tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61102002012-02-16T07:40:06.520-06:00ConsomE de LetraSBlog para cuentos (y demás mensajes subliminales) de Cons + OmeOmegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comBlogger211100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1084997129851999872004-05-19T14:57:00.000-05:002004-05-19T15:05:29.853-05:00te extrañono sé cómo ni cuándo ni por qué, pero me haces falta
es como tener una sensación de pesadez sobre mi frente...Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1082698058355641112004-04-23T00:27:00.000-05:002004-04-23T00:31:46.590-05:00cartaTuve ganas de escribirte un par de líneas...
Yo sé que estás ocupadísima y que a veces ni siquiera teienes tiempo para pensar en mí, o en nosotros. Está bien, no te preocupes, yo tampoco tengo tiempo a veces, y no es molestia sino al contrario: cuando te encuentro la emoción de verte cuelve a estar a tope. Lo único que quiero decirte es que espero no ser deasiado una carga y ser más una solución;Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1080198153136802232004-03-25T01:02:00.000-06:002004-03-25T01:06:01.840-06:00dos posts ocupando el mismo espacioHay veces, pero sólo a veces (aunque casi todas), en que te estoy apretando, estrujando, casi asfixiando contra mí, y tú haces lo mismo conmigo, y aún así quisiera estar más cerca, más y más. Es como si quisera atravesarte y que me atravesaras: Sí, dolería, pero no puedo evitarlo, es lo único que pasa por mi mente. Eso y tu respiración agitada. Y tus manos, tu pelo largo, tu cadera...
Supongo Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1077258008754924982004-02-20T00:20:00.000-06:002004-02-20T00:22:50.530-06:00and the nights will flame with fireroll the dice (Charles Bukowski)
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.
if you’re going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.
go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or
4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolationOmegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1077234155193234612004-02-19T17:42:00.000-06:002004-02-19T17:45:16.450-06:00haikuYo que me voy
y tú que aquí te quedas
son dos otoños.
ShikiOmegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1075953280901190952004-02-04T21:54:00.000-06:002004-02-08T16:44:40.700-06:00algo de Cortázar...TU MÁS PROFUNDA PIEL
Cada memoria enamorada guarda sus magdalenas y la mía -sábelo, allí donde estés- es el perfume del tabaco rubio que me devuelve a tu espigada noche, a la ráfaga de tu más profunda piel. No el tabaco que se aspira, el humo que tapiza las gargantas, sino esa vaga equívoca fragancia que deja la pipa, en los dedos y que en algún momento, en algún gesto inadvertido, constanzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02257536677140820953noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1074541279887397272004-01-19T13:41:00.000-06:002004-01-19T13:43:18.106-06:00una "villanela" (?)Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1074233398409427802004-01-16T00:09:00.000-06:002004-01-16T00:20:43.700-06:00Algunos "Pameos"...Esta ternura
Julio Cortázar
Esta ternura y estas manos libres,
¿a quién darlas bajo el viento? Tanto arroz
para la zorra, y en medio del llamado
la ansiedad de esa puerta abierta para nadie.
Hicimos pan tan blanco
para bocas ya muertas que aceptaban
solamente una luna de colmillo, el té
frío de la vela al alba.
Tocamos instrumentos, para la ciega cólera
de sombras y sombreros olvidados. Nos Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1073880811728918562004-01-11T22:13:00.000-06:002004-01-11T22:15:12.490-06:00Luna lunera...Earth-Moon
Ted Hughes
Once upon a time there was a person
He was walking along
He met the full burning moon
Rolling slowly towards him
Crushing the stones and houses by the wayside.
She shut his eyes from the glare.
He drew his dagger
And stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.
The cry that quit the moon's wounds
Circled the earth.
The moon shrank, like a punctured airship,
Shrank, shrank, smaller, Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1073702195997071452004-01-09T20:36:00.000-06:002004-01-09T20:37:46.180-06:00Algo de Robert Creeley...Water Music
The words are a beautiful music.
The words bounce like in water.
Water music,
loud in the clearing
off the boats,
birds, leaves.
