despertar(es) maravilloso

(A Albert, a mí, a Bob. A nosotros. A Lara)

Ni siquiera habíamos desembarcado en Oviedo (aunque ya todo se iba urdiendo (urdiendo, repítelo mil veces para mañana, Serrano) en la sombra y existía Annie y también Annie y muchas tardes, después del trabajo, parábamos en el 13 a tomar unas carlsberg y escuchar un puñado de buenos temas: quién nos iba a decir entonces, Bro, que acabaríamos viviendo ahí al lado) el verano en el que Bob me sacó del abismo. Ya conté en otro lugar lo que supuso la irrupción de L en nuestros ajetreos estivales: enseguida me fascinó la eléctrica inocencia con la que lo plagaba todo de titubeos y rizos y miradas diríase que infinitas. Estaba clarísimo, empero, que aquello no podía ser (pero los besos eran tan de capítulo noveno) y no pudo ser (pero su aliento de ida y vuelta a la altura de mi cuello suponían la confirmación de que otro mundo era posible y) y no fue (y aún hoy recuerdo la batalla final, húmeda por overbooking de gotas en el lacrimal: sonaba Amaral: era la radio). Pero saber, Bro, casi nunca es suficiente: hay que meter los dedos al estilo santotomásico para entender, hay que darse de bruces contra el muro si no, no duele y sin dolor, ay, no hay cura.

Me abismé, me aislé, cerré los ojos, apagué el teléfono, me pasé mis diez días de vacaciones encerrado en casa, náufrago y desdeñado sobre ausente. Sé que fueron a buscarme, que se interesaron, que me querían y me quieren pero, en fin, no remonté el vuelo hasta que Bob me soltó un directo a la mandíbula desde alguno de tus viejos recopilatorios, Bro. Ni siquiera tenía mucho que ver con la historia de lo nuestro (y aquí el posesivo es excesivo) pero, de algún modo, consiguió encender sobre mí la chispa adecuada, después de sesentaicinco escuchas consecutivas, eso sí. Gracias Bob, por devolverme el verano, mañana hará tres años. Ahora el premio Príncipe te trae a Oviedo, digo yo que habrá que celebrarlo.

P

They're selling postcards of the hanging

They're painting the passports brown

The beauty parlor is filled with sailors

The circus is in town

Here comes the blind commissioner

They've got him in a trance

One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker

The other is in his pants

And the riot squad they're restless

They need somewhere to go

As Lady and I look out tonight

From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy

"It takes one to know one," she smiles

And puts her hands in her back pockets

Bette Davis style

And in comes Romeo, he's moaning

"You Belong to Me I Believe"

And someone says"

You're in the wrong place, my friend

"You better leave"

And the only sound that's left

After the ambulances go

Is Cinderella sweeping up

On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden

The stars are beginning to hide

The fortunetelling lady

Has even taken all her things inside

All except for Cain and Abel

And the hunchback of Notre Dame

Everybody is making love

Or else expecting rain

And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing

He's getting ready for the show

He's going to the carnival tonight

On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window

For her I feel so afraid

On her twenty-second birthday

She already is an old maid

To her, death is quite romantic

She wears an iron vest

Her profession's her religion

Her sin is her lifelessness

And though her eyes are fixed upon

Noah's great rainbow

She spends her time peeking

Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood

With his memories in a trunk

Passed this way an hour ago

With his friend, a jealous monk

He looked so immaculately frightful

As he bummed a cigarette

Then he went off sniffing drainpipes

And reciting the alphabet

Now you would not think to look at him

But he was famous long ago

For playing the electric violin

On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world

Inside of a leather cup

But all his sexless patients

They're trying to blow it up

Now his nurse, some local loser

She's in charge of the cyanide hole

And she also keeps the cards that read

"Have Mercy on His Soul"

They all play on penny whistles

You can hear them blow

If you lean your head out far enough

From Desolation Row

Across the street they've nailed the curtains
They're getting ready for the feast

The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest

They're spoonfeeding Casanova

To get him to feel more assured

Then they'll kill him with self-confidence

After poisoning him with words

And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls

"Get Outa Here If You Don't Know

Casanova is just being punished for going

To Desolation Row"

Now at midnight all the agents

And the superhuman crew

Come out and round up everyone

That knows more than they do

Then they bring them to the factory

Where the heart-attack machine

Is strapped across their shoulders

And then the kerosene

Is brought down from the castles

By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping

To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero's Neptune

The Titanic sails at dawn

And everybody's shouting

"Which Side Are You On?"

And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot

Fighting in the captain's tower

While calypso singers laugh at them

And fishermen hold flowers

Between the windows of the sea

Where lovely mermaids flow

And nobody has to think too much

About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday

(About the time the door knob broke)

When you asked how I was doing

Was that some kind of joke?

All these people that you mention

Yes, I know them, they're quite lame

I had to rearrange their faces

And give them all another names

Right now I can't read too goo

Don't send me no more letters no

Not unless you mail them

From Desolation Row