Oliver

                “Hey you twat, stop droolin’ on me hat please”

            “Huh. What?” Oliver mumbled.

            “I said you to stop droolin’ on me hat!”

            Oliver stood up in shock.  He was sitting on a bench at a plaza and this homeless man was sitting beside him.

            “Where are we?”

            The bum smiled, while patting his hat and wiping from it small pieces of dirt (as if that was going to make it any cleaner).

            “We’re at the plaza my lad. Ye fell asleep all night in. We had some fun alright!”

            “What? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

            “Ha-ha! Just messing with ye! But you slept here alright, and drooled my hat, that’s a fact!” He put his hat on. “Don’t worry ‘bout your guitar, nobody has laid a hand on it, ‘ts below the bench”.

            Oliver looked below the hobo and saw the beauty. His always beloved acoustic guitar slept, and was starting to wake up. He took her on his hands. He hugged her, kissed her, several times, and told her “Oh! How could i forget you?”.

            The hobo started to laugh while he drank from a bottle covered in cardboard.

            Oliver continued to kiss the guitar “Shall i compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou are more temperate...”

            “My! My! Is that Shakespeare you are reciting?” Said abruptly the homeless man. “Cut the classics and get into some country music my lad”.

            Oliver stopped the kissing and looked straight at the hobo. “Well then”. He stood up and made a vow. “As you wish”.

            Then he played and both of them clapped and sung to an old country song called whiskey in the jar.

Mark

                8 o’ clock, time to wake up. He tore the sheets of his bed, like making his way out of a jungle. Six layers (or so it seemed like) of different textures of silk and wool, green and blue colours of striped shapes popped into his eyes as he stood up. Looking back at the bed he saw the naked legs of the lady he had taken home last night. Katrina was her name, or something of that hurricane-sort.

            But there was no time for remembrance. He had a dream, a beautiful dream, which could not be forgotten. He walked close to his piano, his coloured piano which reminded him of strange nights on acid, there he grabbed a blank book and opened around page 50, from there on, there were only pages drawn with empty pentagrams.

            With a lick on his pencil he threw the papers on the floor, along with his body and started to write. A symphonic melody passed before him, harmonies of dark semi-tones and white and clear octaves. Every note was a person, a feeling. Or was it not? Every time he struck this trance, this moment of euphoric writing of melodies, he could not stop  the dreamy state, the feeling that everything is connected, that in one low C there is that dark dancing hip movement, and that that high B holds a kiss, a champagne lip-fusion.

            When the draft was finished, he started to play. The piano sounded beautifully.

She woke up. Looked at him, with her beautiful oak eyes and said while smiling, with a soft voice: “Sounds like last night”.

            Mark stopped playing and looked at her straight: “It does”.

Una historia en tres aspectos.

Estaba encerrado entre las corazas de su alma,
hechas de acero y titanio,
una aleación impenetrable,
refugiado del viento,
de ese efímero suspiro doloroso,
una inspiración de vida,
una exhalación de muerte.

Era esa noche de luna partida,
una sonrisa a media cara que lo miraba desde el cielo
y dividió su ser.
Así, apareció primero el aspecto de la soledad,
lo tomó del brazo y lo sacó de su capullo,
le dijo que ya había tenido suficiente silencio.

Salio entonces, él hacia el sonido.
Allí las heridas se hacían más profundas,
y el alma desnuda buscaba neurótica
alguien que pudiera servirle de ropa.
Una fusión que cerrara todo de nuevo,
en sólo un silencio más.
Así, apareció segundo el aspecto de la adicción,
que lo tomó del brazo y lo sacó de su capullo,
le insistió, le dijo que ya era suficiente silencio.

Otra vez afuera,
desde la siniestra sonrisa de la luna
gotean sus babas,
su mandíbula atorada entre un abrir y un cerrarse
que nunca se define,
una mogólica figura,
la mirada dispersa de las estrellas.
Así, apareció tercero el aspecto del día,
que lo tomó del brazo y lo sacó de su capullo,
le dijo que ya había tenido suficiente silencio.

Una hora después de la más oscura,
él duerme, y su alma unida florece,
mientras el viento estremece sus pétalos.