Texts for performances, songs: the works.

I found these with texts with notes indicating how they are going to be performed in the Coachwerks (Brighton, 2010). Some of them in some various forms still perform these days when I do spoke work routine.

INTRO: Breathing (All getting into place with instruments)

Now that you have mastered
The art of breathing
And call articulate sounds
So you can utter words
Tell us
What was that important thing you had to say
Tell us
Can you deliver words sharp as razors
To cut throught the thickness of infamy
Could you slice un
From unjustice
Tell us
Could you
Before your last breath
Before your last words

(ONLY WORDS and movement)

I clinch my fist
And I grab nothing
Not even air
I open my hand
And my nails can scratch my skin
I can caress your face
The wind runs through my fingers
I can point out directions
I can read the map in my palm
And I am ready to welcome you


I am bearing the weight
Of an empty hole
With my imaginary hands
Through an invisible bridge
Still I hope I will reach the other side


(WORDS + Subtle sounds)

There is a pendulum in the room
Hanging from the sky
When it goes to the left
The iron ball points to a closed window
When it goes to the right
The iron ball points to a open door
Although the journey of the pendulum
Becomes shorter
The time to cover it
Remains the same
The time that takes to sigh in the void
And to pronounce the words:
Nobody, nobody home

(WORDS and After each digging disjointed sounds)

I am digging
I am digging with my bare hands
I am digging with my teeth.
I am looking for something
I am seeding doubts
I am uprooting uncertainties
I am digging

When I realize that
I am not going to find
What I am looking for
I discover that
I have built a burrow
A burrow that became my dwellings
A burrow that became shelter
A burrow that I can call home
I am digging

(WORDS first by the end sound began an another take with impro music)

The wolf (This poem became later a song by the Galician musician Narf)

Like a wolf without teeth
Walking in circles around his prey
Wondering about the taste of her blood
Wandering and getting lost
In the tunnels of her soul
Hoping that
When the full moon disappears
And the beast turns human
He won’t be able to recognize
His own footprints
And trace his way back
And he will be forever lost
Lost inside her


(WORDS manipulated by Computer)

We get entangled in meandering thoughts/ slippery words/ disjointed syntax/ dislocated speech
I will show you the way/ into an uncertain path/the direction to take you/into a diversion


And we walk and we talk
By the act of walking together in the same direction we seem to be getting closer to each other and further from our destiny

(Raining) cymbal and vocals

(All of us have a copy of the text and read  with different rhythms)

Be brief/ In short/ get close, no/ stay still/ move/ keep quiet/ don’t touch/ kiss me in the dark/ no light

ING : loop of kisses and all dance



(Words / movement /subtle sounds chelo)

These must be love tears
They are sweet and delicate
Rolled in pain
You wipe them out
With your finger
But their trail
Leaves a print of sorrow
In your skin

(Words/movement subtle sounds Harmonium)

You always want to go
To that other place
The place that is not here

-Is it beautiful?
-I don’t know
-Don’t  you like it here?
-I do. But there is… there
-Can you see it over the horizon?
-I can’t see the horizon.
-But if you go there ‘there’ would become ‘here’ and ‘here’ would become ‘there’.
-You don’t understand. I am taking here to there

(Words/ movement/ subtle sounds)

What are you doing?
Anything new?
Not even, almost not
Trying, getting nowhere
Halfway through again
As always never
Not that much
I haven’t opened new doors
I haven’t seen new countries
I havent’ invented new words
I haven’t kissed new mouths
I am doing…


(All musicians play together and stop from time to time so dancer and I say one word each, and then musicians start again after we say the words)



These three texts are part of a ruminating roaming performance called Os cachorros done in collaboration with Jim Sanders

