En el camino sobre el polvo | Poesía [ES/EN]

Robert Johnson pide una copa,
sacude el polvo sobre la guitarra
y le da igual lo que digan.
El club de los veintisiete no existe.
El Delta,
como delta de un río común,
ocurre solo en un puente
donde los orgasmos
sacuden las armonías de un doce por doce;
cuatro,
ocho,
ocho,
cuatro...
Vender el alma,
morir en el camino
sobre el polvo.

¡Muchas gracias por tu visita!

Robert Johnson orders a drink,
shakes the dust from his guitar,
and couldn't care less what people say.
The 27 Club doesn't exist.
The Delta—
like the delta of an ordinary river—
happens only on a bridge
where orgasms
shake the harmonies of a twelve-bar progression;
four,
eight,
eight,
four...
Selling one's soul,
dying on the road
in the dust.

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