Israel Centeno
I am lying on the sofa. The light comes through the blind and perpendicularly falls over my head. I open my eyes. Despite the bedazzlement I am watching the illuminated dust. It is fall. Late morning. It is fall and I barely can move without pain. It is fall. Late. Everything hurts, I would like to have the courage just to stay and do not move.
The last paragraph was emotional, a lachrymose. Should I try to write letting out my needs of pathetic scenes?
Go back dear T. S Eliot. Go back. Get behind me Alfred Prufrock.
Still is a piece of dramatic shit. A tango. Un bolero. But worse.
Back in the days I used to write with more music and less words. Of course there were words but like music.
“Remember, remember the fifth of November”. I heard you. It is not mine. But something likes that. With this sentences you can dance on the south shore of the Themes, with a torch in your hand making rounds with others like you, remember, remember the fifth of November, like Vendetta, like a poor boy from South America craving to set his world on fire. It wasn’t me. It was the guy from El Guarataro. Do not look at me. I was there, drinking cider with a couple Irish friends. We were sharing that night doing nothing but wondering for the city, and chanting, and kissing and thinking of some kind of immortality as living burning out effigies forever, and all of the sudden that guy came out from the darkness, crying with a strong caraqueño accent, something strange about Guy Fawkes pointing out the small crowd, pointing out the mist and yelling. There was a pain in him, there was in the same time craziness and a life looking for bonfires and dances, happy and desperate. I tried to talk to him, saying something, I recognized him, an isolated guy from the English academy in Marble Arch. I couldn’t. Everybody started moving in circles grabbing their wrist, fast and faster. Last thing that I saw before I came apart in that dense fog or smoke, were two straw dolls catching fire, a tie of flame gulping down the coat of the caraqueño guy who was running and jumping like a clown toward the river. People chanting and laughing and shouting, back in the days, as a tribe, in London.
The last paragraph was emotional, a lachrymose. Should I try to write letting out my needs of pathetic scenes?
Go back dear T. S Eliot. Go back. Get behind me Alfred Prufrock.
Still is a piece of dramatic shit. A tango. Un bolero. But worse.
Back in the days I used to write with more music and less words. Of course there were words but like music.
“Remember, remember the fifth of November”. I heard you. It is not mine. But something likes that. With this sentences you can dance on the south shore of the Themes, with a torch in your hand making rounds with others like you, remember, remember the fifth of November, like Vendetta, like a poor boy from South America craving to set his world on fire. It wasn’t me. It was the guy from El Guarataro. Do not look at me. I was there, drinking cider with a couple Irish friends. We were sharing that night doing nothing but wondering for the city, and chanting, and kissing and thinking of some kind of immortality as living burning out effigies forever, and all of the sudden that guy came out from the darkness, crying with a strong caraqueño accent, something strange about Guy Fawkes pointing out the small crowd, pointing out the mist and yelling. There was a pain in him, there was in the same time craziness and a life looking for bonfires and dances, happy and desperate. I tried to talk to him, saying something, I recognized him, an isolated guy from the English academy in Marble Arch. I couldn’t. Everybody started moving in circles grabbing their wrist, fast and faster. Last thing that I saw before I came apart in that dense fog or smoke, were two straw dolls catching fire, a tie of flame gulping down the coat of the caraqueño guy who was running and jumping like a clown toward the river. People chanting and laughing and shouting, back in the days, as a tribe, in London.
