miércoles, 14 de enero de 2015

Pull



There was no spider around when I grew up
No father
Or sisters either
But she used to come to me when I was half slept and sing senza fine to my ear
And the melody would linger in my brain
Until I could taste it in my tongue
Like sugar and salt and the stones of the sea
And I dreamt on horsesplanesstarscarswhatnot
But there was plenty of wars I planned out
And school fights
And staring at the windows
Out of class, out of my room, out of my grandmother’s balcony
When it was raining
With all the little soldiers down

And there was the radio under the blankets
And the mask
And the insomnia
And a god that was supposed to listen to you
When you talked to him like it was
a party line
and there was a naked light bulb in the wardrobe
and a flash light in my hands
green flowers wall paper
like a crow of light
and dreaming about being a sniper
and eating strawberry marmalade
and football in the park
and you had to get up and go to class
with all those cyclists in your mind
and the dust in the patio
and the secrets in the room above the gym
that disconnected you from life
forever
a narrow badly light stairway with white steps

there were REM in the radio sometimes
and elvis
and hooker
and my grandfather’s death
that left this world half empty

and dreams
falling
apart
or from you
or away
and the mountains
and the forest humid
and pure
and green and dark
and cold
and friends I don’t see anymore
and girls that have daughters like morning dew
lovers that have their washing-machine boyfriends
now
with all the buttons in place
and no connection
cleaning clothes
cooking cakes
breeding kids
who might need anything else… ?

and it is raining
in this fucking city again
after months
again
and I don’t even care
anymore
about where to go
or with who to go
or even how

and I remember LA
with the sun
and the light blonde hair in the window pane above the planes at Del Rey
in our bikes
and the seagulls in zuma beach flying over our hearts like they were cotton candy
like the shining of the city from up there in Mulholland
where the red glow stay on forever in the night
or the artists who draws like she had thin branches instead of arms
she and I riding our old oxidized bikes through the calm
Brooklyn dark
night

or Paris
with her white hand over the tomb stone
and the black hair over her shoulders
and that wall
where all the dreamers were killed
and the Paris commune turned into ashes over the river
all that
will last in my days
until I give away all that remains
for whatever that comes to eat it
or blow it away

and mothers in pain that leave
because they can’t stand it anymore

and it is pretty clear why

and it is very funny how I do remember your fags
and the pills
and the coke
and how you clung to me like I was the last headland
insane and lonely as I was
devastated and cruel
and you
oh you
witch
your kisses so warm and deep
brain worm
swallowing me every time
I died for you…
I could have…

But I guess you were so used to things like that…
I thought you could do it
Got my car parked under the palms
down at La Ciénaga boulevard
And it is really
hot

I saw that in my darkness like a spark
But how can you love somebody when
All you can think about is…

My dirt under the flood lover
With a face as beautiful as the night hanging from the northern lights
Way too busy always
too worried about the things of the farm, the numbers, the powder, the corners,
the storms
And too afraid of the lighting and the thunder
And the thieves that come at night

Oh so gorgeous and so worried…
With your smell of freshunderthedew cotton spreading out from your neck,
Your soft skin, your small-rounded girl-like shoulders,
Haven’t seen you in 14 days already…
you have your affairs, your must-dos,
and to plan, and check and buy,
so you can fill up your registers, your archives, your scrolls,
your lovers, your kids, your zoos,
and that wide open smile
and your eyes of brown
and your tongue in my tongue
the heat inside us
making our blood boil
And the road is way too short
And her red body moves like a dark cloud over the Texas desert
And a coyote is a lot like a coyote
And those chains hurt
Of course
On her
And on me

nails in coffins
departure tickets
snooty movies
about teenagers
and scissors
and
running out of
hope

domingo, 14 de diciembre de 2014

(The Love Story Of) Marjorine & the Juggler

Love was fallin’ down easily from the yellow bulbs
in the miracle's tent
in Tuscaloosa
the night the juggler was in town

the scent of the river was floating around us
in small cotton like waves
young kids were smuggling their fathers moonshine
the hunters were coming out from their caves

Wild berries in your sweet palm
White horses at the door
she was a lone rider ever since
her father never came back from the northern war

The juggler was a-smiling
looking at the yellowed faces of the righteous people
the sound of the bells ringing from the steeple

Barbeque smoke, sweat
Wavy hair
Blackest that I had never seen before
over soft tanned shoulders that shine in the shade
A band was playing some degraded copy of
the waterboys
And I was singing Hank Williams songs for you
In my mind

The Major drop by your little shack
All white suit and cologne
And a golden watch
And a twisted smile
You are the prettiest girl around Marjorine
You’re the nicest gal I’ve ever seen

It started to rain
The fat drops cool down his cigar
And the band run behind the diamond house
“It’s overcrowded here my dear” – He said -
“Why don’t we go inside?”

And in the tidewater red-cypress home
Words were said
Knots untied
The earth stood still when on her back she laid
And the singer
So softly came
Silver sharp in his hands and nails
Blinking on the night like the distant lights
of the resting summer fair
heavy moon in his head
a torn turn inside their bed
“I only wish you had some money my little mare”
Blood and grievance just filled the air
Of the sticky Louisiana night

“What have you done my fatuous boy?”
Said the major in a hush
“I’m just freeing Helen of Troy , can’t you see?”
“You’re doomed
No swamps will shelter you
No rest you’ll find
I am the king of the bayou
I’ve got my cane and all”

There was a lot of fighting
A lot of rushing
Some pistols were shot
Some flesh was cut
Sentences were laid
Some crystals were broken and some favors were paid
Underneath the rain and the trees and the staggering moon
Who smiled cold and far away over his poisonous bone

