sábado, 31 de diciembre de 2011

The Complete Lyrics

November is lingering like the white smoke
Of a dirty truck
In the wet
City night

Days go by unnoticed
Hiding under blankets at night

Winter is coming

Christmas are coming
The end of the world too

And I recall I’ve been by your side for so long now…
While all the faces
And the cities
And the nights
They all blurred up

And I know
I know
I lost her
I lost all of them
Running away
Diving for more
Getting away
Going back to you


I watch you while you get dressed through the half open door
Of your room
Through the mirror
While I wash my face
With this aching freezing water

I look at your round and tender ass
Your black pants
And the window is cold already
And I realized that the world is just another fifty something white fat guy
In a white SUV with his finger in his nose
And the other hand checking out his blackberry

And we know it

But we hold ourselves anyway
Does not matter if the phone rings
If the numbers go fast in the computer
If that damn thing works or not

And the interstate
Is empty at this long hours of the night

Filled with burned out memories in calcined forests

Riding in this blackness

Through it

Just the engine on
And the headlights

And all the rabbits heads
In the bushes
With electrical pulses shining in the deep mighty well

And that tiny trembling in my right feet
And in my ears

a cherry pie

Finally leaving
Waiting for buses
Or taxis
Or plastic flowers in the village cemetery

People that buy plastic watches
And Nobel prizes that walk with their hands in their coat pockets
And war photos

And a huge sun on a nail hard Saturday of
Anxiety and beer
And me carrying you in my arms
3:00 am
Under the light rain
To your cold water home
To your warm clean sheets
Where each time you cross a door
You gotta close it down
Because all the kids are running up and down the streets
And all the phone companies are out there
with them knives out in their hands
and you know you’d better hurry boy

a Sunday
to tell you how much I like stealing old photo books from second hand bookstores
inside my Brooklyn polish grey coat

all those NY raindrops inside
and the East river
lost in the long long
never ending
train stations at night
Like pieces of silver getting rotten in the streets

And no real place to go back to

miércoles, 16 de noviembre de 2011


lunes, 26 de septiembre de 2011

Maxi DIA

In the bright light
Told me it is raining in Paris

Raindrops falling from the noses of the grey statues at Pere Lachaise
And all that…

Today I left the place,
Still stoned under the Texas stars ,
Just after she buttoned my shirt

It was 4 am
And she called me to tell me she was missing me
Blowing between the scars in my chest,
Feeling how the sun sets
all that dust in the face
at the Thunderbird’s swimming pool

I am felling like an angry leach in this department store
with some fat girls trousers on and your boyfriend’s pseudo sailor t-shirt on
luckily I still have my black cowboy boots and my old underwear on
so I can check the bras with some distant feeling of dignity

I am looking for you like a big city kid looks for UFOs in the cotton night
numb fingers
bad thoughts
not even seeing the signs
mistaking the airplanes for huge polyester insects
in the stoned black sky

There were white helicoidal galaxies in the shower
storms in the big dry plains
a huge orange sun at the edge of the blade,
some cut up Coney Island memories,
a car going 120 miles per hour,

this could be the end of my days
the beginning of yours

Einstein is sad
a new infinite day for those travelling pigeons
with shinny silver smiles
and golden credit cards

Brian Jones is sad
and crippled mothers
and half closed eyes
at the end of the song
Mississippi John Hurt
whichever song

a poem inside my guts for months

under a pile of rain drops
and plane wings
and caffeine cans
and endless phone calls

in a ship
watching Manhattan on the slide
her white and blue dress giving me a weird Marseille like blindness

broken shells in her bag
the horrible apartment buildings in Long Island City
plasma TVs
dirty schemes
on the pristine East River
a dark scary humid shadow

this poem

would never get out

until right now
until this very night
in the middle of the roaring desert

domingo, 19 de junio de 2011


these lines are for the summer ahead
for the heat
for the dry hands
for the empty pockets
for the anger,
the fury,
the unconditional love
the dogs playing in the city square at dawn

