Biosphere XI
A biosphere inspired by erotic poetry, for this biosphere poems were created and set to music that generally show what for each composer is part of the devil's heart.
Rose of the winds
Lyrics y music: Rodrigo Henao
Under the burning caress of the East, your naked skin becomes a canvas for the dance of the breeze, which winds its way through your valleys and mountains, exploring every curve with tender devotion. It whispers secrets into the ear of the air, slipping into your lungs, filling your being with its vital breath. Thus, in that fleeting union, I find myself— the essence that merges with you in an ethereal embrace, where time stands still and only our shared heartbeats remain. The wind from the North, with its icy breath, longs to enter the sanctuary of your mind, to explore the recesses of your thoughts like an intrepid navigator crossing unknown seas. It yearns to understand every beat of your heart, every whisper of your desires, and to embrace the very essence of your being with the passion of a thirsty lover. It seeks to fuse with you in a cosmic dance, where boundaries dissolve into a single entity, where wind and self intertwine in an eternal embrace, a sacred communion of love and understanding. From the West arrive impetuous airs, bearing the tumultuous dance of conflict and confusion, waving banners of despair along their path. Yet amid the turbulent currents, a fierce love rises like a beacon in the darkness, fighting tirelessly for you. Though at times it may seem like hatred, it is merely the desperate cry of a heart that longs to love you with overwhelming intensity. In every gust, in every breath, dwells the profound yearning to find you, to merge with you in an eternal embrace where love and conflict intertwine in an endless dance of passion and redemption. The currents of the South, like lovers deliciously hypnotized, seek only your beauty with insatiable desire. They long to glide over your skin, to caress every curve with the devotion of a poet before their muse. They yearn to love your voluptuousness with the intensity of a thousand suns, whispering promises of passion in the echo of the wind. They dream of witnessing your ecstasy, of every muscle tensing beneath their touch, and they wish for you, too, to delight in the burning symphony of their loving body, where time stands still and only the eternal communion between your essence and theirs exists. — Rodrigo Henao
I touch your mouth
Lyrics: Julio Cortázar
Music: Ximena Sánchez
I touch your mouth, with a finger I trace the edge of your mouth, I go on drawing it as if it were emerging from my hand, as if for the first time your mouth were slightly opening, and it is enough for me to close my eyes to undo everything and begin again. I give birth each time to the mouth I desire, the mouth my hand chooses and draws upon your face, a mouth chosen among all others, chosen with sovereign freedom by me to be drawn by my hand upon your face, and which, by a chance I do not seek to understand, coincides exactly with your mouth that smiles beneath the one my hand draws. You look at me, you look at me closely, closer and closer, and then we play at Cyclops: we look at each other closer and closer, our eyes grow larger, draw nearer, overlap, and the Cyclopes look at one another, breathing confusedly. The mouths meet and struggle gently, biting with the lips, barely touching the tongue to the teeth, playing in their enclosures where a heavy air comes and goes with an ancient perfume and a silence. Then my hands seek to sink into your hair, to slowly caress the depths of your hair while we kiss as if our mouths were filled with flowers or fish, with living movements, with dark fragrance. And if we bite, the pain is sweet, and if we choke in a brief and terrible simultaneous absorbing of breath, that instant death is beautiful. And there is a single saliva and a single taste of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon in the water. — Julio Cortázar Hopscotch – Chapter 7
Cuarto solo
Letra: Alejandra Pizarnik Música: Siesi
If you dare to surprise the truth of this old wall, and its fissures, its tears, forming faces, sphinxes, hands, clepsydras, surely a presence will come to quench your thirst, perhaps this absence that drinks you will depart. — Alejandra Pizarnik
To make you mine
Lyrics and music: Rafael Rivera Mejía
If my fantasies had a name, it would be yours in every broken sigh. If my hottest dreams had a leading role, it would be you, in your most sensual state. If my sleepless nights had a cure, it would be you, naked upon my bed. If my skin longed for another’s touch, it would be yours in every centimeter of my soul. To touch you is my longing, to dream you, my comfort. To spend my nights by your side, my most desired act. To feel the warmth of your lips, my most lascivious instinct. To hear your breath grow restless, my longed-for melody. All that remains is the comfort that one day my fantasies, dreams, insomnias, and desires may find shelter in your own desires. All that remains is the hope that one day Morpheus—or you—will allow me to make you mine. — Rafael Rivera Mejía
Imperfect enjoyment
Lyrics: Earl of Rochester
Music: Sebastián Martínez
Naked she lay, pressed tight within my longing arms; I filled myself with love, and she with every charm. Both equally inspired by eager fire, melting through tenderness, burning with desire. With arms, legs, lips entwined, embraced, she holds me to her breast and sucks my face. Her nimble tongue—the lesser lightning-bolt of love— played in my mouth and sent swift orders to my thoughts to ready myself to launch the bolt that next dissolves all things. My fluttering soul, stirred by the piercing kiss, hangs hovering over her fragrant sides of bliss. But while her busy hand would guide that part which should convey my soul unto her heart, in liquid ecstasy I wholly melt, dissolve in seed and squander it through every pore. The touch of any part of her had done it: her hand, her foot, her look—each is a cunt. Smiling, she gently chides in murmured tone, and wipes the viscous joys away from her body, when, with a thousand kisses wandering my panting chest, “Is there no more?” she cries. All this for rightful love and ecstasy— must we not also pay a debt to pleasure? But I, the saddest, most degenerate man alive, to show my wished obedience, struggle vainly: I sigh, alas, and kiss, but cannot rise. Eager desires confound my first attempt; shame works more strongly to prevent, and rage at last confirms me impotent. In her just hand, which could bestow a coming warmth upon a frozen age, and set cold hermits burning, applied to my dear ashes, no more heat is raised than fire can restore to ashes the flames of former days. Trembling, confused, despairing, brisk yet dry, a longing lump, weak and unmoving, there I lie. This dart of love, whose piercing point— oft proved—has slain ten thousand virgin maids with blood, what nature guides with such perverse design that through each cunt it reached each resolute heart, invading heedless woman or man, nor could its fury be restrained: where’er it struck, a cunt it found—or made… Now languid lies, in this unhappy hour, shrunk and sapless as a withered flower. Thou traitor, false deserter of my flame, untrue to passion, fatal to my name, by what mistaken magic art thou proved so faithful to lust, so false to love? What common oyster-whore, what beggar, wretch, hast thou ever failed in all thy life? When vice, disease, and scandal mark the way, how briskly thou obey’st, like some rough, roaring Hector in the streets, Who fights and cuffs and beats all that he meets, but if his king or country claim his aid, the coward villain shrinks and hides his head. So shows thy brutal valor: breaks every stew, invades each petty whore, but when great Love—the source—commands, base recreant to thy prince, thou dar’st not. The worst part of me, and henceforth most despised, a common post through all the town, where every whore relieves her itching cunt while swine rub and grunt at the door, better that thou to hungry chancres be a prey, or waste away with gnawing groans; that strangling and the stone attend thy days; that thou never piss, having refused to spend when all my joys depended on thee; and that ten thousand pains more, fit for hell, conspire to make Corinna good for thee. — Earl of Rochester