A los mártires gazatíes.
Cuerpo necesitado de besos y consuelo,
de ser sostenido en brazos,
de ser besado en todos y cada uno de sus puntos,
envuelto en el abrazo,
elevado,
desaparecido,
disuelto en el aire,
entre los besos y el consuelo:
Magia de miles, millones de hadas.
(Agosto de 2025)
El cuerpo de este árbol,
de esta piedra, de este ser
(da igual)
está tiznado de marcas
repetitivas
ivas
ivas
ivas.
Patrones que cortan el flujo
general.
Se oponen a éste.
Aparecen a veces:
A veces, esta es la clave.
Pero qué son las «veces» en el
tiempo.
Qué son: vetas cortas, marcas
que significan algo
que significan algo algo-algo-algo-algo-algo-algo;
manchan la obra eterna,
la obra perfecta,
las tiznas de la realidad.
Unas veces son pocas y otras muchas
uchas
uchas
uchas.
A veces.
Vienen a veces.
Yo no conozco su ley.
Pero las dejo que marquen, oblicuas, mis páginas,
como la lluvia en un cómic
o una punzada suelta que acaso traspase,
rompa e, incluso, deforme y desintegre del todo el papel.
(Agosto de 2025)
NORTHERN SUPREMACY BLUES
Well, I’ve been Down so goddamn long that it looks like Up to me.
The world, mundua, el Mundo de Wayne. De John motherfucking Wayne, the hardworking, the sightseer from the far, the far away, deep, fairy-taly ole American land.
I’ve got the Northern Supremacy Blues, dude.
He walks like a wise man on suffering wise feet.
He talks like a tired man tired from doin’ the right thing.
No regrets, no second thoughts either; no remorse at all I guess.
He just stands there smoking a cigarette, alone (and after his lung cancer, he will only smoke cigars, dude).
Yo, brothers and sisters watching television shows, don’t let ‘em tell you which the style is from now on.
John Wayne was asked to run for president by the republican –clap-crap– party –Hey, Scott, is that a club of nazi wealthy old sports?!–.
He declined because he did not believe the public would seriously consider an actor in the White House, though he did support his friend Reagan’s runs for Governor of California (same as Schwarz-e-nigger, dude).
You know? After all I guess the nazis did manage to win the motherfucking World War.
I’ve got the Northern Supremacy Blues, dude. I’ve got it deep inside, it’s true.
As for the nazi shit, I’ll tell you that I really dig that song, “Behind the Crooked Cross”, by that little pop band called Slayer, and that I really dig that “Deutches requiem” short by Dee Jay L. (Don Jorge Luis) motherfucking Borges.
I wouldn’t even give a fuck if they were nazi-happy or not. They fucking talked about it, so what? What’s wrong?
It is so much, so much worse, it’s actually bad, dude, to never talk about it, to cover it with a smile, while pressing buttons from behind.
Yo, masses of blacks living in this South of Heaven:
Yo, masses of whites living in this South of Heaven:
I’ve still got this Northern Supremacy Blues on me.
I’ve still got this Northern Supremacy Blues on me.
Northern Supremacy not-by-birth Blues on me.
I’ve been Down so goddamn long that it looks like Up to me.
(2006)
IRON MIND
Escribí Northern Supremacy Blues a principios de siglo.
Pero nunca lo publiqué porque no me parecía suficiente.
Mente convincente.
Mente real.
Pertinente.
Desde entonces, sin embargo,
lo he llevado
siempre en la mente.
Para que os hagáis una idea de lo mentalmente jodida que es esta vocación.
Ojalá que vuestros hijxs no sean poetas.
Pero si lo son, desarrollarán una
Iron mind.
(2025)
David Murders 