these lines are for those thursday nights
naked with you in your white little shower
pouring hot water over your head
thinking about distant islands
watching your body so shiny
so magnetic
so mine
while you take my face in your hands

these lines are for the vapor around us
that makes everything so blurry
for the crowded subways
for the tourists
for your lovers
for the ones I had
for the nights I have missed you
for the itchy, grass in the park
and the soon to be brides

these lines are for you, my love
wherever you might be while i'm reading these lines

i am dying to kiss you
I am dying to be kissed by you

a huge window behind my back
a sunset over manhattan
the subway over the rooftops
someone playing goldenthal out loud
falling over the street like
greasy, shiny, thick oil drops
just like my words over your ears
to whoever you are with now
while i hope you’re wearing your security belt on
and I hope it works
to console your soul

for the way you held my neck while i drove that evening
for the dark dark road surrounding us
for our lights
for the pearls
for the way you cried under the stars
for the times you have asked me to stay

martes, 31 de mayo de 2011


dance for me my burning angel
Dance like you only know how to
Like you used to do
Like you mean it

Dance like nothing had happened
And we are still young and blue and so naïve
And so in love

So please
In this hotel room
In this cold sick town
On this dried up carpet
On my smoky mind

Dance, please
Like you’d still love me
As if we were happy again

Dance with your eyes closed
And your fingers moving slowly by th sound of the hungry wind
Hitting fierce In the window
And crawling in the room

Dance babe
My babe
My only true babe

Your feet not even touching the ground
Your hair like a wedding veil
Over your beautiful half green eyes
The most beautiful green eyes
Through your tears
And my fingertips
And the light bulb

Son dance
Dance while I am sinking
While the water enters into my lungs
And I let myself go down

My love
dance while I see your reflection in the knife
while some girl changes in her white room
half naked
and thinks about amedeo and Jeanne
and their son

dance by your pills, and your sweat
and the silk of your silk white shirt
dance for me

jueves, 5 de mayo de 2011

patti and me

for our book, amy

between all that dust and
the black velvet pavement
somewhere in between the plastic
the rocks that break your feet
a sea so intense that makes you think about jumping in her belly

the white stones
the dried flowers
in violet, yellow and blue
the green wheat
the pale rye
those faded emerald eyes
that shy silk hair

that morning climbing over beautiful grey dry trees
little bugs in black and red
the abandoned
houses of the slaves, the workers
you and i

somewhere, 20 meters under the ground
somewhere with no light at all
just the reflections of your own eyelids
the sounds of a little unknown creek
the light rain over the dessert
the small mosquitoes smashed in my hands
although i cannot even see myself

the ruins of my coney island dream
i look up and see the empty spaces
the lunatic streets
where you and patti
and keaton once walked

somewhere along the way
i stop
my feet in a haze of blue smoke
dark eyes
and sylk-like skin
somewhere i looked around
and realize i was alone all the time

i don't know exactly where
maybe it was little by little
lover by lover
friend by friend
tear by tear
question by question
i lost it

and this feeling is so painful
i cannot even think about nothing else in the world
that faraway town where i met you
this dirty water in my mouth
me, running under the heavy rain
with my marble burden on my back
wishing i could kiss your thin chocolate lips
on the stone bench


this is

so painful it does not even hurt anymore

but somewhere
i am still able to listen to you and cry

miércoles, 30 de marzo de 2011

son of a bitch

para marta p.

este es el último del año
no va a haber más
se acabó

el último de un año de pasillos vacíos
huesos como esponjas
pulmones inflados
y algo de lujuria

un año podrido
en conserva

un año en la cloaca
al borde del abismo
con un pie fuera,
maniobra heinrich,
sangre en las pistas,
boca a boca


un año solo en la carretera,
bajo la lluvia grandiosa,
correr entre las flores amarillas
y carretes de 35 mm caducados

un año de enfermedad,
y salvavidas,
ángeles que te visitan y no sabes qué hacer,
unas manos que podrían sostenerte el tiempo suficiente,
estás seguro,
pero estás tan fuera…

un año de coches destartalados,
bañeras en pelotas,
y echarte de menos
la alucinación de un delirio tremendo

