lunes, 25 de enero de 2016


Come over
I promise I won’t make it hard

Just drop by
I won´t make a fuzz

Won’t even open my big mouth

You know how I am
Come to see me
I’ll make things easy
Heat some coffee
Afghan tea

Just come over
I’d like to sit in front of you
You in front of me
Not uttering a single
Just staring at each other
Like we used to do
Then you would stand up
Sit on my knees
Put yours arms around my neck
your head on my chest
and kiss the veins that go straight to my
And I’ll hold you tight with

Santo Domingo

There are some unknown noises
down on the street
and going

some food on the counter
viruses on my weakened body

I have some friends I am missing
some old love affairs too
some sadness deep inside

I am searching for the atlantis
in every shore round here,
in my dirty
with chinese prostitutes on every windshield
and yellow bleach bottles
smashed bellow the wheels


that little dominican girl below
is crying

it must be around 6AM
on the hangover month
and the entrances to all the private parkings
are gathering tore apart plastic bags
& fallen leaves
and condom wraps
and cigarettes butts

the mother starts shouting now
“What the hell is wrong with you?
Why are you crying now?
why aren’t you sleeping?”


They are making bets on your seizures
Your blind eyed souls
Your chances to win the lottery
Your numbness
Your stupidity

But the shade on your face keeps getting’ softer
and the kissing
is always without the tongue

only oblivion puts you on

you always get naked underneath the blankets
you go straight to the point
but the travel is the point

I prefer to see you standing
room half lit on fire
with your sweet tits like chocolate Eastern eggs
your rounded hips
and that tender edge between your legs
with spicy little hair all around

but you are way too worried
about the price of oil
the hunting season
and the weight of the bread
and the brakes
to notice

the miserere morning news
the death valley
the long gone loves
the father of your only child
the jealousy


like a flock of religious zealots
dancing away their


Summer is here
& it will never leave

this roar of ventilators
sweat in your armpits
headaches at dawn
sticky hands
flip flops

to stay

summer is here
for you and me
burning our hearts and our will
with such as easy fire
-and almost colorless fire-
-so easily
pushing us down in our cradles and

summer is here and all the others are leaving for good
we will never see them again,
or backstreets
running away from the cops
to smoke

they are flying over to Mexico,
or the north
or any coast
and they won't be back

so this very summer
long and wide
will be our long last home
crushing our skulls with its empty hands
exhaling clouds of dusk over our eyes
we get dry and lost & turn grey

Ecomic recovery

You see them standing on the street
trembling slightly,
back to the wall,
70 or 80 years old
hand just a little bit stretched out
palm facing the sky like a little bowl
for water
lines that go from side to side of their face

you see them on the street
more and more each time
and it’s not easy unless you walk with your eyes open
because they hardly make any noise
and they look like rice paper
they stand still
on their feet
in grey corners
looking at you as you pass by
with their wet-white eyes
soft skin
faded voice
asking for 50 cents

you see them
more an more each time
and you bite your tongue not to cry because you are not a sentimental prick
and don’t want to share no tears with anyone,

you hand them whatever is in your pocket
your fists tighten in anger inside

while you think about hanging and burning

all the fuckers that tell you everything is going alright

miércoles, 25 de febrero de 2015


she's gone for the night
gave me a big hug
let me a weird pain below my eyes
somewhere underneath the skin
between the forehead and the neck
full of paintings with
lonely dogs waiting in the outside of
and big red slaughter houses
with their masters coming in
coming in

she’s gone to spend the night in someone else’s bed
someone else’s mother’s photo fading on the table
some old house
the chains you threw back at the gate are way to heavy
for your feather like back
babe and your small teeth and
your skin sweating by
someone else’s heater

abandoned gardens
cherry broken lollipops
middle aged women
middle age schools
35 red little red hearts you have just draw in my stack of yellow papers

someone stole my bike
and i walk everywhere now
and i ride the trains for free
taking a lot of coins in the back of my jeans
just in case
the ravens come to get rid of their women
and their jobs
and their tasteless mouths
that are winding and narrow
and all frozen up in the veins of the past
can you tell me if all that might be true?

your tea has evaporated from your glass
like a springtime mist
like yesterdays nightmare
like a goodbye note
all those small blinking lights goddesses
coming out of your mouth
and falling into the cup
for good
or for tonight

miércoles, 14 de enero de 2015


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
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
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
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
and I don’t even care
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

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
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

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
running out of