PANDEMIA

Sweet spring breeze

Over the ruins of LA

Planes landing by the sea

Cargo ships filled up with tourists and deodorant

A line of diffused-white clouds

Over the wall-like sea

Antenna’s up to the sky

all around me

Thoughts about long lost love affairs

and never-ending travelling

And wars

Dirty pigeons

Tiny butterflies

An occasional

Deep

pain

In the chest

Greece

Somewhere by the sea

Arthemis in the sun

Some white marble

eyes half close

the whispers of the sweet nymphs

get away from here

A shot

The sleepy head

Profound 

The pity

The regret

Another shot

With some ice in it

The absolute apathy 

The slumber

No hope 

No hope at all

Empty beer bottles

Dim lights

Chinese Umbrellas 

Iggy Pop on a Swiss air airplane from Miami to Berna

1st class tickets

You know I love you

And I always will

You know you had your life

To ramble

And now you are just trapped in the room 

But it is late already

And the guts hurt

again

And you miss me

And I sure miss you

hey hey banana banana

My friend Leo & me

We run and laugh when we see each other from afar

We don’t speak one single word

I just bite his soft chubby neck and he opens his mouth

wide

full of tiny white baby teeth

and giggles

Leo & me

We salute each other with growls and chuckles

And spin out until we get sick

(I do feel way more sick and for a longer time)

and then try to hold one another like old friends

after a wedding

My friend Leo & me

We try to communicate the best we can with the world

failing considerably most of the times

(he is way more successful than me also in this matter)

and improvise songs like

hey hey banana banana

when the not so cold, dark, dark night

falls over this arid and somewhat  gloomy disappearing town

in which we both live

We walked hand in hand in silence

Around the market square

Checking out (with huge eyes) the photos on the stands

The beer cans from all over the world

The Chinese red lanterns hanging from the ceiling

I try to help him whenever I can

And sometimes he jumps on my arms

And rests his glowing head in my shoulder

Making me feel like a long lost crestfallen Peter Pan

Hiding in a bunker

with the last member of the Lost Boys Gang

Leo calls me out when I am already walking home

And comes to me driving his wooden pedal less bike

While I stand and wait for him at the gates

When he arrives

he just extends his arm,

I bend,

and he hugs me goodbye

Then he leaves again back to his mother

His little feet not even touching the ground

His blonde head shining under the street lamps in the park

Leaving me breathless

Standing like a drunken fool

Trying to get a hold of what has just happened

And swallowing a deep tide of tears

That make me feel

Out of place and time

Even though I am (almost) 40 years older than him

Fragile like a drained tree leaf

In the winter night

Dissolved in the funnel of the street and the infinite subway

But with the odd sensation that I could die

with

a smile

on my face

Mindselfishness

I demand my own sect

I want my eyes to be opened by some

Guru

Psychotherapist

Coach

Shepard

Priestess

uber driver

I need salvation in the form of a light sent to me by a

Sister of mercy

A horse carriage

A whip

I request my peace of mind

Coldness

Voodoo eyes

Conviction

All the witchcraft that you can get from the sickening lounge coaches in all the

Wellbeing clinics in the whole fucking western world

I pray for someone who can take away from me the fact that I am

Most probable,

a walking piece of shit,

a coward

a charlatan,

a farce

and tell me that all I need is to HEAL myself

I command you to lead me to another level of conscience

To bright my path

To guide me to enlightenment

And most of all to, please,

Make me forget that probably I am just a neurotic loon that burns out

everybody around me

I solicit my own goddess

My own chatter about self-realization

Brotherhood-sorority

My personal martyr

My John the Baptist

My drug-of-choice

My saint

My numbness

I crave for it

C’mon

Take my money, please, take it

Just make me feel good about myself

Just a bit

Trick me into thinking that I am good and not just another

Selfless mega-emotional superficial prick like the girl in Fleabag

Out from a self-help book

I need my own particular temple

My sins

My sacraments

And commandments

My dying souls and my infernos

I wanna be the mindless follower of

a hollow magazine cover divinity

with my white gown and my hymns

and everything

I require you to tell me that the rest of the human beings are the problem

Not me

Never me

Of course not me!

