Text: Eugenio Blanco

Illustration: Wendy Deconzanet

The hairdresser around the corner, the lottery lady who sells her tickets exposed to the elements, out, in the freezing cold, the student dying out before the exams, the demure ballerina of the academy, the daunted intellectual girl who reads Joyce in the park, the new waitress of the local bar with no clue on pouring pints of beer, the trembling traveller –your last love story’s main actress-, the girlfriend sweeper who glances at her watch impatiently, the youthful mother who waits her kid at the school’s entrance, the English babysitter who doesn’t totally understand the language, the beautiful brunette who sleeps while I write these trivialities, the child who pees in the field, the hippie jeweler who sends her son for bread, the evocative poster of the actress who reveals her breasts, the junfie begging for money or mercurochrome for her shots in the underground, the composer playing at the moment... in the dark, bunched together, devoured by a disturbing gazem by the lover´s anxiety or the fear of the alarm clock.

The beaty, the sparkling scent, pearly white teeth, bleeding hair, full of courage, women, the force of the spirits, woman, neverending word which emerges and sparkles, every time I write this word, I write sighs in my ship´s book, in my asbestos cloud, I will devote myself to them in discotheques or fashion shows. So many women around is going to leave me unconscious, without a reality, the agilated beauty of that sequential and articulated poetry, prominent nerves and pink breasts, soaked wet while it rains. Or the perfect fingernails, as statues or exaggerated learners, it is so difficult not to surrender to the excessive libido of so many lips... The memory of the lustful female who lies and has her pierced, pain, poison, a reason of living.

Coloured eyes by paradise stewardesses, short break in the clamor of desire, in the inflamed voluptuosity, eyes, round eyes, filled with children inside, with the seeds of discord and tenderness, tobacco smoke and midnight wind, morning salt, soft sensation. Subdued sound. The girls from the past times, my cousins´hair, the prostitutes´sex, the alibi and the soul dysfunction, the teacher who reads my texts, I want her to fall in love with me, to be afraid of teaching in the class if I am not present. I want her to die to hear my words.

Wild middays, in my heart, I can hear the whisper of a bird which sound as a verse describing the stolen body of a woman, the bright darkness of the pubis, the inevitable tired skin, sister mouth and goddess legs. Goddesses are women, gods are too, but they have deceived us, we, men, are nothing but the redoubt of a feminine feeling, of a red passion that descend every morning through the light, blonde hair, flower skin essence, autumnal  spring, birth. Carves souls, uterus and caverns: we all come from uterus and caverns.

Marilyn´s lipstick, sensual sneeze of the virgin teenager who shivers in view of the wound of her solitude, Madame Bovary´s deep caresses, a yellow rose laid on the bedsheets of a poem, love letters from a russian girl, cold letters from the same woman some time later, and also my own tears in this abandonment. A swig of adrenaline, a lung full of eagerness, a violet twinkle that pales in the night, perhaps a pure disobedience that dwells in the surface of every life. Ah!

"Give me your heart and I will get you to know the stars".
"Don´t you realise, marvellous, you already made me get lost in them.