I stretch my facial muscles. I stretch MY TONGUE. I think of and I desire food. I AM HUNGRY. I would like to see something else but I only see food. I hear tons and tons of food falling. I smell meat on its carcase. I can feel the roots of wheat growing under my feet. I could eat my nails until they bleed. I would like to feel something else but I FEEL ONLY HUNGER. I am hungry therefore I am. I am hungry to the bone. I hear noises where once there was my stomach and now there is only emptiness.There, deep inside there is a big black hole. There, deep inside I can feel a big bang. There deep inside something is happening, a universe of hunger is developing, is emerging from the chaos. Very soon it will take over. Very soon this universe will be bigger than me. Very soon it won’t be me who feels hungry it will be hunger who feels me. I am so hungry that I could eat my own fingers. I AM SO HUNGRY I could eat my own teeth with my own TEETH. I could eat the air that I breath. I swalllow it and try to taste it just in case but I still feel hungry. I was hungry, I am hungry, I will always feel hungry. I am so hungry that I COULD EAT MY OWN THOUGHTS. I cannot remember a time in which I was not hungry. I can not even imagine a time in which I will not be hungry. I follow the pain in my stomach that takes me FROM HUNGER TO HUNGER. I could sit down on the top of a mountain searching for the horizon and I would only see an empty sky needing to be fulfilled like an empty stomach. I stretch my facial muscles. I stretch MY TONGUE. I think of and I desire food. I AM HUNGRY. I would like to see something else but I am only see food. I hear tons and tons of…

I am so LONELY I could talk to my SHADOW if it had not already left me. But my shadow is not there, it is probably searching for another body, another body who could give her better COMPANY. When the sun rises it also reminds me of how lonely I am. I WATCH the world pass so I have something to say when I talk to myself in front of the mirror. Mirror, is me. Yes, it is me again. I talk slowly just to make the WORDS LAST. I need somebody to tell them that I NEED somebody. I pick up the telephone and ring the INFINITE number to increase the possibilities of somebody picking up the telephone at the other end. WHO is that? Who is that? THAT? That It’s me. With the PASSING of time and as loneliness takes hold of me I am learning a few tricks: I often throw my watch onto the tracks in train stations so I can ASK a fellow passenger the time . Have you got the time? Where are you going? I am so lonely I could talk to my own hand. I WISH I could hear a different tone of voice than mine. Different ways of using words, a different language. WHO? WHAT? WHERE? HOW? WHY? So many questions and NOBODY to answer them. I did not leave these plates on the table. I did not do that. Somebody must have been here, eaten my food and then they left without doing the dishes. To be lonely is to be WITHOUT. To be lonely is to be constantly out. To be lonely it is to be constantly ME. I always dream of an ear, a giant ear that is able to listen to all the words one can deliver, it is not only a giant ear, it is also a giant ear made out of sponge. It soaks all the words. But then I realise that is not what i am LOOKING FOR, what I need is a giant mouth, a mouth that never stops talking about herself so I can forget about me and I can think about her. A mouth who can TELL me things about herself so I can forget about myself and how lonely I am. They would tell me what food they like, which are their favourite filmes, do you have brothers and sisters? Strange, I hear noises downstairs. Sssshusss. There must be SOMEBODY downstairs. I often go under bridges to hear the ECHO of my own steps on the ground and I shout very loud: “I want to talk to you” so this way I can hear the echo telling me “I WANT TO TALK TO YOU”. I walk in circles so I can follow my own FOOTPRINTS and feel that I am getting close to someone. Who let the lights on? Sometimes I can feel a breath behind my back. I am so lonely that I swallowed a radio so I can hear a CONSTANT VOICE inside my belly talking to me. Somebody is talking, talk to me, listen to me, talk to me, listen to me… who is that? WHO IS LISTENING TO THIS?

