stupid coffee machines

… it's christmas day
on the summer city
and i am listening to endless neil young songs
that linger in the walls for hours until they disappear,
in my narrow cabin
over the dry sea,
while i count every step i failed to take
every delusion
every chord

… it's christmas day
on the summer city
and i count down the drunken kids on the dirty streets,
and the acid wigs,
and the homemade fireworks,
while i think about the snow
and the day we throw our bad luck into the east river,
so she would not come back anymore…
that second comer son of a bitch

… it's christmas day
on the summer city
and i recollect my wet laundry
while i consider which pill to swallow
to get over this headache,
and the deep holes in the streets,
and the war in mali,

and you

X indicates existing damage

in the starving hours of the fake autumn light,
in the city,
the faces melt under the flat screens,
the chinese-made tongs of the
eastern european whores,
the hidden longings of the inner late night bus

every heart is a departure
in the alleyways of this town
where the electric honey blood of the street lamps
vanishes and offers an abyss of
barbwire reflections and dogs barking

so you drive the old blind toyota
and pray for a huge miracle,
a white horse in the black bolshoi  theatre,
a time machine,
a chandler-like spark moment in the cotton fog
a phone call

a word

waking up is not an easy thing when you have your heart rolling
in some other chest
no matter how much you pretend to walk it down
the trembling echoes of those days
come back from the dead
and haunt you like a burning arrow on the throat

the girl in the post office
smiles and talks
all dark hair and lips
and red nails

and i carry my load down to the train station
whistling if-not-for-you
and picking all the dust I can

the queen of england

show your darkness
ghostly shadows of love affairs,
frozen lakes,
fallen trees
in the sour throat of this november night,
show me the reflections of the rainy lights in
an abandoned parking lot,
in the big neon-smell heart of america,
motionless,
beating like a six shooter
before your animated eyes.

a child is coming,
water is rising
and Joan of Arc has been finally tamed
by the mediocre,
empty baboons,
inmersed
in the average dreams
of the self help books

all the turmoil grace of your beatific-sacred-bloody heart,
that made an angel out of you
a savage,
a miracle in this world of dull,
restrained in the heated walls of the dead in life,
your voice
just an opiated lost echo
lost in the dew
and in my tears. 

the trails are vanishing
a dead crow in the rotten dirt
is your last word
and I remember how much I loved you

they haven´t killed you,
it is much worse,
they’ve killed both of us

ghostly shadows of suspended love affairs,
a smile in a cab going East
caught from the wrong side of the window,
no cigarettes or bourbon anymore,
just one more cup of coffee before you go
such bad luck
such...

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ghostly shadows of pure love affairs
moving in the bright yellow leaves
like a good snake
in the name of the lord

the lava washed away the pain
and the birds fly away under the hellish sun,
a paradise
down under the throat,
throwing stones
and million year spells
while all the black horses
run down the champs elysees
and the money- cavalryman
with blood coming out of their ears
and swords in the arms
and the crystal whips devoured the dreams
that used to hang on your heavenly mouth like a
petal
a blade that now cuts the tongues of those who believed
in the quiet pulse of the northern stars
under the seine’s smog
and the bateaux
and the dogs
and the drunks
and the miserable lovers

and I can still listen to your words
very soft in my ear
while I was kissing your neck

“Oh my love. My life. You can’t imagine how much I have missed you”