oil

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

windy
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
too
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
were-bulls
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
hallelujahs
and small light red candies