Porque no sólo de pan vive el ser humano, he aquí una revista lo bastante sabrosa como para alimentar el intelecto y desatar la lujuria artística a todos los niveles...Además es gratuita. Vamos, a qué estas esperando para descargártela!
REVISTA PSIQUEACTIVA Nº 2
P.S: Aún no se han prescrito las contraindicaciones. En caso de duda descárguese también el número 1.
Post post-scriptum: Poemilla y reseña de servidora incluidos en el lote.
domingo, 8 de enero de 2012
jueves, 5 de enero de 2012
Y un "último" (y eléctrico) baile que perdurará eternamente.
MGMT, "Electric Feel", Oracular Spectacular, 2007.
"All along the eastern shore,
put your circuits in the sea.
This is what the world is for,
making electricity.
You can feel it in your mind.
Oh you can do it all the time.
Plug it in and change the world
You are my electric boy."
put your circuits in the sea.
This is what the world is for,
making electricity.
You can feel it in your mind.
Oh you can do it all the time.
Plug it in and change the world
You are my electric boy."
Porque el adjetivo "último" ayer mutó en "eterno"...
miércoles, 28 de diciembre de 2011
Qué sí, qué sí, qué el albatros de Coleridge se tatuará en mi pecho...
“La levedad del pájaro”
Aprender la levedad del pájaro.
Sacar los pies del nido y encontrar
que fuera el mundo es limpio
y el cielo es amplio
y no nos queda nada
por lo que valga la pena no amar.
Aprender
la levedad del pájaro. Respirar.
Sentir cómo pasa el aire
por todas las esquinas del cuerpo,
Lo más parecido a volar
que puede hacer una mujer
como yo,
con el corazón
pegado a la tierra.
Desafiar
la gravedad
como el que desafía
una norma, aprender
la levedad del pájaro.
Olvidar que las cosas pesan
y echarlas al aire,
quedarse quieto y ver
cómo les nacen
alas.
Lo más parecido a volar
que puedo hacer,
yo que tengo
los pies
de plomo.
Aprender
la levedad
del pájaro.
Laura Casielles.
miércoles, 21 de diciembre de 2011
"Circunferencia pulmonar (o la importancia de "Pi" al respirar)
Microexordio (in)necesario: Porque cuando se respira, sin señal de neón que lo indique, finalmente se encuentra la salida.
Y el círculo se cuadró,
sin compás y sin regla,
en un manantial breve y
fugaz entre las
manos.
C.G.B
C.G.B
"Los días raros", Vetusta Morla, Mapas, 2011.
domingo, 11 de diciembre de 2011
jueves, 8 de diciembre de 2011
Wish you were here...
"Wish you were here"
(song by Pink Floyd,
cover by Sparklehorse)
So,so you think you can tell heaven from hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail,
a smile from a veil.
Do you think you can tell
and did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts,
hot ashes for trees,
hot air for a cool breeze,
cold comfort for change.
And did you exchange a walk-on part in the war
for a lead role in a cage.
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl.
Year after year
running over the same old ground
what have we found
the same old fears,
wish you were here...
(song by Pink Floyd,
cover by Sparklehorse)
So,so you think you can tell heaven from hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail,
a smile from a veil.
Do you think you can tell
and did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts,
hot ashes for trees,
hot air for a cool breeze,
cold comfort for change.
And did you exchange a walk-on part in the war
for a lead role in a cage.
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl.
Year after year
running over the same old ground
what have we found
the same old fears,
wish you were here...
jueves, 1 de diciembre de 2011
Waiting for the moon.
"If the Owl Calls Again", John Haines.
At dusk
from the island in the river,
and it's not too cold,
I'll wait for the moon
to rise,
then take wings and glide
to meet him.
We will not speak,
but hooded against the frost
soar above
the alder flats, searching
with tawny eyes.
And then we'll sit
in the shadowy spruce
and pick the bones
of careless mice,
while the long moon drifts
toward Asia
and the river mutters
in its icy bed.
And when the morning climbs
the limbs
we'll part without a sound,
fullfilled, floating
homeward as
the cold world awakens.
but hooded against the frost
soar above
the alder flats, searching
with tawny eyes.
And then we'll sit
in the shadowy spruce
and pick the bones
of careless mice,
while the long moon drifts
toward Asia
and the river mutters
in its icy bed.
And when the morning climbs
the limbs
we'll part without a sound,
fullfilled, floating
homeward as
the cold world awakens.
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