domingo, 14 de diciembre de 2014

(The Love Story Of) Marjorine & the Juggler

Love was fallin’ down easily from the yellow bulbs
in the miracle's tent
in Tuscaloosa
the night the juggler was in town

the scent of the river was floating around us
in small cotton like waves
young kids were smuggling their fathers moonshine
the hunters were coming out from their caves

Wild berries in your sweet palm
White horses at the door
she was a lone rider ever since
her father never came back from the northern war

The juggler was a-smiling
looking at the yellowed faces of the righteous people
the sound of the bells ringing from the steeple

Barbeque smoke, sweat
Wavy hair
Blackest that I had never seen before
over soft tanned shoulders that shine in the shade
A band was playing some degraded copy of
the waterboys
And I was singing Hank Williams songs for you
In my mind

The Major drop by your little shack
All white suit and cologne
And a golden watch
And a twisted smile
You are the prettiest girl around Marjorine
You’re the nicest gal I’ve ever seen

It started to rain
The fat drops cool down his cigar
And the band run behind the diamond house
“It’s overcrowded here my dear” – He said -
“Why don’t we go inside?”

And in the tidewater red-cypress home
Words were said
Knots untied
The earth stood still when on her back she laid
And the singer
So softly came
Silver sharp in his hands and nails
Blinking on the night like the distant lights
of the resting summer fair
heavy moon in his head
a torn turn inside their bed
“I only wish you had some money my little mare”
Blood and grievance just filled the air
Of the sticky Louisiana night

“What have you done my fatuous boy?”
Said the major in a hush
“I’m just freeing Helen of Troy , can’t you see?”
“You’re doomed
No swamps will shelter you
No rest you’ll find
I am the king of the bayou
I’ve got my cane and all”

There was a lot of fighting
A lot of rushing
Some pistols were shot
Some flesh was cut
Sentences were laid
Some crystals were broken and some favors were paid
Underneath the rain and the trees and the staggering moon
Who smiled cold and far away over his poisonous bone

And in the dark side of the trees
His footsteps fresh
The silver kid still
Waits for the right time
When the heat comes down
And he can go back to her lover’s home
back in the Major’s land

sábado, 16 de agosto de 2014


it’s always windy up here

it is difficult to write
difficult to wake up
and walk

there are no trees nor water
just pink flowers in the table cloth…
and the wind
howling around me on the other side of the windows
so i can forget about the fucking summer
and all the heat
and the city
and the ventilator blues
and the crowded beaches
and write

no tourist
sardines for dinner
and the short brown grass over the hills
like the skin of a horse
or a telephone goodbye

there’s a half moon floating very near in a pitch black sky
through the window i can look at her
silver and ecstatic
like a roman marble statue
more a jewel than a satellite
as if she was a mirror

and the small trembling lights i see are just the stars
and an occasional car sinking in the unknown
following roads that get darker
and darker
down the road
to other villages
fire tongues
and sweet girls playing with water

there are street lamps leading to other houses
and paths
but they are being swallowed now,
i am certain about this,
for some hundred tons of air and sand and bourbon
beasts that grow older and colder
magnets of heat
burning with powder
touching the skins of the kids
and reminding them about…

bitter memories of LA
(neon signs, dead cinema stars, ending credits)
a special kind of softness lost
fathers picking up kids

and all those things that the human beings do
tangled up
with despair
and small light red candies

miércoles, 14 de mayo de 2014


i’m riding in my car
around the contours of this island
is dark outside
the flies get together in the windshield
crushing their heads like small vein drops
in a junkie’s bedroom
white teeth
remnants of her scattered around the back seat
like hair

there used to be a sea below
a hill above
but there is nothing I can get my hands around
when I need it the most

in a hot night
oil in the road
and the tires
and the bushes,
deep down
in the roots
dipping in to what used to

red lights and the small
of the sea somewhere
spraying my face against the wind
along with songs
and images
of your tender
round ribs
being pressed
with fingers
and caressed with tongues

your naked shadow on top
the bottomless cliffs
to the rocks
and the wish for rain
and storm
and yelling
cleaning it up
telephone rings
and fathers of the unexplained miracle of faith
and love
fire ants
god burning the branches
sacrificing his own son
for those who jump out of the window to silence the filth
in narrow churches built by long black American souls
brightened by the luminescent
of matches
and rectitude
pulsing and singing like wide solitary birds
of the machine and the night
the travelling
the search
the words echoing in the corners while you listen to  it
so vaguely
the refrain of the lost breath of the night driver
around the island

offering himself to the bugs
bared chest
soothing one’s private victory
as I massage my own forefront
and wonder
how the hell did it  all went wrong?
the map was the right one
the capsules where taken following the doctor’s order
for the correct behaving of the
human being
the cuts are elliptical in the house of miracles and plagues

the childhood is stopped
all of a sudden
by the muteness
and the hiding of all feelings
and dirty dove feathers

the lake opens at dawn
the city vanishes under it
water gets high
the old home is flooded
once the dogs run
the longblackhaired babies were asleep
but the king-is-coming, the swords are here, he’s coming tonight to recollect your mercy
you’d better scape baby

there is way too much baggage
packed under the bed-noise
of spring breaking for us

lunes, 10 de febrero de 2014



my own sweat falls from my head
to my bones
a thin presence of lime
black pepper
and safran
in the old opium parlour

there are unknown small fairies
under the huge palm leaves
and scooters sliding above the melting streets

why that endless fire is burning
the red flag is still blowing
for the tellers are going slightly mad and I wonder

who's the best girl I ever had?

viernes, 10 de enero de 2014


i do smell like cigarettes,
and mint chewing gum

like i did so many times

so long ago

but now my hands smell like baby's chest,
that has changed

my neck still smells like your hand cream,

i am all nervous for the coming trip
and the south east
and the bugs
and the russian airports

friends whose brains are all wreckage
and debris
and hate
but i don't know where it comes from
where does it all comes from anyway?

i am running to the embassy
to get the visa,
the hot day
all falling above me
like fists
and stones
the immense football stadium menacing
with all the lingering promises of passion and glory

and a couple of flashbacks from the past

of course

and mint gum

and your lips