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”.

three songs

press the handle softly and open the door
to see what’s hiding behind;

all of your friends are on the dance floor
shooting cocaine and trying to find
the purpose of pain
by hitting each other on Rage and screaming
“Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!”;
you join the group, jump and shout on the stage like Zack de la Rocha
“Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!”;
while another is playing the bass
and one is kicking the drums
and also you have a Morello
that’s picking invisible chords
but it’s late and you have to move on.

press the big black button to call the elevator
and you enter with fear;

the journey begins and you get to level two
without an evacuation plan, wait patiently for the doors to open
surprise!
you’re not home anymore;
new faces printed on walls, a new level of confidence and power
no reason to taste only sour
and hide yourself in the sewers;
at first act like a viewer…though it’s hard
to change, after the sun shined over your yard.
listen to Phil, shouting from the back
“Present tense works and lasts!”.

press enter and run the software
google translates and you are amazed by its incompetence;

you open the window to see all the new people
until you agree with the terms just press næste;
understanding new cultures comes with a mingle
but never forget this old single that plays on youtube
“Hold on to Your Friends!” a voice comes from the haze;
from smoke and darkness rise your eyes to solve
the missing puzzles from the present.

and don’t you forget,

a wrong door could be a dead end.

for a pear

Once there was a pear on that deserted hill…

and everybody gathered around this tree, from time to time
with friends and relatives, cats and dogs, sadness and happiness
and that, gave birth to organized crime.
they started writing logs and blogs, about which appeared to be, their life around that pear.
also they ate a lot of pears until the Sun went down in the horizons river
and the tree stood fruitless in the sunset light.
they started arguing, who ate all its fruits
but after a closer examination, there was one left, right on the top
and everything went crazy, the men took their boots and chopped it off
branches collapsed on little babies with their mothers shouting them to stop
the elder died kissing the roots, adulteries disclosed,lies,crimes,worms,
blood and wood chips, drunken men fighting
for the pear…

until a terrible silence embraced the hill.