I'll be, bluebird firekisser
fuck the trouble ahead as we fuck ourselves
good, sweet, longing and please do it again
atop of any ghost in all the places of the house
this skin was born to dwell inside you

ez dago barroterik