En lo profundo de un bosque se escucha un
tango siendo silbado. Un hacha, enorme para las manos que la esgrimen, golpea
la base tajeada de un pequeño laurel siguiendo la repetición de las notas más
largas del estribillo. “El laurel caerá a la nochecita”, piensa la cabeza que
sincroniza ambos actos al dejar el hacha cuidadosamente apoyada contra el
tronco.
To Dylan Thomas, the bluffer. Go drunk into that dark night. Rave, rave with your self’s shadow, dance. Dance to electric, acid drums. Go drunk into that dark night alight by fluorescent wristbands. Rave against living, against dawn. Lay bare, under a dark sky, what we all are. Go to the bathroom stalls, past the raving crowd, break in line and start a fist fight. Get drunk and scarred, animal. Smile, neon bloodied, at oblivion. Rave against all lights unflickering, against all unbroken bones, against those who dance and those who don’t: be an asshole. And dance, dance electric seraph, dance, dance to acid drums.
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