Getting into politics.

It's a theatre down the street

where none of the audience is getting outta
it
alive.

You have to enter broken, stripped

naked
by the ticket vendor before he
hands you
the magic ticket. Your chest like a dried
lake. Your things mean
nothing;
your story means
nothing;
your entertainment will get you
killed.

Then they'll measure your height. They'll

place in the box; and let you go down
slow
and
naked.
Every time I see a school kid
in the street; I get the feeling
of loneliness;

I guess it's 'cause I been one

and now I wait.

Songs can't sooth the ages which

are gone, anymore; I feel lost
empty
almost downed in
minutes, hours,
dates:

it's the womb we seek that cannot be

found; the rest is out there on
shelves,
mute:

half priced every end

of the month.
Late nights.

Woke up naked next to her

and she looks quite unfamiliar
to me,
her breath smells alcohol so I guess
mine too.
She's way prettier than me, so I got
off the covers
searching for my cloths and got
dressed. The window is wet
from rain
and it's grey and cold out
there.
I walked in the kitchen and made
myself a cup of
instant coffee and sit on the
couch
smoking roll ups. She walked
in, naked, with her eyes
half closed: I thought you left,
she said.
Aw no, I went.
She made herself some coffee
and added two spoons of
sugar and fell on the couch across
me
like a wrecking tower.
She smiled.
I smiled.

Smile though is not something

to rely,
so it's for free—every body
gives and
takes one.

Do you remember what you said

last night?
I always remember.

Can I have a smoke? She said.

Yea sure, said I and passed her
the tobacco.

No, she went, roll one for me,

and so I did and it began
raining,
wondering did I say the night
before,
what people say, what people lie
just to lie.
Your heart beats slow and times runs fast and stumbles at nothing

I put my heart in the cage

next to words
then threw the cage from
the balcony
and watch it breaking
apart
releasing the unfulfilled
promises
into fireworks.
Here and there and everywhere.

I spend most of my time in this room

where I write and nothing seems to
resemble any success
next to empty glasses and mugs,
wide opened books on the floor
dishes with scraps and
where nothing
seems to shine

sometimes the radio plays weird music

and the sun bothers me when it hits my face
through the window

I ain't here for you

your democracy
your pity
you money
your music
or your own life;
I have it all my own

I stretch on the bed at nights and looked at

the ceiling and the flies around
the lamp
and wonder what is to be one
what is the meaning—you'd only
seek light
and you'd be dead when unable to
fly—just a fly

I don't like the sun and I can't stand

walks at the park
chats in coffee shops
about who slept with who
and who owns to who
or how the bank is forcing you
to pay a debt
or how some joker appeared in
a talent show a total bordello
on the screen

I got no answers to your questions

and the modern amusement makes me
sick
there's nothing to talk about
nowadays
and I guarantee that poetry 'causes more
problems than it solves

you, I, we
all have to do
a patient waiting for the next
day
the next words, the next poem
the next satisfaction of the human
vainglory

the dream is ashes—the cat wanders

in the house
stepping slow
and briskly on the furniture
and seems melancholic
if you can say this for an animal

loving becomes more courageous than

hate
but still it seems that most people are
useless with no effect
in both

I can't wait for you to save me

and I won't

Your love towards can be of no

importance to me
and I hope mine for you as well

All we have is a self

one single self to accept or
grow
a tragic self to sustain alive
for while

just that.
The promise

I promised that I won't do it again

and that was enough
to keep me believing that I wouldn't do it
again.

A friend or a partner who didn't like

what you did
feels better too by such promise:

Promises kept us going, half humanity

is built on promises
the rest's based on stone, science, banks.

I could barely breath and that doesn't have

to be particularly truth,
but it's an enough legit to say to indicate
that you might had suffered.

Thistles bent by the wind in your mind.

Highlands are too far from here and it's too
cold
to pay a visit to a forgotten friend there,

not to mention that public transportation is

more affordable by the royals rather than by
my pub lads.

Now it rains. A day it's not really supposed

to rain.
The sky was never promised anything. It's
air, water and clouds—Do
you trust the sky?

