Even Robots Need Love

Posted: February 6, 2011 in graffiti living
Tags: ,

robots need love too

Robots are stealing my blog content. Kinda. I’m so angry about it that I was ready to delete my blog. Instead I decided to write a revenge post called, ‘STOP STEALING MY CONTENT, YOU CUNTS!’ that will appear in their feeds. But, I’ve got less than fifteen minutes left to post something this week. And I’m neither alive enough nor drunk enough to do that post justice. So, instead, I’m going to reblog myself and answer a question from a previous post about why ‘City That Does Not Sleep’ by Lorca is my favourite poem. So, here’s the poem. Because robots need love too.

City That Does Not Sleep – Lorca

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful!Be careful!Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear’s teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world.No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

Clearly, this is an amazing poem. And if that’s not already apparent to you; you’re dead to me. Or a robot. But, the thing is – I’ve an embarrassing confession to make about how I got into Lorca.

I met a pretty young greek girl, back in the days when I was a pretty young blond boy. We were out drinking and clubbing, but she was also reading a battered copy of Lorca’s collected poems. He was her favourite poet. “I love him. Do you know him?” she said. I lied and said that I loved his work too. I’d never read a line of his before.

We got along quite well after that. I quickly thumbed through the book when she went to the toilet. I opened a page at random and that was the poem that I first read. It was like seeing the contents of my dreams writ large by someone else, only a hundred times better, with infinite style and creativity. It blew my mind. So much so that, the morning after, I went out and hunted down everything of his that I could lay my hands on. I admit that I got into Lorca in an attempt to get laid. It didn’t work, afterall. But, although she’ll never know, I’m forever grateful to this girl for putting me onto his work.

When life brings you poems – pay attention. You may get into something good, even if you don’t get into a Greek girl’s pants.

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Comments
  1. Stupidgirl45 says:

    wow i love that poem ,it’s awesome!

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