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Sound Thoughts

Could you really live under the snow?

It`s not dark yet but its getting bad.

I`m sick of love, I`m sick of it.

Marlene Dietrich would not join the Nazis.

An emperor can love a courtesan,

A servant-girl might love her master,

The sunlight turns in strange forms

Before it falls to the sea.

Strange is the world, like The Next Supper,

Hooligans sucking crumbs from the table

And dying of lies:  everything grey,

That was the vision from Paraguay.

Rocks fall among the morning stars,

Perfumes change with every ray

Of the capricious sun, flickering eye-lids

Into pretended dreams, thus we die,

But not until dogs have bitten bones

From every chicken and dead vicuña,

Not so to do would insult the bins.

Some fools would rather eat a pig

Than dance on a fork, or dig a crumb,

They will always scoop their dreams

Into frying-pans of alligators.

What are Relationships anyway,

Too intense, they always die.

Sometimes they leave poetry,

Like the dim sky after the night,

Like the floating mist on a lake of hope,

Like trees whose perfumes remind you of women,

Who seem then to dance on their every branch,

Partaking of the sexy moon,

And the breakfast of dawn that needs a kiss,

A red-lipped kiss of the waiting dawn,

The hope in the first light watering earth,

The excruciating wish that noone knows,

The dog-eared love of something on fire,

The crucifying hunger for another night,

The impulse flying beneath the boot,

The girl who smiles with eyes like boats,

The dreaming floaters upon imaginary trees,

The hoarse cries of immense gulls,

The flamingos whose pink toes pick

Into a marsh where worms wriggle,

And dreams are plucked by goose-pimples,

And silvery toe-tails are painted with sex,

And the moon imparts its sleepy command,

And nothing obeys lists of rules,

And all disperses into a round circle,

Which never ends, like a jazz break,

Or a toucan biting your thigh in quiet

Thickets where adventurers plot their advances

And farces and débâcles are breathed into life;

Thus are the wisps of early cloud

In the bluey sky of Asunción`s day

Brought to glorious rain.

My death will not happen here

Quite like I thought, there is some time

Hidden in a quirky loaf,

Rising from fermenting wine,

Dancing up into demented flames,

Where wonderful witches fly about

On sticks of fire, and the red sun

Giddies itself in its slain night,

And the singing angels of sweetest life

Love each other and everything else;

There I want to be.


Tim Cloudsley nació Cambridge, Inglaterra. Es sociologo, escritor y poeta. Trabajó como profesor en la Escuela de Idiomas, de la Universidad Industrial de Santander, Bucaramanga en el ámbito de estudios culturales y literatura.

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