12 meses

de fe estúpida,
y de darse cuenta,
y de giocometti,
y la tinta negra bajo la piel
extendiéndose poco a poco,
y jack frost
y danny lyon, morrison hotel, friedlander

un año abrazado a un ordenador portátil,
y a pesadillas que vuelven,
y a secretarias en juzgados con mármol marrón en las paredes
piedra que refleja tu cara
justo en el peor momento

cuando intentas agarrar la mano a alguien en una habitación vacía


un año
de furgonetas y calor pegajoso
lumbago, piercings, china
kansas city, winter haven

pescadores que vuelven con la barca llena,
apestando a tripas de mañana,
gasolineras vacías,
paradas de metro kilométricas en la noche americana

un año de apretar los dientes,
de lanzar palabras con el bolígrafo,
de diáfanos estudios en Brooklyn,
cerveza fría, hierba, viejo punk, vinilos en el village
un año,
micah p, tumbas para extraños, cocodrilos
primal scream, ukrania y marta…

y tu noche en la gran vía cuando ya no pude más

esa noche que,
sin querer,
sin tener yo mismo ni idea,
me salvaste

y alguien ,
no se aun muy bien quien,
pasó a mi lado durante 20 minutos,
entre las sirenas de los bancos,
giró su cabeza hacia mi
y no me vio


un año detrás de un visor,
saltando de rama en rama,
andando solo por la calle,
conciertos en el mercury,
graffitis en el andén,
y tirar la mala suerte desde el tejado de un edificio junto a las orillas del río
y quedarme con ella,
con la buena suerte,
y la condesa a punto de romper a llorar junto a mi
en ese jodido suelo plateado,
bajo la luna,
hasta los huevos del viento,
pelados de frío,
allá arriba,
sin querer movernos

un año tratando de escribir cosas como estas que
tienes entre las manos ahora,
pensando en qué coño pensarías tu ahora,
cuando lo leyeras,

y la fiesta no ha estado mal,
ya me tomé mis píldoras azul y rosa,
el champagne y los cristales rotos


un año. este año.

de lanzarse en plancha y romperse los dientes
de pequeños libros azules,
y tanta distancia,
y esa bailarina vapuleada
que llora,
y se miente,
y se agacha
y oculta su cara

sexo en el sofá
como un grito, una calada


un año

5:00 am
1 de enero

y una niña preciosa
se me abraza al cuello
en la escurridiza oscuridad del pantano de extrarradio,
por muy capital del mundo que sea,
y me pregunta: “where do you come from?” “you truly light up the skies”
“thanks for bringing me here” “i love you”
y no sabes de qué va todo eso…
mientras la miras, apoyado en la puerta
y su cuerpo parece un pequeño algodón de azúcar,
y piensas que, aunque sea ahora mismo,
sólo ahora mismo,
eres un jodido hombre afortunado
por que, además tiene unas milagrosas pastillas que te ayudan a dormir,
con la nariz metida en su tierna tierna carne,


un año,
de faldas indigo,
pendientes de perlas,
y demasiada gente tomando demasiados medicamentos

un año de susurros
y llamadas a larga distancia

un año. este.