Or do you really believe god

and the dead
are up there looking at you and hearing
at your promises?

Taking and going by something all the way to

its end is necessary if you're to love it, hate it,
worship it. Flowers never threw any blood—poets
were
wrong.

Days passed since your promise. And tonight one

more promise has to die and go with it all the way
to its end, death, dismantlement, disassembling into
tiny pieces of letters and words which will morph the
next
one.
The way the flag goes blind

And what do you think the bombed ones say?

The clock's indexes stopped

and the law of gravity
works

then economy is a rapist

with a fetish over the poor
and walks stripped naked into our
houses
asking to forgive him
afterwards he gets

the job done. The screen says the days have

changed, we're heading to the
dream—I do
believe that—
but do you really believe plastic tongues inside
fractured jaws?
 One way Road

How did we end up here, in this point in which ourselves have married solitude?
We reached this point in which we see pictures of us and tear when a 3-hours
flight can save the whole world of us. Everything's fading and lost. To win
yourself you have to sacrifice all the rest. The only issue arising is whether or no
you'll accept what you'd won. For a position we're haunted by the suppositions.
Blame the time. Blame yourself. Blame the ones who gave you life. Blame the
government if you want—no one cares. Blame the impenitent position of the past
towards the present. After all, sometimes you have to turn your face from hers to
avoid cumming.
 The Public Service.

The mail man knocked on my door bringing a letter for my mom. She's dead 10 years now, I
said. Oh I'm sorry, he said and handed it to me. It was the electricity bill I already had paid. A
month later the same mail man came with another letter mama. I received it and didn't say
anything and he kept coming for a year or so, until he died too.
The scholarship arrived early in the morning with the mail man.
The ship was fine, old and prestigious,
promising and western as fuck.

I embarked on it a sunny day that ended being

a whole cataclysm over our long rebellious hair;
the dinosaurian umbrellas
they gave us
couldn't save us, though, so I drowned
in pubs inside pints of cheap
beer:

The scholarship arrived fast 'cause it's made out of the best mate/
rials.
The ship's shiny and colossal but
the scholars were out of sight: as
one said: Jailed in sonnets and sedate palaces.
The death of the poet within

1.
Take you body out of here. Leave yourself if that's what you really want.

2.
I need help and I'm asking for it from a stuck clock. It looks so much like you. The cat walks and
rubs herself on my leg. She can't do anything but purr.

3.
Go to hell only if you know the way. Otherwise stay here and burn me with your legs wide open
on the bed. Dance with sighs within the sweaty state that once brought you up.

4.
Angels are out there to be destroyed: No one is allowed to be that pretty.
Beauty
belongs
to
words.
Now fly back to the sky, but beware of the traffic.

5.
Alex saw an elephant down town Glasgow the other day. He said the animal was RED. However
he decided to keep for himself 'cause in reality there ain't any elephants going for a walk in
Buchanan Street.

6.
Life is nonsense if you look for sense. You looked.

7.
As you can hypothesize, this is all about committing a suicide outside the mind.
Mirrors.

A long walk back home

after few pints
at the pub—
it never sobers you and you
don't want to,
but it's good
seeing people
asking for tobacco
or trying to sell you
stuff,
incised unshaved
faces
you'll never keep
in memory
after you see yours
in the mirror.
The importance of being LOLed

I can imagine my heart, my eyes, my brain—but not

my liver or lungs—
in jars
on the shelf of a Tesco shop
being sold for...
say
10 pounds
each.
For lunch I could eat them myself and then soak
them down with whisky and beer
then watch shitty TV, reality and talent
shows
and LOL with them for the first time—
I mean
I want desperately to be a LOLman too
over cell phones
while TV screen's luster
at dark nights will
lead mah life
into prominence with
eclat.
How to write a poem.

You don't need really any high education or intellect

to write a poem or a
piece of prose;
a poet is the very same man that buys carrots and cans
of tuna from the same shop
you buy carrots and cans of tuna or apples
or plums...