They look for a place
to sit and eat--
no meaning,
no point.
The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1945-1975. constanzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02257536677140820953noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1073612779721113562004-01-08T19:46:00.000-06:002004-01-08T19:49:25.403-06:00Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day... (2)
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells
And all that is now
And all that is gone
And all that's to come...
"15. Australian radio listeners voted the album the best album to have sex to in 1990. "Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1072588152808235492003-12-27T23:09:00.000-06:002004-01-08T19:22:01.626-06:00Winter Wonderland...The American Shiny Dream...
constanzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02257536677140820953noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1072468603244431902003-12-26T13:56:00.000-06:002004-01-08T19:27:42.530-06:00Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day...
Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time/ Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines/ Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way/ The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say.../
(y otra y otra y otra y otra vez)constanzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02257536677140820953noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1072040597435040372003-12-21T15:03:00.000-06:002003-12-22T10:24:01.573-06:00Libro desconocidoTítulo: Age doesn't matter unless you're a cheese
/ (or a bottle of wine).
constanzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02257536677140820953noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1072039627924401932003-12-21T14:47:00.000-06:002003-12-21T14:49:31.260-06:00algo de Carver...On Writing.
Back in the mid-1960s, I found I was having trouble concentrating my attention on long narrative fiction. For a time I experienced difficulty in trying to read it as well as in attempting to write it. My attention span had gone out on me; I no longer had the patience to try to write novels. It’s an involved story, too tedious to talk about here. But I know it has much to do now with constanzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02257536677140820953noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1071900653926012652003-12-20T00:10:00.000-06:002003-12-21T14:57:40.393-06:00Killing time at Barnes & NobleCervantes (1547-1616)
3 traducciones:
a) “In the village of La Mancha, the name of which I purposely omit, there lived not long ago, one of those gentlemen, who usually keep a lance upon a rack, an old target, a lean horse, and a greyhound for coursing.”
b) “In a village in La Mancha, the name of which I cannot quite recall, there lived no long ago one of those country gentlemen or hidalgos constanzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02257536677140820953noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1071516576215753042003-12-15T13:29:00.000-06:002003-12-15T13:29:49.690-06:00malecónPor las noches utilizaba un fanal dióptrico con equipo de acetileno...Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1070607593828458292003-12-05T00:59:00.000-06:002003-12-05T01:00:04.966-06:00aindaNão: não digas nada!
Supor o que dirá
A tua boca velada
É ouvi-lo já
É ouvi-lo melhor
Do que o dirias.
O que és não vem à flor
Das frases e dos dias.
És melhor do que tu.
Não digas nada: sê!
Graça do corpo nu
Que invisível se vê.
Fernando Pessoa, 5/6-2-1931Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1070606425497981812003-12-05T00:40:00.000-06:002003-12-05T00:40:36.246-06:00Curso de semántica avanzada para principiantesEstoy lista, me susurras en el cuello y no sabes que en realidad te mimirras que es como mirar pero no; porque las cosas no son lo que parecen y hemos visto ya a más de un león que parece bien pintado (aunque no tenga sentido). Por eso crees que te contesto bien cuando preguntas a quién quiero y yo digo que a Ti, pero no sabes quién es Ti, ni cuánto la quiero, para el caso. Y cuando te lo aclaro Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1070037169107019542003-11-28T10:32:00.000-06:002003-11-28T10:32:58.220-06:00no séNo sé dónde estás.
Mira que te sueño, te intuyo y hasta te busco,
te llamo, te reclamo y te interrogo.
Y aún así no sé.
No sé dónde estás.
Supongo que se debe a que tampoco
sé dónde estoy yo.Omegar Martíneznoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110200.post-1069743027321189482003-11-25T00:50:00.000-06:002003-11-25T00:55:02.670-06:00Túnelel poeta
se pierde
no fuma
ni limpia
ni canta
la palabra
hoy no sirve
el poeta
sus fronteras
su vértigo
con ritmo
se marean
en pedazos
en silencios
dos cuellos
unos labiosconstanzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02257536677140820953noreply@blogger.com