faster pussycat

i feel something weird tapping at my window
is a 40th floor
and all i can get is this smell
too sweet
too mellow
making me sick
like rotten orchids
like empty wallets
a thin girl crying in a hotel room in tripoli
looking at the window
saying broken i love yous to an otherwise imaginary cell phone
and broken skulls
and dirty cheap black shoes

i feel something weird
crawling in my back, sucking the blood directly from my neck
so smoothly
i am not able to tell if it’s me remembering your kisses
or if its just another antique tactic by the night vagabonds of montparnasse
with their red painted nails
and me jumping in the sunset light of an
evening in paris
with all these stories to tell you
only if you
if you have the space between your tears

you and your teeth back again
and your colourful needles,
i can see them,
and they hurt
and i just look at you trying to find some warmth
some humanity
but all i can touch is the white dust of your last pill in my fingers
turned into little mongolian horses
yakuza tattoos
and black high heels
and iggy pop
i think you know the rest

you are just a movie star
without a gun
or a guy
or a star
or a movie,
babe
luckily enough i am here to save you
only if i had the caravan
and my tools
i have all of them and i am dying to lick some
very specific
parts of your
body
some
very specific

like your sweat drops
or your fears
and the first three cities you can think about…

… and i know i should not think about it
but i am sure
even for a second
that you have been the only one able to love me
through all this chaotic mess of tissues
and planes
and other chicks
and it smells like you again
but this time the perfume is older
something like wood
and red dirt
and chinese ink
and of course is not yours
is hers

because you are now back in your grounds
trying to hunt your stupid prey
with your feathers and glows
and your broken widows
and everything will start again
although i am leaving
turning myself into something else
because that’s is absolutely
what i do or what i never will do
so throw the dice again
mine is a six
and those black moles in the bones
are too narrow even for your tongue

and that evening in paris is all i can look at right now
wishing i could have find oscar wilde
in the corner
in that very same corner where
i wrote those lines in my wrist just to be able to remember them
before they flew away
never to come back
never
because the wind under your eyelids
is so heavy i just want to get naked and
show you my scars
and smoke this black cigarette
and sing "like a rolling stone"
just as if i were at the roof of the chelsea hotel again
and you were the great empress of rock
and lose my voice
and the opium pipes were filled with dead umbrellas
and fireflies and maybe some bob dylan black velvet boots

that evening in paris
my sweet
everlasting
tender
dream
opens up and makes me think about a baudelaire poem
or a mason drawing or the stuff that comes to my mind
when i see her naked
in an spicy dressing room
mid town manhattan
her breast looking like
the inside of an orange
something i cannot avoid but tasting

this evening in the outskirts of madrid
looking at the pink lights of the marble like cathedral
over there
and looking at this golden box
with all this stuff in it i cannot understand
with names i cannot even pronounced
with relationships i cannot even comprehend
talking in a language i am not able to hear
boosting my willing to dissect the latest records
and close my eyes
and not speak anymore


but you know that already
um?