viernes, 25 de febrero de 2011

¿Ves ese paquete de "fumar mata" que hay sobre el piano?


"Todo lo que hay que saber de la vida está entre esas cuatro paredes. Verás que a una de tus personalidades le seducen los delirios de grandeza. Un paquete dorado de cigarrillos largos con una insignia regia. Una atractiva insinuación de Glamour y riqueza. Una sutil sugerencia de que los cigarrillos son tus reales y leales amigos. Y eso Pete... es falso. Tu otra personalidad intenta que te centres en la otra cara de la moneda. En aburrida negrita y sobre un fondo blanco, aparece la afirmación de que esos firmes soldaditos de la muerte en realidad quieren matarte. Y esa Pete... es la verdad. Oh.. la belleza seductora llama a la muerte y yo soy adicto a su cautivador canto de sirena. Lo que al principio es dulce, al final es amargo.. y lo que es amargo, al final es dulce. Esa es la razón de que tú y yo adoremos las drogas..."

Monólogo de Johnny Quid en Rocknrolla.

"All you need to know about life is retained in those four walls. You will notice that one of your personalities is seduced by the illusions of grandeur - the gold packet of king size with a regal insignia, an attractive im
plication towards grandeur and wealth, the subtle suggestion that cigarettes are indeed your royal and loyal friends, and that, Pete, is a lie. Your other personality is trying to draw your attention to the flip side of the discussion, written in boring bold black and white, it's a statement that these neat little soldiers of death and in fact trying to kill you and that, Pete, is the truth. Oh, beauty is a beguiling call to death and i'm addicted to the sweet pitch of its siren. That that starts sweet ends bitter, and that which starts bitter ends sweet. That is why you and I love the drugs..."

jueves, 24 de febrero de 2011

Poemando

My heart is a tangle, is a tangle

A knotted up mumble

Unintelligible, rarely humble

And evil, horrible, terrible

My heart it crumbles

and I hear it grumble

So proud, so arrogant

It depends on the angle

My heart is a cannibal eating itself,

calming its thirst with my tears,

caging my spirit in mangled up spheres

of hardened up, toughened up flesh

My heart it hurts,

but convinces itself it just itches

My heart it burns,

when intentional cuts break the stitches

but my heart just pretends

Yes, my heart just pretends.

Unless it is sure no one listens

Hate’s its hobby; love, its business

although it enjoys its job and

I don’t know if you’ve noticed

but as it pounds automatically,

it takes over every single pound of ME.