Picture to Burn

State the obvious

I didn't get my perfect fantasy

I realized you love yourself

More than you could ever love me

So go and tell your friends

That I'm obsessive and crazy

That's fine, I'll tell mine

You're gay, by the way

I hate that stupid old pick-up truck

You never let me drive

You're a redneck, heartbreaker

Who's really bad at lying

So watch me strike a match

On all my wasted time

As far as I'm concerned

You're just another picture to burn

There's no time for tears

I'm just sitting here planning my revenge

There`s nothing stopping me

From going out with all of your best friends

And if you come around saying sorry to me

My daddy's gonna show you how sorry you'll be

‘Cause I hate that stupid old pickup truck

You never let me drive

You're a redneck, heartbreaker

Who's really bad at lying

So watch me strike a match

On all my wasted time

As far as I'm concerned

You're just another picture to burn

And if you're missing me

You better keep it to yourself

Cause coming back around here

Would be bad for your health

Cause I hate that stupid old pickup truck

You never let me drive

You're a redneck, heartbreaker

Who's really bad at lying

So watch me strike a match

On all my wasted time

In case you haven't heard

Cause I really really hate that stupid old pickup truck

You never let me drive

You're a redneck, heartbreaker

Who's really bad at lying

So watch me strike a match

On all my wasted time

As far as I'm concerned

You're just another picture to burn

Burn, burn, burn, baby burn

Just another picture to burn

Baby, burn

------Taylor Swift

Tim McGraw

He said the way my blue eyes shined

Put those Georgia stars to shame that night

I said: "That's a lie."

Just a boy in a ghevy truck

That had a tendency of gettin' stuck

On backroads at night

And I was right there beside him all summer long

And then the time we woke up to find that summer gone

But when you think Tim McGraw

I hope you think my favorite song

The one we danced to all night long

The moon like a spotlight on the lake

When you think happiness

I hope you think that little black dress

Think of my head on your chest

And my old faded blue jeans

When you think Tim McGraw

I hope you think of me

September saw a month of tears

And thankin' God that you weren't here

To see me like that

But in a box beneath my bed

Is a letter that you never read

From three summers back

It's hard not to find it all a little bitter sweet

And lookin' back on all of that, it's nice to believe

And I'm back for the first time since then

I'm standin' on your street

And there's a letter left on your doorstep

And the first thing that you'll read is:

Think of me

He said the way my blue eyes shine

Put those Georgia stars to shame that night

I said: "That's a lie."

------Taylor Swift

Tonight I Can Almost Hear the Singing

There is a music to this sadness.

In a room somewhere two people dance.

I do not mean to say desire is everything.

A cup half empty is simply half a cup.

How many times have we been there and not there?

I have seen waitresses slip a night's

worth of tips into the jukebox, their eyes

saying yes to nothing in particular.

Desire is not the point.

Tonight your name is a small thing

falling through sadness. We wake alone

in houses of sticks, of straw, of wind.

How long have we stood at the end of the pier

watching that water going?

In the distance the lights curve along

Tampa Bay, a wishbone ready to snap

and the night riding on that half promise,

a half moon to light the whole damned sky.

This is the way things are with us.

Sometimes we love almost enough.

We say I can do this, I can do

more than this and faith feeds

on its own version of the facts.

In the end the heart turns on itself

like hunger to a spoon.

We make a wish in a vanishing landscape.

Sadness is one more reference point

like music in the distance.

Two people rise from a kitchen table

as if to dance. What do they know

about love?

------By Silvia Curbelo

Parca-villaggio

A lungo si parlò di te attorno ai fuochi

dopo le devozioni della sera

in queste case grigie ove impassibile

il tempo porta e scaccia volti d'uomini.

Dopo il discorso cadde su altri ed i suoi averi,

furono matrimoni, morti, nascite,

il mesto rituale della vita.

Qualcuno, forestiero, passò di qui e scomparve.

Io vecchia donna in questa vecchia casa,

cucio il passato col presente, intesso

la tua infanzia con quella di tuo figlio

che traversa la piazza con le rondini.

                                              ------ By Mario Luzi

Of Three Or Four In The Room

Out of three or four in the room
One is always standing at the window.
Forced to see the injustice amongst the thorns,
The fires on the hills.

And people who left whole
Are brought home in the evening, like small change.

Out of three or four in the room
One is always standing at the window.
Hair dark above his thoughts.
Behind him, the words, wandering, without luggage,
Hearts without provision, prophecies without water
Big stones put there
Standing, closed like letters
With no addresses; and no one to receive them.

                                  ------By Yehuda Amichai

The morning coffee

The morning coffee.

I'm not sure why I drink it.

Maybe it's the ritual of the cup,

the spoon, the hot water, the milk, and the little heap of brown grit, the way they come together to form a nail I can hang the day on.

It's something to do between being asleep and being awake.

Surely there's something better to do,

though, than to drink a cup of instant coffee.

Such as meditate?

About what?

About having a cup of coffee.

A cup of coffee whose first drink is too hot

and whose last drink is too cool,

but whose many in-between drinks are,

like Baby Bear's por-ridge, just right.

Papa Bear looks disgruntled.

He removes his spectacles and swivels his eyes onto the cup

that sits before Baby Bear,

and then, after a discrete cough,

reaches over and picks it up.

Baby Bear doesn't understand this disruption of the morning routine. Papa Bear brings the cup close to his face and peers at it intently. The cup shatters in his paw, explodes actually,

sending fragments and brown liquid all over the room.

In a way it's good that Mama Bear isn't there.

Better that she rest in her grave beyond the garden,

unaware of what has happened to the world.

------Ron Padgett 

Venus' Boyfriend

She sat on his lap for hours

pressed his face to her

large pink breasts her hands

moved through his hair

like fond snakes

she gave him curls, cleft

hooves beneath the flesh

marvellous flesh, and smooth shoulders

she taught him

how to use his tongue

to shape a heart

from a piece of ice.

------By Rachel Sherwood

La Desconocida

En aquel tren, camino de Lisboa,

en el asiento contiguo, sin hablarte

-luego me arrepentí.

En Málaga, en un antro con luces

del color del crepúsculo, y los dos muy fumados,

y tú no me miraste.

De nuevo en aquel bar de Malasaña,

vestida de blanco, diosa de no sé

qué vicio o qué virtud.

En Sevilla, fascinado por tus ojos celestes

y tu melena negra, apoyada en la barra

de aquel sitio siniestro,

mirando fijamente -estarías bebida- el fondo de tu copa.

En Granada tus ojos eran grises

y me pediste fuego, y ya no te vi más,

y te estuve buscando.

O a la entrada del cine, en no sé dónde,

rodeada de gente que reía.

Y otra vez en Madrid, muy de noche,

cada cual esperando que pasase algún taxi

sin dirigirte incluso

ni una frase cortés, un inocente comentario…

En Córdoba, camino del hotel, cuando me preguntaste

por no sé qué lugar en yo no sé qué idioma,

y vi que te alejabas, y maldije la vida.

Innumerables veces, también,

en la imaginación, donde caminas

a veces junto a mí, sin saber qué decirnos.

Y sí, de pronto en algún bar

o llamando a mi puerta, confundida de piso,

apareces fugaz y cada vez distinta,

camino de tus mundos, donde yo no podré

tener memoria.

------Felipe Benítez Reyes