I have been WALKING for a long time and originally I must have had a DIRECTION, or at least an attempt at direction but that is so long ago, probably when I initiated my walk, with my first step. I am walking indeed but DON’T KNOW WHERE TO. I have never been twice in the same place. It just cannot be me. I walk and walk and don’t know where to. I have known that some people use planets to guide them on the right direction but that means they know where they want to go, they have a destiny, an end to their walking. I am not one of these. In fact sometimes I wonder if I have already arrived at THE PLACE I was heading. To be HOMESICK would be a luxury, that would mean I know where home is. The whole idea of coming or going to a place is alien to me. My home is walking, ROAMING endessly, being nowhere, walking in NO PLACES, to be TRANSIENT between sites. That way or that way. Both, either, it is all the same to me. I don’t know where North is, it must be a place where something COMES FROM or something GOES TO. North must be a beatiful place, you just have to listen to the word North to realise that it must be a beatiful place, North. N o r t h, and it must be somewhere, somewhere far, where nobody lost could reach. North must be SOMEWHERE ELSE. Unless of course I am North, a MOVING direction trying to find exactly where I am heading. I am LOST and I don’t know where I am going but I am going and maybe I am also coming back. I just know I am walking because I have never seen the same thing twice. Something must be calling me or something must be asking me to LEAVE. My eyes have developed nervous tics as if they all the time on the look out for SIGNS, indications of hidden PATHS… as if there was an underlying suspicion that underneath each step there was a forgotten ROUTE ready to be taken. The more directions the more possibilities to get lost. That way… is better. Sometimes I am struck by the thought that I have already reached the place, yes I mean the place. A place that must have a special meaning to me. That all the WANDERING is in vain. I just don’t know how to do anything else. One step first, another step later. If I could just send the two legs in two directions, opposite directions I would be even more me because I could be lost in two DIFFERENT places at the same time.

Texts taken from the book written in Galician Terminal and used in the performance of the same name.

On the go. Words hang from me like dirty old rags, plastered to my body by the grease of filthy hands. I bring, carry, come across, I confuse where I’m going, where I’ve come from; from here to there like a train. I am searching for an intermediary space, a stale mate, a meeting point, a vanishing point, a cross-roads. I bring, carry, transport, I am a dealer of words engraved into skin. I scratch, claw, tear, wound myself. Living on the platform. Transferring, treating, trafficking. Tragic? No, No, train-texts. The sound of legs and trains running in all directions of the Terminal. I open my hand to count out the money. Eyes stare from the carriage windows; mums, dads, couples, siblings, friends, lovers of travelling, enemies of space. Eyes and mouths are stuck fast to the glass, the train’s mystery, its flight. Now I’m here, now there, I turn around, it makes me giddy, my eyes turn back into my head. Tripping. I’m barefoot in the Terminal, freight falls at my feet, I have my hand outstretched, counting my pennies and kilometres, someone passes by and drops me a few coins.

Wandering. I’m sitting in a slimy hole. I see strange figures moving about, most of them wander by. Some stop in front of the light so I can see their images like X-rays. The racket of machinery, laughing, shots. I know those laughs well; yes, I know those sounds. They call out to those who don’t want to depart, those who hide in the terminal and take refuge there. They search you out, then shoot you. When dawn breaks, their bodies will be seen lying by the tracks. They serve as an example. I touch myself. I’m still in one piece. I’m here in my hole. That’s not for me. I’ve found a microphone installed behind my ear. I have no idea why it’s there. Neither do I know who on earth can be interested in me, in investigating me. Perhaps it sprouted there like a mushroom, you never know in such darkness. I shout out, someone could be plugged in, someone might be on duty. Here I am laughing and shouting out loud so they can analyse my thoughts. So someone can work out something from my shouts. Shots ring out again. I wish SOMEONE WOULD HEAR these shots so that they’d pray to the Lord to help us, and to damn the culprits.

There are circles of suspension points surrounding me. I turn around and they FOLLOW. I am rotating on an imaginary axis. Planets come with me and I go with them. I don’t know why we’re moving. There are constellations of mouths trying to bite my tongue, yank it out and spit it into black holes. I rotate around parallel tracks. I’ve lost all sense of planetary, alphabetical equilibrium. I’m scared that DISASTER will strike. Hydrangea hurricanes are going to come and spit me into the winds. So, if that happens, yep, you shall grab onto a burning rail track before allowing yourself to fall into the abyss of infinite lines that cross, cut and rotate around each other and lead to nowhere; you shall grab onto a burning rail track while stuck fast to it, smelling your own flesh burn while a train with no heart crosses yours.I felt its growl beneath me like a metallic beast. I stared furiously and repeated word for word, shouting out everything I saw. I repeated the words until my lips bled and my TONGUE LOLLED IN A DOZY DROOL. Focusing on the images I stretched out to follow the circles with my finger tips. I repeated myself to my repeated self, and CALLED OUT TO MYSELF BY NAME. I tried to remain conscious and alert. I tried desperately to know where I was all the time. When I saw unrecognisable things I gave them names I knew, made mends, did repairs, I filled gaps and took note of the changes in the journey and the transformations.

