Y aunque suene a trozo de esqueleto bramando pena:
Tú nunca me quisiste.

¿Y tú, de qué lado de mi cuerpo estás, alma, que no me socorres?

Al mundo ígneo lo siento
legumbre rumiante
del corazón.
Y en mi agujereado nombre
come costumbre
la piel de asesinato.
Al mundo ígneo lo huelo
a atmósfera, a vapor,
lo siento
padre atrofiado donde
de la carne de la noche
el vacío se hace hombre.
Derrama, corre la sangre
por las arterias de dios.






Como el toro te sigo y te persigo,
y dejas mi deseo en una espada,
como el toro burlado, como el toro.


Miguel Hernández

Casta tierra incauta,
castrando piernas Castúas,
o Castizas, Cordobesas:
¿dónde está el tubérculo de tu tripa?
Yo sólo hallo guita seca,
religión roñosa
bulbos de quejas
y raíces indolentes.
Casta tierra incauta,
enséñame el tubérculo de tu tripa,
que yo sola escarbando
sólo hallo
patria y jamás huerta,
una España hambrienta
de vida
y ahíta
de ceniza muerta.

Bienvenido a mi cuerpo.
De nuevo
mis ovarios te van abrazando
con anhelo brusco,
y tu dolor errante
segrega savia
suscita amapolas.
Hoy no hay adentro roedor de vida,
sólo mi rojo extraterrestre
en este cíclico planeta anquilosado
de terror engendra terror
de Hombre mata a Hombre.

No quiero
Dolor sordo,
Ni su ahincar
En la llaga desnuda,
Abierta de ardores.
Es como si una cicatriz enferma
Se desabrochara
Y se destaponara una hecatombe roja,
Como si todos esos cuerpos tarados
Chillaran cariño
Abriendo venas de padre,
Y yo ya sólo sintiera
Un amor sanguíneo
Regando todos los caminos
Desolados
De mi vientre.

El frío que otorga al día consistencia.
La dureza impregnada en la fruta, las fresas.
El azúcar coagulado en la fisura del dedo, yema de deseo cruda.
El cuchillo, analfabeto emocional, tajante en la uña y su carne.
La hemorragia del jugo como ríos de sangre hasta los tuétanos.
El luto, un hematoma fósil, de linaje ateo.
La vida, flujo del útero salvaje derramándose
Como semilla que desemboca
En la desidia de la tumba.




Cuadro: Melancolía (Edvard Munch)

No raspa ni pincha
No punza ni araña.
Sólo roza, palpa la pulpa
Y a veces duele,
Porque súbitamente
Extirpa
El monstruo
De mi soledad.

Y yo seguiré aquí,
Con o sin esquina donde arrinconar
Toda la verdad sucia
Que nunca quiero mostrar
Más allá de tu trayecto.

No por los exámenes,
Ni por las cicatrices,

pero me siento agobiada.

He loved her and she loved him.
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment's brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was

Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face


Ted Hughes. Cuadro: Unidad, de Eduardo Kingman