La fille sur le pont (99') - P. Leconte

Who Will Take My Dreams Away?
(Badalamenti - Faithfull)

I can give you all my dreams
Nor the life I lived.
You and I, we won't friendship miss,
That's all we got to give.

Who will take your dreams away
Takes your soul another day.
What can never be lost is gone,
It's stolen in a way.

Please, don't stand too close to me,
Can you hear my heart?
Take my woe and lean on me
when were not apart.

Now our mission is complete
And our friends are hid.
Evil things brought down by the light,
life goes on until the end.

(Banda sonora, de puta madre: http://rapidshare.com/files/171697554/Girl_Bridge_1999.rar)

por toda la violencia del amor


Visions Of Johanna - Bob Dylan

Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet?
We sit here stranded, though we're all doin' our best to deny it
And Louise holds a handful of rain, temptin' you to defy it
Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there's nothing, really nothing to turn off
Just Louise and her lover so entwined
And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind

In the empty lot where the ladies play blindman's bluff with the key chain
And the all-night girls they whisper of escapades out on the "D" train
We can hear the night watchman click his flashlight
Ask himself if it's him or them that's really insane
Louise, she's all right, she's just near
She's delicate and seems like the mirror
But she just makes it all too concise and too clear
That Johanna's not here
The ghost of 'lectricity howls in the bones of her face
Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place

Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously
And when bringing her name up
He speaks of a farewell kiss to me
He's sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all
Muttering small talk at the wall while I'm in the hall
How can I explain?
Oh, it's so hard to get on
And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn

Inside the museums, Infinity goes up on trial
Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while
But Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues
You can tell by the way she smiles
See the primitive wallflower freeze
When the jelly-faced women all sneeze
Hear the one with the mustache say, "Jeeze
I can't find my knees"
Oh, jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule
But these visions of Johanna, they make it all seem so cruel

The peddler now speaks to the countess who's pretending to care for him
Sayin', "Name me someone that's not a parasite and I'll go out and say a prayer for him"
But like Louise always says
"Ya can't look at much, can ya man?"
As she, herself, prepares for him
And Madonna, she still has not showed
We see this empty cage now corrode
Where her cape of the stage once had flowed
The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes ev'rything's been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain

quiero tener algo así, como una llave


líneas y

gente con sombreros


me encantan estas tonterías.
quiero volver a ver esa peli, pronto.


ay, bienvenidas las lluvias, el otoño, el congelamiento de mis dedos, bienvenidas las sábanas calentitas y que sea con mucho té.
campeonato de poetas pesados
a Andre

obviamente no es material para nuestro documental, pero le pega en el palo



atame, atame, atame


Maldita tu sangre
(Ejercicio, empieza así, con otro formato y tal...)

Murmullo, alto,
de mujeres viejas,
triste y con congoja.
La miran,
a la nuca
tapada por una mantilla
celeste de crochet.
El pelo, ondulado, largo, despeinado, crecido.

Le brotan las lágrimas de sangre,
se empieza a escuchar más, y más alto y, murmullo.
Delante de ella hay un espejo y, más atrás y más alto,
Cristo en la cruz.

Los ojos le vuelven
a ver,
se lleva las yemas de los dedos a lágrimas moradas,
se mancha.
La sangre gruesa. Las ve.
Grita, se da vuelta, la multitud de mujeres.
En su mayoría gordas,
Daban la vuelta y se cruzan el milagro.

La esquina.
Una parroquia chica, de madera,
las cruces de barro,
dicen que antiguas;
un monaguillo las ahuyenta,
las saca a todas,
incluso a las monjas.

Todos entran,
a las dos horas,
a una especie de capilla ardiente
y se sientan a llorarla.
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