And in the dark side of the trees
His footsteps fresh
The silver kid still
Waits for the right time
When the heat comes down
And he can go back to her lover’s home
back in the Major’s land

sábado, 16 de agosto de 2014

oil

it’s always windy up here

it is difficult to write
difficult to wake up
and walk

there are no trees nor water
just pink flowers in the table cloth…
and the wind
howling around me on the other side of the windows
so i can forget about the fucking summer
and all the heat
and the city
and the ventilator blues
and the crowded beaches
and write

windy
no tourist
sardines for dinner
and the short brown grass over the hills
like the skin of a horse
or a telephone goodbye

there’s a half moon floating very near in a pitch black sky
too
through the window i can look at her
silver and ecstatic
like a roman marble statue
more a jewel than a satellite
as if she was a mirror

and the small trembling lights i see are just the stars
and an occasional car sinking in the unknown
following roads that get darker
and darker
down the road
to other villages
fire tongues
and sweet girls playing with water

there are street lamps leading to other houses
and paths
but they are being swallowed now,
i am certain about this,
for some hundred tons of air and sand and bourbon
beasts that grow older and colder
magnets of heat
were-bulls
burning with powder
touching the skins of the kids
and reminding them about…

bitter memories of LA
(neon signs, dead cinema stars, ending credits)
a special kind of softness lost
fathers picking up kids

and all those things that the human beings do
tangled up
with despair
hallelujahs
and small light red candies

miércoles, 14 de mayo de 2014

Bets


i’m riding in my car
around the contours of this island
is dark outside
speechless
the flies get together in the windshield
crushing their heads like small vein drops
in a junkie’s bedroom
white teeth
backseat
remnants of her scattered around the back seat
like hair
mumblings
or…

there used to be a sea below
a hill above
but there is nothing I can get my hands around
when I need it the most

in a hot night
oil in the road
and the tires
and the bushes,
deep down
in the roots
dipping in to what used to
be

red lights and the small
salty
vaporized
words
of the sea somewhere
spraying my face against the wind
along with songs
and images
of your tender
round ribs
being pressed
with fingers
and caressed with tongues

your naked shadow on top
the bottomless cliffs
to the rocks
and the wish for rain
and storm
and yelling
cleaning it up
irking
telephone rings
and fathers of the unexplained miracle of faith
and love
fire ants
god burning the branches
sacrificing his own son
for those who jump out of the window to silence the filth
in narrow churches built by long black American souls
brightened by the luminescent
spark
of matches
and rectitude
pulsing and singing like wide solitary birds
of the machine and the night
the travelling
the search
the words echoing in the corners while you listen to  it
so vaguely
the refrain of the lost breath of the night driver
around the island

offering himself to the bugs
bared chest
open
soothing one’s private victory
as I massage my own forefront
and wonder
how the hell did it  all went wrong?
the map was the right one
the capsules where taken following the doctor’s order
for the correct behaving of the
unburden
human being
the cuts are elliptical in the house of miracles and plagues

the childhood is stopped
all of a sudden
by the muteness
and the hiding of all feelings
and dirty dove feathers

the lake opens at dawn
the city vanishes under it
water gets high
the old home is flooded
once the dogs run
the longblackhaired babies were asleep
but the king-is-coming, the swords are here, he’s coming tonight to recollect your mercy
you’d better scape baby

there is way too much baggage
packed under the bed-noise
of spring breaking for us

lunes, 10 de febrero de 2014

mermaids

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my own sweat falls from my head
to my bones
a thin presence of lime
black pepper
and safran
in the old opium parlour

there are unknown small fairies
under the huge palm leaves
and scooters sliding above the melting streets

why that endless fire is burning
the red flag is still blowing
for the tellers are going slightly mad and I wonder

who's the best girl I ever had?

viernes, 10 de enero de 2014

highway

i do smell like cigarettes,
coffee
and mint chewing gum

like i did so many times

so long ago

but now my hands smell like baby's chest,
that has changed

anyway
my neck still smells like your hand cream,
again

i am all nervous for the coming trip
and the south east
and the bugs
and the russian airports

friends whose brains are all wreckage
and debris
and hate
but i don't know where it comes from
where does it all comes from anyway?

i am running to the embassy
to get the visa,
the hot day
all falling above me
like fists
and stones
the immense football stadium menacing
with all the lingering promises of passion and glory

and a couple of flashbacks from the past

of course

cigarettes,
coffee
and mint gum

and your lips
again
today

miércoles, 25 de diciembre de 2013

push



toy plastic empty subways in the crystal clear cold halfway-cooked-spring-morning

wolves without teeth
religious zealots
rock and roll in the stereo – downers in the oven  - girls at the door of the laundromat

the old guy leaning on the wall whispering:

“ulises never came home
he tried, sure,
but he stayed looking in circe’s eyes
for all eternity
coming home for what?
home?”

even now the old sea-lover-white-dove
greece
is falling on her beautiful white linen knees
giving name to new songs and talking directly to your ears:
i wanna see you again babe
you handsome black haired guy

and the light
fresh god-like
light
of the velveteen sunset
hits the barrio’s red brick buildings
with an overwhelming feel full of oceanic hope

usually so far away
senseless
remote
phone calls
canada
snow and rice fields

so the day passes by in a hush
in a long head
concern about the implications of the lost boats and the burning zeppelins
and the crippled emotions of emptiness
in the skinny
mental sanity asylums
and the ruins of the prison

sorry my dear but i have to keep on going
for a little bit time more
till i get to detroit at least
or to the homemade bread
or the white fence or
salvation herself
and the peaceofmind
or quebec
or those idealistic hands that cover my face
and make me fall sleep like a huge
sinked
iron
ship
under the heavy heat
of the
wet
hong kong hills