comiendo galletas de la suerte
como un yonki
corriendo en jones beach
besando vicodina

un año de amigos que caen
de musas que caen
de sueños que caen
de bancos que caen
de vendedores de humo
de los idiotas que lo compran


un año de cámaras viejas
de risas compulsivas
de entrar en calor
de vudú y mañanas soleadas en myrtle avenue
con tu camisa y la americana desabrochada
y la corbata en el bolsillo derecho
y las almendras en el bolsillo izquierdo
y pelando un plátano a dentelladas y
los zapatos sucios,
y el puente de williamsburg levantándose como un dinosaurio

un año como una camisa de fuerza

que se despide


con un beso dulce y
un mordisco en el labio inferior

hijo de puta

justo como a mi me gusta

viernes, 18 de marzo de 2011

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,
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
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
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
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

viernes, 21 de enero de 2011

pour la plus belle femme sur terre

because you were
and are
like a spark in the dark
a rope for the falling
a song for the deaf

because you were an ivory piano
in my coal hands
a bare naked soul in an overcrowded mall

when the fog disappears,
is just you i see

because when i am bound to sink
you are the only one near
this is for you,
the most beautiful woman on earth

because i’ve been a blind asshole
and you have cried for me
and you came looking for me
when nobody else did

because i think about you almost everyday
and i wish you did the same with me
because i know you do
because i hope you do

because i want you to know this
because i need you to know this
and feel the kisses i never gave you
and the love i never made to you
and the breakfast i did not cook you
and the films we haven’t seen together
and the places we haven’t visited
and the book i never gave you
and the words i never said to you
and the poems i never wrote

you are the most beautiful woman on earth

because whenever i think about you
you warm up my chest
because i gave you almost nothing
and you give it all

because i miss you so much right now
while i see the planes
and the roads, and the cars,
and the seas, and the oceans,
and the trees, and the time,
that i should cross to see you
that i should burn to get to you

the most beautiful woman on earth

and i recall the empty streets of new york at dawn
and the street lamps in rome
and the ruins in my hometown
and warsaw
and the danube
and the bridges
and the songs

because you are home
you are
even though
we almost have not met
even though you are so far away
and i am still lost

my dear
my love
because i miss you
and i wish we were in the same bed
you loving me as nobody else has
because you are
the most beautiful woman on earth

viernes, 7 de enero de 2011

Whitehead's Doubt / Brown Leather Number 40

you've got a beautiful smile,
and a red plastic diamond ring that cuts like a knife,
a big warm comfortable bed
and an American car that runs about a mile and then it drops dead
but you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you ain't got everything right in your head

you have a screaming mother and a house in the fields
a bob dylan record and a dark cat that yields
but you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you ain't got everything right in your head

you've got your shiny teeth
and a cell phone that talks
and all the bankers they a-kneel
kneel down at your feet the moment you walk
but you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you ain't got everything right in your head

you have a funny ex boyfriend and some auburn hair
you like to paint me with my fist in his mouth like a Russian bear
all those flowers are dry, even though so hard you try
you say you love me but you know sometimes you lie
but you ain't got everything right in your head
but you ain't got everything right in your head, babe

you got yellow daffodils and a little horse
and your father has servants that have never been told
the difference between right and gold
you are a sweet kid and a merchant of air
honey, what’s the difference between poetry and a chair?
you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you ain't got everything right in your head

You and your sweet paper like eyes and your almost pink skin
and your psychiatrists, and the Stalinist so thin
you know he loves to point his finger at your little girl lies
Oh Lord, I can’t wait until he dies
you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you ain't got everything right in your head

you got a thousand chimpanzees and a Siamese snake that sings like Skip James
if you haven’t seen him, he will set your money to flames
you have your papers and your magazines
and the sweet taste of those pills made of naphthalene
but you baby, you, ain't got everything right in your head
you ain't got everything right in your head

you have your skinny notes,
and your mathematics quotes, and a shaman that talks,
and your pale excuses and your expensive coat
but you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you already know you ain't got everything right in your head

you cry when you wake up, you cry out in style
good lord you even cry when you smile
it’s about to end this babe or you are gonna end up dry
you ain't got everything right in your head, babe
you know you ain't got everything right in your head

you have your fix, you have your prick
you have your big shot, the slave you bought
you decide whether you want your fingers to be sticky or not
oh, Do I have to tell you the difference between a lover and a clock?
because babe, you ain't got everything right in your head