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