de martes a miércoles

milagro.
(De miraglo).
2. m. Suceso o cosa rara, extraordinaria y maravillosa.

de ~.
1. loc. adv. U. para expresar que algo ha ocurrido cuando parecía imposible que ocurriese, o que no ha ocurrido cuando todo hacía creer que iba a suceder.

vivir alguien de ~.
2. loc. verb. Haber escapado de un gran peligro.

la noche afuera

Idilio en el café

Ahora me pregunto si es que toda la vida
hemos estado aquí. Pongo, ahora mismo,
la mano ante los ojos —qué latido
de la sangre en los párpados— y el vello
inmenso se confunde, silencioso,
a la mirada. Pesan las pestañas.

No sé bien de qué hablo. ¿Quiénes son, 
rostros vagos nadando como en un agua pálida, 
éstos aquí sentados, con nosotros vivientes? 
La tarde nos empuja a ciertos bares 
o entre cansados hombres en pijama.

Ven. Salgamos fuera. La noche. Queda espacio 
arriba, más arriba, mucho más que las luces 
que iluminan a ráfagas tus ojos agrandados. 
Queda también silencio entre nosotros, 
silencio

             y este beso igual que un largo túnel.


Jaime Gil de Biedma

falda


como un tornado que pasara lentamente
la vida esparció los objetos por las cuatro
esquinas de este mapa objetos

de escaso valor souvenirs bolígrafos gastados
transistores sin pilas y prendas prendas como esa falda

tirada por el suelo
recuerdo el día que la compraste ¿qué es esto? no
no voy a ponérmela es demasiado corta cien mil veces

en cócteles en verbenas en domingos estúpidos en casa
bailando para ti sólo para ti cien mil veces me la puse
sin bragas sin nada debajo como tú me pedías y ahora ves

tirada por el suelo
se la pone luisa para jugar con las amigas

si vieras cómo ha crecido en pocos meses

Pablo García Casado 

oasis

En un artículo reciente en The independent sobre Steve Coogan, leo lo siguiente de abajo. Cuando aparece el sentido común es como un oasis.

In any case, his life appears quieter than it was in 2007 when the Daily Mail dubbed him "Coogan the Barbarian." He lives outside Brighton, near to Clare, his 16-year-old daughter from a previous relationship, in a mansion he shares with Elle Basey, a 23-year-old lingerie model he met when he was guest-editing Loaded. "And there I, ah, I draw a veil," he says. "I don't like to bang on about my personal life." He spends his spare time at his house in the Lake District. "I don't like going to sunny places on holiday," he says, with a baffled sneer. "I love Britain." He walks and reads – classic-car magazines and history books. This weekend, he went cycling on the South Downs. "They are not particularly exciting things", he says. "But I like doing them."
His professional life is rather more serious, too. Comedy leaves him a bit cold these days. "You get older and you want something more. I do love comedy, I'd just rather use it as a device to do something of substance." He is already working on a new screenplay with Pope ("He's workmanlike, good at the big picture. I over-analyse, like the myopia of it.") loosely based on his childhood. And he is writing his autobiography. It will only cover half of his life, probably up to when Partridge was born.
"So I don't have to roll my sleeves up and start slagging off people I work with and upset them. I'll only have to mildly criticise my friends and family. And they won't sue me." Will it be a happy tale? "Yeah. I'll try and manufacture some sort of trauma obviously. Make it more interesting. The content will be slightly underwhelming – 90 per cent of my childhood was very happy. I wasn't buggered by a priest, no one molested me. The only thing that happened was I had to go bed early and miss Bouquet of Barbed Wire. And I wasn't allowed a new Chopper for Christmas."
He was a dreamy child, always fantasising about films, or life in London, where everyone "lived in Mayfair, in expensive apartments, and drove Bentleys." At school, he was a talented mimic, but a reluctant one. "I wasn't the performing monkey. There were people in my class who goofed around and I thought they were idiots," he says. He is not sure what he would have done, had he flopped in showbusiness. "I dread to think. I probably would have drifted into teaching. God knows, I've never had a proper job."


disparos



I was five and he was six
we rode on horse made of sticks
he wore black and i wore white
he would always win the fight

Bang bang, he shot me down
bang bang, i hit the ground
bang bang, that awful sound
bang bang, my baby shot me down.

Seasons came and changed the time
when i grew up, i called him mine
he would always laugh and say
"remember when we used to play?"

Bang bang, i shot you down
bang bang, you hit the ground
bang bang, that awful sound
bang bang, i used to shoot you down.


Music played and people sang
just for me the church bells rang.
Now he's gone, i don't know why
and till this day, sometimes i cry
he didn't even say goodbye
he didn't take the time to lie.

en plural

celo
(Del lat. zēlus, ardor, celo, y este del gr. ζλος, der. deζεν, hervir).
1. m. Cuidado, diligencia, esmero que alguien pone al hacer algo.
2. m. Interés extremado y activo que alguien siente por una causa o por una persona.
3. m. Recelo que alguien siente de que cualquier afecto o bien que disfrute o pretenda llegue a ser alcanzado por otro. U. m. en pl.
4. m. En los irracionales, apetito de la generación.
5. m. Época en que los animales sienten este apetito.
6. m. Período del ciclo menstrual de la mujer en que se produce la ovulación.

7. m. pl. Sospecha, inquietud y recelo de que la persona amada haya mudado o mude su cariño, poniéndolo en otra.