Me he encontrado con estos 2 cortos.
No tienen nada que ver el uno con el otro, pero me parecen cojonudisimos.
Espero que os gusten tanto como a mí.
The tale of how
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Deep in the Indian Ocean, all scary and black,
Is an old octopus with a tree in his back
And inside from this tree, the Piranhas appear
They sing soothing songs that are kind and sincere
They’re not at all stupid, they’re not very bright,
They’re never quite wrong and they’re never quite right
They’re never asleep, they’re never awake,
They all dress like weirdoes, make no mistake.
They’re frightfully happy, except when they’re dead
See, Otto the monster needs to get fed!
A tentacle from nowhere to give a fright,
To steal piranhas, a thief in the night.
They sing soothing songs, but he never hears
The shells and the kelp that have grown in his ears
Otto is deaf, Otto means hate, Otto means death to the Dodos he’s ate.
The future is red, said Crown-for-a-head,
They have to migrate or they’d soon all be dead!
They'd have to leave home, to swim all right
Or the water'd be red on that terrible day
Otto that monster, how hideous the slaughter
He plucked like fruit from the inky, black water.
There were not many left, but a handful, a few
One of them had a vision and knew what to do.
Fill paper with ink and wattles with paper
And an ocean of bottles, and sing for their saviour
But no one came, they were sad, and alone.
They seemed to be stranded on this doomed Household
The quite, raw ocean of terror and typhoons
The faraway voices that sing to the moon
The treacherous house, many more disappeared
To the visit of a mouse named Eddy the Engineer
Here, from the West, on a bunch of bananas,
He puffed out his chest, and addressed the Piranhas
“You dear Piranhas, does Otto want to eat you?
My name is Eddy and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I’ve read all your letters, I know all the wrongs
Caused by Otto the monster, who is deaf to your songs.
I’ll give you my oath, I’ll do what I can,
I’ll need Palm Trees and silver, to start my plan”.
Using huge sticky pots, cutting palms at their stems,
They built a great structure, resembling them.
The brought out a net when they sang lullabies
They caught all these songs and then placed them inside
They sneaked to the shore, set it free to the tides
They all hid in trees, to watch and to hide
Now Otto is stalking the palm-scented snack
He took the bait, he fell into the trap
The then disappeared with a growl and a snap
Otto first yawned, and then took a nap
So the Island is sleeping, and still is today
Eddy had done for our friends far away
They loaded their ship with their mother the tree
The wind in their sails and the wide, open seas
transcripción sacada de
aquíSlip of the tongueIQZwZVBDAHI
My glares burn through her.
And I'm sure that such actions aren't foreign to her
because the essence of her beauty is, well, the essence of beauty.
And in the presence of this higher being,
the weakness of my masculinity kicks in,
causing me to personify my wannabe big-baller, shot-caller,
God's gift to the female species with shiny suit wrapping rapping like,
"Yo, what's crackin shorty how you livin' what's your sign what's your size I dig your style, yo."
Now, this girl was no fool.
She gives me a dirty look with the quickness like,
"Boy, you must be stupid."
so I'm looking at myself,
"Boy, you must be stupid."
But looking upon her I am kinda feelin' her style.
So I try again.
But, instead of addressing her properly,
I blurt out one of my fake-ass playalistic lines like,
"Gurl, you must be a traffic ticket cuz you got fine written all over you."
Now, she's trying to leave and I'm trying to keep her here.
So at a final attempt, I utter,
"Gurl, what is your ethnic makeup?"
At this point, her glare was scorching through me,
and somehow she manages to make her brown eyes
resemble some kinda brown fire or something,
but there's no snap or head moement,
no palm to face, click of tongue, middle finger,
roll of eyes, twist of lips, or girl power chant.
She just glares through me with these burning eyes
and her gaze grabs you by the throat.
She says, "Ethnic makeup?"
She says, "First of all, makeup's just an anglicized, colonized, commodified utility
that my sisters have been programmed to consume,
forcing them to cover up their natural state
in order to imitate what another sister looks like in her natural state
because people keep telling her
that the other sister's natural state is more beautiful
than the first sister's natural state.
At the same time,
the other sister isn't even in her natural state,
because she's trying to imitate yet another sister,
so in actuality, the natural state that the first sister's trying to imitate
wasn't even natural in the first place."
Now I'm thinking, "Damn, this girl's kicking knowledge!"
But, meanwhile, she keeps spitting on it like
"Fine. I'll tell you bout my 'ethnic makeup.'
I wear foundation,
not that powdery shit,
I wear the foundation laid by my indigenous people.
It's that foundation that makes it so that past being globalized,
I can still vocalize with confidence that i know where my roots are.
I wear this foundation not upon my face, but within my soul,
and I take this from my ancestors
because I'll be damned if I'd ever let an American or European corporation
tell me what my foundation
should look like."
I wear lipstick,
for my lips stick to the ears of men,
so they can experience in surround sound my screams of agony
with each lash of rulers, measuring tape, and scales,
as if my waistline and weight are inversely propotional to my value as a human being.
See my lips, they stick, but not together.
Rather, they flail open with flames to burn down this culture that once kept them shut.
Now, I mess with eye shadow,
but my eyes shadow over this time where you've gone at ends to keep me blind.
But you can't cover my eyes, look into them.
My eyes foreshadow change.
My eyes foreshadow light.
and I'm not into hair dyeing.
but I'm here, dying, because this oppression won't get out of my hair.
I have these highlights.
They are highlights of my past atrocities,
they form this oppression I can't wash off.
It tangles around my mind and twists and braids me in layers,
this oppression manifests,
it's stressing me so that even though I don't color my hair,
in a couple of years it'll look like I dyed it gray.
So what's my ethnic makeup ?
I don't have any.
Because your ethnicity isn't something you can just make up.
And as for that crap my sisters paint on their faces, that's not makeup, it's make-believe."
I can't seem to look up at her.
and I'm sure that such actions aren't foreign to her
because the expression on her face
shows that she knows that my mind is in a trance.
As her footsteps fade, my ego is left in crutches.
And rejection never sounded so sweet.
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