This is recorded at home, I don’t have much money to buy good engine and stuff I made it with what I have. The lyrics are a poem of E. Cummings, here they are
I like my body [when it is] with your body. It is [so] quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which i will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like [it] slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh … And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill of under me you so quite new.
…el caso no ofrece ningún adorno para la diadema de las Musas. Ezra Pound
Me despido de mi mano que pudo mostrar el paso del rayo o la quietud de las piedras bajo las nieves de antaño.
Para que vuelvan a ser bosques y arenas me despido del papel blanco y de la tinta azul de donde surgían ríos perezosos, cerdos en las calles, molinos vacíos.
Me despido de los amigos en quienes más he confiado: los conejos y las polillas, las nubes harapientas del verano, mi sombra que solía hablarme en voz baja.
Me despido de las virtudes y de las gracias del planeta: los fracasados, las cajas de música, los murciélagos que al atardecer se deshojan de los bosques de casas de madera.
Me despido de los amigos silenciosos a los que sólo les importa saber dónde se puede beber algo de vino y para los cuales todos los días no son sino un pretexto para entonar canciones pasadas de moda.
Me despido de una muchacha que sin preguntarme si la amaba o no la amaba camino conmigo y se acostó conmigo cualquiera tarde de esas en que las calles se llenan de humaredas de hojas quemándose en las acequias. Me despido de una muchacha cuya cara suelo ver en sueños iluminada por la triste mirada de linternas de trenes que parten bajo la lluvia.
Me despido de la memoria y me despido de la nostalgia -la sal y el agua de mis días sin objeto-
y me despido de estos poemas: palabras, palabras -un poco de aire movido por los labios- palabras para ocultar quizás lo único verdadero: que respiramos y dejamos de respirar.
“Henry: I did not mean to burn you yesterday—I was lying as in a dream—and so dissolved I could not hear you rising—I clung to a prolongation of that moment. When I think of it now I feel a kind of pain to have burned you—say that you forgive me—it was unconscious. I can’t write to you, Henry, though I was awake last night telling you—all night—of that man I discovered yesterday … the man I sensed with my feelings the first moment—all the mountains of words, writings, quotations have sundered—I only know now the splendor, the blinding splendor of your room—and that unreal moment—how can a moment be at once so unreal and so warm—so warm. There is so much you want to know. I remember your phrase: “Only whores appreciate me.” I wanted to say: you can only have blood-consciousness with whores, there is too much mind between us, too much literature, too much illusion—but then you denied there had been only mind… My face makes you think that all my expectations go up, up … but you know now that it is not only my mind which is aware of you. Aware of you, chaotically. I love this strange, treacherous softness of you which always turns to hatred. How did I single you out? I saw you with that intense selective way—I saw a mouth that was at once intelligent, animal, and soft … a strange mixture—a human man, sensitively aware of everything—I love awareness—a man, I told you, whom life made drunk. Your laughter was not a laughter which could hurt, it was mellow and rich. I felt warm, dizzy, and I sang within myself. You always said the truest and deepest things—slowly—and you have a way of saying, like a southerner—hem, hem—trailingly, while off on your own introspective journey—which touched me. Just before that I had sought, as I told you, suicide. But I waited to meet you, as if that would solve something—and it did. When I saw you I thought, here is a man I could love. And I was no longer afraid of feelings. I couldn’t go through with the suicide (idea of killing off romanticism), something held me back. I can only move wholly. I don’t know if it was love—there was a long moment of interruption—the love for June. Henry—the love for June is still there. I couldn’t bear seeing her photograph yesterday. She possesses us both—everything else is only a temporary victory. I thought I was in love with your mind and genius (I read you what I thought of your mind and writing)—chaos only with June. I felt your mind watching me. I didn’t want love because it is chaos, and it makes the mind vacillate like wind-blown lanterns. I wanted to be very strong before you, to be against you—you love so to be against things. I love to be for things. You make caricatures. It takes great hate to make caricatures. I elect, I love—the welling of love stifles me at night—as in that dream which you struggled to make real yesterday—to nail down, yes, with your engulfing kiss. When you will feel me veiled, holding back, Henry, it is June. What power you had that first day, tearing from me pages from my journal about her. You do not know to what extent I guard myself, and my feelings. It is strange how you get truth from me. Henry, I too want to sit and write you a long time, as if it represented a closeness to you. I didn’t tell you the joy I felt at your return from Dijon, what a joy, acute, I feel when you act spontaneously as I do. And what a joy again when, in the center of the madness, you say unexpectedly something very deep, the sudden illuminations of living, the lantern never quite blown out—I love that too. Dark living and that awareness—I appreciate that—don’t you understand—like an intensification of all pleasures. I love the creator in you, too—who enriches and expands living in ways nobody else understands. I love the sincere and the insincere (I was delighted when you wrote me once and in the middle of the letter became aware it would make a preface!). On se penetre non par les sensations mais par la pensée, I wonder.”
Anaïs Nin, A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller (via mitochondria)