alcoholic anonymous

She lights a cigarette and looks around for a perfect face to take back home, into her empty bed. Too long has passed since last, she dived in lust and touched a human skin. She takes her blame for all of this, she takes the blame. With her desires, wandering the streets in search of one to stay around, but failed. Now strangers act like wolfs, and she’s the sheep, a grotesque image, a cheap revenge. Perverted words that penetrated the normal, angelic memories transformed in porn.

Disgusted he walks in silence from these scenes of flesh on flesh. A fuck without a feeling is a wrong method for healing loneliness. And from far he sees her true nature cleverly disguised over the years in white sheets and flawless actions. Deception hits him to the corner where depression awaits to comfort the stupid man.

She walks the streets in search for flesh. She walks the streets. A soul that died, the body needs pleasure. She strays among wolfs with sly eyes. Men gathering around her hips, forming queues. Ugly peasants staring at her pointed tits. The flower that bloomed was sold to devils so that they can burn every beautiful petal in sinful ways. Love? Died, squashed by societies standards. True love maybe existed somewhere in the days of our fathers but it’s extinct.

Are you there? He shouts in the night but the night is not his friend anymore. Alcohol and drugs estrange people. Cigarettes pop their lighted heads into the dark. He wonders why and how.

Sweat drips on her skin, ugly males pumping vaginas, innocent memories fade, lost between the copulating bodies. She’s in beds covered by other skins. She screams. He sins. She fucks. He drops. She cleans the mess. He vomits the golden years. All of them. They’re in parties.

The sun goes down taking dignity from humans. The moon comes bringing lust to their beings. Special effects arouse the weak. They’re in parties. Blinded by the lights there’s no way to see the succubus and the incubus sneaking to fuck your dreams away.

the hardest part of the night

enclosed by our secrets and forbidden desires

freedom seems so far from its initial design

and happiness is some dog that ran away

to stray with the hobos.

that hard to define Sunday morning drunkenness

keeps you awake in the perspective of finding

a happy end to the collective story we’re writing.

our body is pain and our souls are dead

confusion has spread through all that’s alive

and smoke is ripping your lungs every time

a cigarette lights the apartment.

undisclosed secrets pop from the past

smashing your brain or what has remained after the last shot of tequila.

you ask for forgiveness but who’s there to hear

the morning alcoholic shout of a stranger.

who’s the dog in the manger

that now ran away ?

these invisible flying creatures are gunned down

we as a healthy communion between a man and a woman

is the illusion created by god and other religions,

by your father and mother and the flying white pigeons

that shitted on your jacket, over the years.

you stand like a statue waiting for we but the shit of a pigeon is not a bringer of luck

and your lack of perspective gets you stuck in bus stations, with your beer and your fear

of missing the bus.

you grope for physical interaction in the darkness of pubs

flirting with invisible faces, with vodka and wine.

unhealed scars opened by the one way sign

that makes you stray on the city’s streets, looking for that we

which hides between the sheets of couples and drinks the morning coffee

and dances, and sings

and fucks, and smokes.

that we, that lights candles in the coziness of bedrooms

and drinks the red wine.

your perception is wasted as well as you are

and far is your answer up in the sky like a flying white pigeon

released from the cage.

we dies in the end

killed by someone like me.

a nightmare that doesn't involve you

I have this dream, every time I look around and see sad faces

a joyful place with cats and dogs and other races

and maybe humans too.

I have this dream when I’m surrounded by a perverted empathy that ends with “ok”

a dream involving me and some of you, on a deserted island, a different space and time, somewhere;

in the universe there is a place without a single war crime.

but we live here, on this land covered by waters

with our laws and religion, no friction with liberty

just an well staged illusion hiding poverty in branded clothes

kids grow in confusion, Santa is not a employee at the Coke company

and you don’t need talent to appear on TV, fake icons and prophets, football gods and Hollywood stars

they’re sold as commodities and never forget, all Arabs are enemies.

we live the grotesque in ignorance and selfishness

never to wake up from this nightmare

a terrible situation of misunderstanding happiness

which jailed our opinions behind barcodes and plastic

don’t ask for forgiveness, nobody will hear the shout

of a sellout.

I have this dream that dies

When someone buys another lie.

searching for Paris

I was drinking my Paris nights

searching for Parisians in the cool April air

as my bottle got empty, the streets got crowded

and I needed a beer.

at the kiosk an arab told me something about a bear

that was decorated with the Croix de guerre,

but nobody cared

so I left;

groups of individuals were smoking their cigarettes

outside the bars and I felt the scent of burning Gauloises.

after I filled my surroundings with strangers

I decided to explore some more

and off I went to Rue Mouffetard.

but not far, just on Gobelins, there she was, parking her bike

with a large sweater and a multicolored knee dress

at first, I thought she wanted to impress

she said bonsoir

hypnotized by her smile and her perfect French

I barely said Hello, I am…

and then it started to flow

her face had this glow when she puffed the smoke

amazed, I saw every detail, which rushed to my eyes painting surrealistic images

of her riding an unicorn over the graves from Père Lachaise.

unfortunately she had to go to her boyfriend, her partner in crime

she killed me with a hug and said au revoir.

throwing my arms around Paris like Morrissey

I arrived on Mouffetard, my burial ground for another three hours

as my view got blurry I was in a hurry to find a pub

but nothing appeared so I mingled on the street that smelled like kebab,

Indian incense and Chinese cuisine.

on the way to the motel I walked like a drunk Parisian

and talked into French, in my mind, visions of blossomed oleanders

and my little parisienne girl smiled as the sun was rising, the coffee was hot

the table was round, la Seine flowed and le garcon called me Gainsbourg.

through my sunglasses I saw “le soleil au zenith”.