If you know how to write and you want to write

and the word and the line lives within you and it wants to jump
outta you
you can do it as long as
you know how to put a word down
on paper.

Poetry cannot live without real life

it's real life
no matter what sense you get outta the poem.
Life on the other hand can roll through the same route without
poetry though.

Each poem is a man within the mass

it's you
it's me
it's the places we hangout
the moments we go mad
the moments of joy
the moments the tears run down your cheeks
it's everything.

If there's something in you and you cannot

get it out
go visit few of the poets and they'll show you how to get it
down.
Don't trust the scholars, the educated, the so called
savvies with the big, great, complicated, impractical thoughts or
those who preach:
they're all dull bon vivant pricks; they succeeded in making money and
failed in the rest, their say
is anorgasmic, empty of passion, nothing but a number among
the infite numbers:
open
the paper and you'll see the fuck-ups without solutions all over
the world,
where are the great ideas when the shit flows all over our heads,
big words on papers can never be great solutions,
not even a piece of paper to wipe the shit off from you.

It's not even worth to read the nobel laureates

these are sell outs
most of them never kept it real and that's why they won the prize, they're
the norms the bigwigs want you to have, the figures they present you to
shut your mouth
lock your say within you
believing you can never do it
so as to keep doing what they want you to do.

Make no sense,
go out naked and feel the cold, the warmth,
live and live and live and live and die
living.
Go in the pub and talk with a random stranger; start a conversation
on a random subject and you'll listen to all
you need to listen in order to know what
haunts you
then if you still feel like it get a pen and put it down.

If you want to be a poet

if you want to be sophisticated
if you want to be normal
if you want to make money
if you want to have an icon
if you want to be seen as an intellectual
if you want to be a politician
if you want to be in a constant sobriety
if you want to be a critic
if you want to be like the many
you'll never write a poem.

Let the word dance on the blank page, tear it apart, make it hurt
to its guts
that's the only way to cleanse yourself
that's the only way to say something truly yours.
Get in the park and see the kids yelling and playing and laughing and the smiles
of their mothers,
see how the dogs walk and run towards strangers to pet them:
watch the innocence time stole from you
and then home
remembering this you'll write more innocent than anyone until
the next time you'll feel
like writing.

If you want to feel the magic you must first know

that there's no good, bad or average
poetry;
it's you against the wind and the waves; don't listen their sound
be their sound
that's the way to survive them and get closer to the lost crippled gods.
And if one day someone tells you your stuff is bad or sucks
that's when you'll know
that have some stuff worth a dime—it appeared bad 'cause it didn't flow down with
the norm
the must
the idiocy;
it was a want and that's what in the end of the day you are:
you're what you want to be
and be like no other; go mad and dance alone in the dark of your soul.

If you want to write a poem you better get into the state in which
you're already
a poem among the mass: a poem that screams, cries, laughs:
for those moments that it takes to get it finished you're
free,
innocent: FREE.

If you want to write a poem

you better exist as one.
Letters from Glasgow.

1.
I rejekt the angles…

I am not aware of what you would be thinking now, because I just cun’t, especially when
I do have the kapability of knowing what it is that you are thinking now, in a world that does not
know what you are thinking, but constrakts whatever you are thinking.
I will, however, tell you what you are doing now and how I imagine you.
Most likely you are smiling with what I just wrote above—which you read at least twice
(me thrice). You are smoking. Now you are certainly lafing. You are
drinking something—something non-alkoholik: letters always arrive in the morning.
You are picturing me writing this letter. You have a figure of me whirling in your mind,
sitting on a desk writing and looking outside the window and shifting to the paper. In no possible
way you are thinking why this figure's writing to you—YOU are of the tough fashion: you
want to play it cursed, to be a dramatically gladsome figure—something like a bass drum on a
football stadium's stand.
What kind of persons are we? You will not think of that at all. It's not your style. Now
you are feelin' gooT. You feel that you don't want this letter to cum to an end soon—it's taking
somewhere—, but the way it began makes you think that it won't be long.
There is, of course, the thickness of the pages.
It alleviates you.

