When I find old poetry and I remember why I keep writing…
And when we make love I still feel
the reason why the tide fought against his chest,
the moment when he moaned out loud
that the sea was his.
I wish I’d sail the darkest seas
We are junkies, and they cannot give us anything strong enough to make us change our minds. We are the ones that dwell in an ocean of pills, smack, sniffs, drinks that became our safe happy place. Their aim is to find the reason why we have decided to swim with our eyes closed and our backs to the sea. But they would never let us get the answer because it’s just too simple: We are the problem.
So hail to the dealer, and hail to the broken dreams of building a house, planting a tree, writing a novel and being successful. We are here, in this particular moment, and the future is a rope that is never tightened. The present is us, and the black surrounding when we close our eyes and we fall in the arms of something that will kill us in the end. But doesn’t it feel great?
We decide whether to live or die, and our choice, once again, has already been made.
Another party, 1.
'This is absurd', I swallowed the last crisps' crumbs.
She shaked her head, up and down,
without a smile
she said ‘I know
the pathway to Heaven is not in that book, you see’
Just empty words for the full-of minds in his living-room.
I grabbed my achy belly and drank, staring at his hands
while he fingered the guitar, teasing.
You stooped and I conquered
The folds of my body, the beginnings
The unmade tucks of my bed,
steam of my breath, mixed with
the sour smell in your mouth
as you invaded my snug position,
upon my bodily warmth.
You dozed and I slept
Falling slowly into place,
Your arms, limbs without a purpose,
Enclosed me like a cocoon
That would never be finished.
We dreamt of separate places,
Of separate people;
We dreamt of a common moment,
of a here and now. For a second,
We dreamt of us.
I had to open the window,
The smell of gas exuding from the pages,
with its dead still speaking of their anger;
I had to get away, to breathe
The air that inundates the household,
Slipping in, like drops from a hole in a bucket.
Fresh air that fills up my lungs
With hope, with the non-anxious promise
Of here and now.
the nausea I felt when i read you,
the facebook status of great fun times,
the profiles of new romances, the success
in all fields I found my failure.
You seem to have forgotten
my rants, the indecisive way
in which I bite my hair, waiting,
looking at the screen where blue screens
foresee the dawn of my fever.
I belong to places where no-ones knows anyone,
the familiarity of unknown faces
surrounding enlightened corridors.
I live for the cold kisses of young men,
the slackness of sluggish lips with too much
tongue. Drunk steps that lead to falling,
encumbered by an expression of triumph. I can but I won´t,
I say, vague. Undecisive, I admit to be
cryptic and scared.
I may follow the lead and stay
the night with new bedclothes that I have
already dreamt of.
You may not understand the language of bare walls,
the closed doors from inside,
the way they open the closest trunk with a trick of the wrist.
You may not understand the long hours we spent motionless,
the blue couches embracing our waiting for news,
how we stood the standstill of walked down corridors.
How we watched the World closing in,
as we queued in front of the children’s sitting room
Where a big-eyed family listened to medicated stories.
We waited to be named in pharmacy words, one by one,
While discussing our victimless crimes.
I swallowed and became weightful, with the last flap of wings,
and fell slowly
like a wounded grouse, cackling my silent way down.
I lied still on the laminated floor and they typed up another scrap of paper
for you to read.
It simply says I’m alright, that I’ll just limp a little.
He was right.
He was right, you see,
he said the world is prettier to look from up above.
I keep staring in the distance, without any interest.
It remains motionless, speechless
behind this cold, high window.
The world has begun and will end with me;
It will stop, the traffic,
it will stop, one day, it will pronounce
as the world is me;
and the world will die when I die with it.
On the Metro
How could I have forgotten the fight of the metro seat?
How could I relax when leaving my place?
The long incandescent faces grew sour and their vulture eyes flew,
with no leap from the floor.
The severity of their pouting beaks
signalled the plausible possibility of a journey
without a seat where to sit their ungrateful ass.