Stardust walker

Poets quiet by a
   galaxy opened million years ago

Characters dying at the
   irrevocable turn of spinning stars
                                            left alone
Stories burning at
   the center of the universe
forever forgotten in a neverending
                                           eternal throne

Acto Primero

Sus ojos rezumaban una condescendencia que se elevaba más allá de su propio ego. "Llamadme Will", deslizó a través de una sonrisa jactanciosa y divertida. Y su aire arrogante llenó la habitación cuando, con un gesto teatral más propio del romanticismo, se desprendió del sombrero sin apartar la mirada, los ojos clavados en el primer candidato.

Elegante socarrón quien parecía llevar "soy el amo del universo" escrito en la frente. "Llamadme Will, soy el amo del universo".

No se dejó caer en la butaca porque su altanería no iba a permitirle no mirar a alguien por encima del hombro. Se hizo elegantemente a un lado, con las manos a la espalda y una pose erguida y presuntuosa que hacía juego con su frac.

"Llamadme Will, soy el amo del universo y podría comprarme a tu madre con el dinero suelto del bolsillo del pantalón".

Tin angel

"The politics of speed. Between the Buttons came out. That's when I zoomed in on Brian. I got obsessed with him. Focused on him like some sick kodak. Brian between the what? Look at that cover. look at him. he's exposed, he's cold as ice. his powdery skin. his shadow eyes. a doomed albino raccoon. I seen them do Ruby Tuesday on tv. Mick was on top he was the prince. decked in a mirrored shirt and shingled hair. he made his first public ballet bow. Brian was crouched down. he seemed covered with a translucent dust. mr. amanda jones.

[...]

He wasn't human and not super human. rather transparent. The bruised and vulnerable soul of the Stones.

I tried to touch. I made this chant:

Brian Brian/I'm not crying/I'm just trying/to reach you.

My own mantra. Hard contact. Mix and melt and warn a sacred stranger. A weakling.

The fire eater reappeared. We withdrew to a town called the "wishing well." I tried to can my obsession. I was getting wall-eyed. I made Lizzie Borden look like a seamstress. I breathed deeper. forget Brian. ya don't even know him. Relax. Dig a hole and shit like a cat. like Voltaire.

[...]

When sleep covered me I'd dream a death dream of Brian. By the fourth night I wished I was dead. My body erupted. I was covered with an unknown rash. I could hardly breathe. I dropped a pot of boiling water on my legs. They bubbled up like jelly fish.

He'd drown in his own tears. mock turtle.

He'd swell up from swallowing too much rain.

dressed in victorian lace he'd choke

Mick would cover his eyes. Keith would cry like the warrior.

Night after night. Until my eyes burned like a leg.

It was July 2. The doctor thought I was bats. He gave me morphine for the pain. He whispered sweet dreams.

[...]

It was morning. It was dazzling. It was July 3rd. By night fall the whole world knew that Brian Jones was dead.

[...]

The Stones were moving toward a mortal mergence of the unspoken monument and the hot dance of life. But they were moving too slow for Brian. So slow he split. In two.

Death by water. Just a shot away from the heart of Ethiopia. Rising to original heights. Up and over Adams apple sauce. There are blonde hairs raveling in the Stones vital breath. ha ha. Brian got the last laugh."

-Patti Smith

Anybody seen my baby

As tears go by

Si los planetas se alinearon o las estrellas chocaron, si la bóveda celeste en un cúmulo de oscuridad se abrió y cayó en pedazos nadie pareció percatarse porque tú, ecléctico y dulce, cálido calculador, te encontrabas en medio del agujero en el espacio tiempo.

Con la sonrisa tibia del murmullo de los últimos suspiros y los ojos aguados, como un niño que divaga en las efímeras memorias de un relato agridulce. Sereno, como el sol del ocaso de tu último verano. Turbado, como el trastorno palpitante que siguió contigo hasta el fin de tus días.

Frío, tendido ante la inmensidad de los cuerpos celestes.

Y dorado. Como la estela de tu tacto mágico. Como un ángel que termina su cometido terrestre antes de tiempo, con el alma arrancada, todavía latente cuando un hilo de voz rogaba por mantenerte despierto.

Loco genio solitario. Virtuoso arrogante incomprendido.

Mi amor, fuiste demasiado real para este mundo.