I happened to stop at this table of soliloquies, this whirlpool where words pour in and I said to myself I should stop and sit down to hear what has to be said. Sometimes I catch what they’re saying. They have caps on, and moustaches, and tattoos on their arms of animals which have come from strange worlds to touch down on these muscles and terrify me. They move their heads about as they talk and get another round of drinks. I’m treated like an equal. Every now and then I return to my seat. I don’t hear their words and their stories; I just see a puppet show of dolls heads wagging to and fro, and they want me to join in, but my tongue doesn’t have this chatting virus. I hear but I don’t register, I’m miles away playing games with their words; vertigo goes to my tongue, terror goes to my eyes. I see a world in transit and I’m on stilts going from one side to the other. I hear cocks crowing at all hours. I hear the sound of trains moving silently in my guts.

I have no control over the speed or changes in direction; sometimes I think I’ll get dizzy and throw up. I clutch my stomach and rub it; I think days have passed since I last ate, but that’s got nothing to do with the speed. Sometimes I hallucinate. This intimate experience SENDS SHIVERS DOWN MY SPINE, circulation is intense, and blood takes control of my throat; my veins explode; the lack of food makes me bite into thin air; I have nothing against the air; I’m not mean to what is left over screaming its farewell. Images pass by the window, images duplicated in the perspectives of eyes. The view becomes cloudy, the windows steam up, everything’s going too fast. I try hard to recognise the objects, my eyes fight against the speed, grasping the profiles of objects with the sheer intensity of their gaze until my eyes’ capillaries explode, splattering blood over the window pane. My iris sticks to things in sight, detaching itself from my retina. Among the sounds of the engines my blind shriek rings out. I grab my stomach to stop my guts ESCAPING through my mouth which bites out in no particular direction. Blind mouths, stubborn eyes, metallic sounds of the unknown setting out new tracks.

A thought-chew-chew-train of straight lines that cross on different routes and in opposite directions with tunnels, precipices and ends. Point changes. Station guards, accidents from the past and future, skeletal irons, a return from principles, from signals of velocity, from sound. Shadow in movement, profile and wheel, running slowly, stopped in one’s tracks. Breathing deeply in the com-motion.

The train rocks me as if it were a cradle in motion, there’s no hand to push it, nor bed-time stories, but I still manage to sleep. A dark eye opens ahead of me, the lights go out. We’re in a tunnel. Noise without light, I create images. No, its not a tunnel, its my own eyes that have fallen to the ground from so much staring. The voice of the tunnel is heard; dark, dense and droning. And in its lightless voice other voices are heard. The voice of the mouthless tunnel is heard. All the voices are confused and your voice without voice merges with others; and your words are not your own; the ones that come from your throat belong to others. I open my mouth and feel alien tongues articulating words from inside me.

Words zoom by. Unintelligible. Shadows of letters running and then stopping suddenly. Empty space. I am but I’m not. Rubbing my temples I look for the sense. I search for the wind’s direction so I can follow it with my eyes. I think I want something. No, no. It was a mirage. It was a memory of an impossible word. I was standing up, sitting down, reading a photo-story, I was in a lift, I had a carpenter’s pencil in my hand; I like its texture, shape and colour. I take out a piece of paper covered in notes, there’s not much space left to write on, a few scribbles would do, straight or curved; a small scratch, but there’s not much space left to write on. I could write over the other scrawl and continue until there would be nothing but words upon words. I head towards every direction, I write in every sense, I move my head imprisoned in madness, and when I tire I take refuge in the silence trying to listen to how the words zoom by.

Inside and outside at once. Thinking of both you and me. Living in different places at the same time. Constructing and destroying a story. Unfinished jobs. An escape that never gets away. Writing many things at the same time. I slowly get used to the new practice. It’s slow. Physical writing. Corporal movement. The drawing of letters. Disparate writing. Stopped wherever; enjoy the new sensation. I return to the beginning. The writing merges with other steps which take it to different places. I squeeze the pencil in my hand, I bang the typewriter’s key with all my might, my eyes stick fast to the computer’s screen.