La verdad tiene que salir, esa es la esencia del arte. Pero eso no es lo mismo que decir que el mundo deba contemplarla.

Stephen King, Duma Key
art walter sickert

And now the dark air is like fire on my skin
And even the moonlight is blinding

Townes Van Zandt, Rake
townes in pic

who's coming? Nine months?

Just let me go
I even love the devil
For yes he did me harm
To keep me any longer
'Cos I'm really tired
I'd love to go to sleep and wake up happy
Yeah I'm really tired
I'd love to go to sleep and wake up happy,
Wake up happy

Manic Street Preachers, William's Last Words
art jenny saville

My lover comes to me with a rose on her bosom
the moon's dancin' purple
all through her black hair
and a ladies-in-waiting she stands 'neath my window
and the sun will rise soon
on the false and the fair

She tells me she comes from my mother the mountain
her skin fits her tightly
and her lips do not lie
She silently slips from her throat a medallion
slowly she twirls it
in front of my eyes

I watch her, I love her, I long for to touch her
the satin she's wearin'
is shimmering blue
Outside my window her ladies are sleeping
my dogs have gone hunting
the howling is through

So I reach for her hand and her eyes turns to poison
and her hair turns to splinters,
and her flesh turns to brine
she leaps cross the room, she stands in the window
and screams that my first-born
will surely be blind

She throws herself out to the black of the nightfall
She's parted her lips
but she makes not a sound
I fly down the stairway, and I run to the garden
no trace of my true love
is there to be found

So walk these hills lightly, and watch who you're lovin'
by mother the mountain
I swear that it's true
Love not a woman with hair black as midnight
and her dress made of satin
all shimmering blue

Townes Van Zandt, Our Mother The Mountain
art unknown author

Los niños muestran sus cicatrices como medallas. Los amantes las usan como secretos a revelar. Una cicatriz es lo que ocurre cuando el mundo se hace carne.

Leonard Cohen, El juego favorito
art anne faith nicholls

...And round about there is a rabble

Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.

They shall inherit the earth...

Ezra Pound, The Garden
art harma heinkens