There was no spider around when I grew up
No father
Or sisters either
But she used to come to me when I was half slept and sing senza fine to my ear
And the melody would linger in my brain
Until I could taste it in my tongue
Like sugar and salt and the stones of the sea
And I dreamt on horsesplanesstarscarswhatnot
But there was plenty of wars I planned out
And school fights
And staring at the windows
Out of class, out of my room, out of my grandmother’s balcony
When it was raining
With all the little soldiers down
And there was the radio under the blankets
And the mask
And the insomnia
And a god that was supposed to listen to you
When you talked to him like it was
a party line
and there was a naked light bulb in the wardrobe
and a flash light in my hands
green flowers wall paper
like a crow of light
and dreaming about being a sniper
and eating strawberry marmalade
and football in the park
and you had to get up and go to class
with all those cyclists in your mind
and the dust in the patio
and the secrets in the room above the gym
that disconnected you from life
forever
a narrow badly light stairway with white steps
there were REM in the radio sometimes
and elvis
and hooker
and my grandfather’s death
that left this world half empty
and dreams
falling
apart
or from you
or away
and the mountains
and the forest humid
and pure
and green and dark
and cold
and friends I don’t see anymore
and girls that have daughters like morning dew
lovers that have their washing-machine boyfriends
now
with all the buttons in place
and no connection
cleaning clothes
cooking cakes
breeding kids
who might need anything else… ?
and it is raining
in this fucking city again
after months
again
and I don’t even care
anymore
about where to go
or with who to go
or even how
and I remember LA
with the sun
and the light blonde hair in the window pane above the planes at Del Rey
in our bikes
and the seagulls in zuma beach flying over our hearts like they were cotton candy
like the shining of the city from up there in Mulholland
where the red glow stay on forever in the night
or the artists who draws like she had thin branches instead of arms
she and I riding our old oxidized bikes through the calm
Brooklyn dark
night
or Paris
with her white hand over the tomb stone
and the black hair over her shoulders
and that wall
where all the dreamers were killed
and the Paris commune turned into ashes over the river
all that
will last in my days
until I give away all that remains
for whatever that comes to eat it
or blow it away
and mothers in pain that leave
because they can’t stand it anymore
and it is pretty clear why
and it is very funny how I do remember your fags
and the pills
and the coke
and how you clung to me like I was the last headland
insane and lonely as I was
devastated and cruel
and you
oh you
witch
your kisses so warm and deep
brain worm
swallowing me every time
I died for you…
I could have…
But I guess you were so used to things like that…
I thought you could do it
Got my car parked under the palms
down at La Ciénaga boulevard
And it is really
hot
I saw that in my darkness like a spark
But how can you love somebody when
All you can think about is…
My dirt under the flood lover
With a face as beautiful as the night hanging from the northern lights
Way too busy always
too worried about the things of the farm, the numbers, the powder, the corners,
the storms
And too afraid of the lighting and the thunder
And the thieves that come at night
Oh so gorgeous and so worried…
With your smell of freshunderthedew cotton spreading out from your neck,
Your soft skin, your small-rounded girl-like shoulders,
Haven’t seen you in 14 days already…
you have your affairs, your must-dos,
and to plan, and check and buy,
so you can fill up your registers, your archives, your scrolls,
your lovers, your kids, your zoos,
and that wide open smile
and your eyes of brown
and your tongue in my tongue
the heat inside us
making our blood boil
And the road is way too short
And her red body moves like a dark cloud over the Texas desert
And a coyote is a lot like a coyote
And those chains hurt
Of course
On her
And on me
nails in coffins
departure tickets
snooty movies
about teenagers
and scissors
and
running out of
hope