I am hurt

I am fragile

I am Fake

I hurt

I manipulate

And lie

I am just a joke told about the person I need to believe I am

I am lost and lonely and cry alone in my room

At night when I see my own shadow in the wall

just before meditation

Oh fill my mind like crystal

My superior

My ego

I really want to be that shallow

I am forcing you to

Give it to me now

sálvese quien pueda

...en los barrios pobres no faltan farmacias,

en los ricos tampoco,

ni casas de apuestas,

ni camellos

ni panaderías orgánicas

garajes privados

clínicas de belleza

“ereselhombredemivida

lapersonamásimportanteparami

tequiero

eresmaravilloso”

La lluvia cae en los descampados

Igual que en los jacuzzi

A la lluvia no le importa

Charcos de barro y cal de las obras

Cuarteles abandonados

Carteles de circo

Conciertos de cumbia

Le da igual

Gripe en latas

Culos enormes

Cerveza de saldo

Ropa de centro comercial

Aspiraciones de piscina y trastero

Pasadizo bajo la autopista

Flores de plástico

Sudor y gritos

“nuncahabíasentidoalgocomoesto

nopuedoimaginarmividasinti

eresmiguapo

quieroabrazarteybesarte”

bares de chinos

mucho sol y poca sombra

narices rugosas y moradas

los cigarrillos se fuman hasta el final

luces que parpadean

bolsas de plástico en las esquinas meadas

sobres que vuelven a sus dueños

celofán-programas de citas en la televisión-terapias secta en el sofá

el tiempo lo dirá

polvo de azufre

rejas

metro hasta las 6

pegatinas

peleas a la salida del pub

votas a los niños ricos con corbatas ridículamente gruesas

manicura

zapatos de piel

eczemas

colchones empapados

elige tu bando

tu camino

tu engaño preferido

“nuncahequeridoanadiecomoati

eresunapersonatanespecial

teveoentodoslositios

viajassiempreconmigo”

ventanas tapadas con papel de periódico

grafitis de encargo

cierres metálicos

postes de electricidad con madera podrida

escombros

vino

papel pintado

ilusiones de burguesa,

el ansia de confort crea cicatrices tan profundas y tan

difíciles de cerrar

“mivida

miamor

nuncadejesdehacermeestoporfavor

quierotenerunhijocontigo

miblabla

bla bla bla

blablablablabla

blablablablablabla”

Chevalier de l'apocalypse
.
One summer, so long ago now, I traveled with a Galician gypsy writer friend of mine around and inside an island in the Mediterranean sea aboard a white caravan. We climbed up to the mountain to sleep at the temple in all its infinite stones and descended into the caves of the Phoenician tombs. He cooked & drove and I slept on the floor. We listen to Nick Cave, swam naked, sang, sweated, jumped the walls of the graveyard and hide from the sun & the tourist under the huge fig trees. We danced to the muses by the wells, shout from the watchtower and espied the yachts and the mirrored sky of the dawn over the water. And it was nice
.

leader's lament

… as I fly over the South China Sea

leaving Ha Noi below

I don't look back

I don't want the small marihuana plastic bags

The cheap boom boom

Take me anywhere

… as I look out of the window and see the lake

and wish it would rain again

even on the brand new taxi

taking me to the airport

in the serious faces of the martyrs

and the empty bookstores

the skinless alleyways, the street beer

the pagodas that look like warm, tender, golden wounds in the mist of the tropical sunset,

in the clueless halls of the expensive malls in French town

the feet of the 4 meter tall Buddha are so chubby

and I would love to rest my boiling head between them

sleep over the dried up lotus flowers

the fake money and all those boxes for donations

echoes of the fishermen rain pools

postcards to far away

so far away that it seems impossible

even to imagine them

once that you get surrounded

parasited

wrapped

in this cotton-like heat

with all the songs coming out from the

karaokes and the crowed tin shops

and the ricksaws driver with a Vietcong helmet

that just wants to give you a ride anywhere

and some of his water tobacco pipe

nights coughing

barefoot kids playing on the street

dragon fruits

phoenix feathers

half-naked animal-headed goddesses

that dance in the middle of the fields

in their magic gasoline capsules that burn and then turn

to smoke and get to your lungs

right bellow the military controlled mausoleum of the old leader

who is now under 30 meters of stones

and marble

quiet

under the air conditioning

wishing nobody else was here