svankmajer

Es dialecto ibicenco, lo traduciría pero pierde todo el encanto, creo.

Me ha costado meses terminarlo y voy y me equivoco al escribir: en el antepenúltimo verso, debería poner 'patir' (sufrir) y no 'partir' (irse).

svankmajer

¿De qué isla eres rosen? ¡Y yo creyéndote canario!

La palabra ibicenca clave es 'engatar' (emborrachar/se). Bien visto lo de los còdols y la sal

svankmajer

Miau.

Sant Joan.

Lucretia89

No debería de estar por aquí, porque como dicen por estos lares "chivo que se devuelve de esnuca", pero que coño!... Ehm compartiré por acá mi blog: http://reflexionesdelucretia89.blogspot.com
Ahí hay un par de escritos (no los considero buenos como tal) pero como siento que los estoy lanzando a la " nada" pues comparto el link para quien quiera leer a esta pésima escritora (yo) ... En fin, saludos.

PD: comparto uno de los escritos:

Pasolini

See schoolgirls down the lane
—do hurry, sadboy, do
toss them away
from the brittle input
throbbing beneath your windowpane!

See schoolgirls evermore.
See schoolgirls dance and leap —
summits unscoured, with winged feet
rollerskating under pollen rainfall
their eyes alight
with a promise of tenderness and flight.

See schoolgirls: 'tis only asked of
one such
rather timid or a wee bit ripe
to grab you —in dreams
manufactured— by the hand
and pallate the skies Earth has in stock
until further notice.

So why don't you pick a flower as in ol' new tales and, while you're are it, consecrate yourself to the gift of animal sexuality? To courtship and ritual, to infatuation's blinding sun, to archaic scents of God and death? Why don't you?

What's wrong with you?

See schoolgirls...

svankmajer

El de Lucre me parece un quiero y no puedo darks, cero poético. Él de antenna podría ser la letra de una canción de Killing Joke, pero en el mal sentido...

Pasolini

Maybe
if I had eyes
I would behave otherwise.

And if I had a heart
I would enlive and struggle
and throb forward: whatever forward
signified.

But my disabled bowels
lean dull and slender on the country rain.

(Since, come to think of it, I am
the country rain
riding ever forlorn waves
crackling against rooftops of scrap.)

Pasolini

Ghastly flower, bloodflower
shimmers in my garden —what
chance! How unfortunate!
Wanton skylight heaves
overhead its nasty, nasty corollaria;

I interpelate Her –whatcha doin', Pellucid
One, on mine derrelict parcel?
Somethin' the matter?
To which she bows and utters, as
byways of reply: ''Sickly sweet
is the colour of my misery, amid yet
fresh roots and anthills, henceforth
I beg of you kindestLETMESTAY—.''

Breather.
Our sun manifest from beneath shrouds which azure underlay,
drip in imprints and silhouettes,
and again —But of course! Far
as I'm concerned I
ain't never believed much
in private property.