sábado, 26 de noviembre de 2011

The kiss

Gustav Klimt



Edvard Munch

Tamara de Lempicka

domingo, 20 de noviembre de 2011

what a kiss should taste like...

Passage taken from Ken Follet Book "The Pillars of the Earth"


"I'm all right," he said. "Everything's all right"
"I'm so glad", she repeated, and it came out in a whsiper. She saw him close his eyes and bend his face to hers, and then she felt his mouth on her own. His kiss was gentle. He had full lips and a soft adolescent beard. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the sensation. His mouth moved against hers, and it seemed natural to part her lips. Her mouth had suddenly become ultra-sensitive, so that she could feel the lightest touch, the tiniest movement. The tip of his tongue caressed the inside of her upper lip. She felt so overwhelmed with happiness that she wanted to cry. She pressed her body against his, crushing her soft breasts against his hard chest feeling the bones of his hips dig into her belly. She was no longer merely relieved that he was safe, and glad to have him here. Now there was a new emotion. His physicial presence filled her with an ecstatic sensation that made her slightly dizzy. Holding his body in her arms, she wanted to touch him more, to feel more of him, to get even closer. She rubbed his back with her hands. She wanted to feel his skin, but his clothes frustrated her. Withouth thinking, she opened her mouth and pushed her tongue between his lips. He made a small animal sound in the back of his throat, like a muffled moan of delight.

jueves, 17 de noviembre de 2011

Diálogo sobre un diálogo - Jorge Luis Borges

A- Distraídos en razonar la inmortalidad, habíamos dejado que anocheciera sin encender la lámpara. No nos veíamos las caras. Con una indiferencia y una dulzura más convincentes que el fervor, la voz de Macedonio Fernández repetía que el alma es inmortal. Me aseguraba que la muerte del cuerpo es del todo insignificante y que morirse tiene que ser el hecho más nulo que puede sucederle a un hombre. Yo jugaba con la navaja de Macedonio; la abría y la cerraba. Un acordeón vecino despachaba infinitamente la Cumparsita, esa pamplina consternada que les gusta a muchas personas, porque les mintieron que es vieja... Yo le propuse a Macedonio que nos suicidáramos, para discutir sin estorbo.

Z (burlón)- Pero sospecho que al final no se resolvieron

A (ya en plena mística)- Francamente no recuerdo si esa noche nos suicidamos.


FIN

miércoles, 16 de noviembre de 2011

tristeza repetida

la voz es una niña salpicando miedo
el ruido no se supera
letras, destierro

Últimamente he regresado a ciertos ciclos que me desconciertan, sostengo mi corazón para que no se caiga, vértigo, frío, los vacíos no se detienen y la máquina tiene que reinventar envases.

miércoles, 2 de noviembre de 2011