2.
And I do ask: if I was not a letter, what would you like me to be? A kiss, a flower, a
caress, a poem, a quickie, a line of koke, a joint, a pill, a drink, a doggy woof-woof, kitty yum-
yum, or an intoxication with all its surprises?

I know exaktly why I write to you and what exaktly each letter signifies, exaktly because
I don't know. I sense that these letters are dangerous. They are anodyne only when they remain
in the role of the emigrant; the dude from the far land that sits in a room full of smoke and writes
—something like a correspondance (dance, aye, dance) with another candy god. They become
dangerous when they expand within you. You will understand when the ink finishes.

Most likely you are thinking, without thinking about it, that I am writing to you because I
am thinking of you—without, me, thinking of you.
Well, if you say so, I agree.

3.
OK! I want a mirror. And a klock. Place the klock right on top of the mirror, just above
your face. Stand in front of the mirror and look at the klock. Now ask it "WHY?". Ask as many
times as the number of clothes you are wearing. For every why take off a cloth. After the last
why, kiss it. After you do so, you will feel something quite peculiar—maybe for the first time
you'll feel woman. But, you won't do it, and I know the reason—it's in my hand, and in its
movement.

4.
I once knew somebody that knew someone else who dug and open a grave; and as he told
me—he only found bones.

5.
Then the doktors told her that her insurance does not kaver her boyfriend, and especially
foreigners. They gave her the bill, as if she bought meat from the hospital, and she wished I had
died.

"Wow" she said. "The soil is very soft—what kind is it?"

"Soily kind of soil" I answered.
Then I lit a cigarette and pulled her head on my chest with my hands around her—and
gazed at the horizon.

Later that night, we agreed to change the world. But being tired and sleepy we decided to
have one or two drinks and crawl under the covers for a quickie. Let the next change the world;
we will train them accordingly.

6.
But there was always a vital issue—of academic nature too—with the dead: there have
always been dead.
the Alive ones too.

7.
Look at the Klok. And then ask it "What?" pause for 2-3 seconds, "That's how much you
want to fuck me?"
And the Klok will tell you "TIK-TOK". It's not its fault. You mother was always telling
you to learn foreign languages; they help with the bizness.

8.
Of course everything has a shape. Square. Triangular... The abstract is accepted—we
love it—let it be...

For today, let's decline the lines forever. We dekline corners. Hurrah! Here comes the
abstrakt curve.

9.
Contemporary art becomes tiring. It lacks ORGASM. Just a little more and we will be
reading, we will be painting, we will be acting in theaters and academies complete bordellos, we
will be writing music wearing a drool bib... Amateur kisses. Political hugs.

10.
But... But... I have a plan.... a big plan: someone has to finish eventually.
But how?

Jot down recipe ingredients:

Loads of flesh—as much as you like,
1 tongue,
1 gaze—the one always closes her/his eyes (what could they be thinking?)
2 hands,
1 klitoris.
Then we heat it up in high temperature until it melts.

11.
But what about the kids?
Since grandma is dead she cannot look after them. So, what do we do?

Listen the thing's swaying and waving. We will send Eros for smokes—at this time
everything is closed, plus he's dumb, he will walk around Glasgow until he realizes so.
Oh yeah, what about our stubborn one? Love. What will we do with her? … Eureka! We
will give her 50 pounds and send her to the cheapest bar.
What about RespeKt though? Oh, don't you worry, I know of this brothel that provides all
kind of services at affordable cost.
We will lock Hope in the attic.
Faith. Ok, we'll let her sit aside and be the third wheel.
Poetry? Uh Oh-NO
Poets don't live long. Up until 40 the mooust and then they die out. Lying, you see, is like
cancer. Those who pass 70 are junk... Thankfully I will reach 181.
I lit a cigarette. Take some smoke. I am not talking to you, but to my self. If I wanted to
speak to you
I was gonna tell you.

12.
Now you'll be thinking that you think. Bravo.

13.
I enjoy watching smoke cuming out of the nostrils. Do you?

14.
Hmm, and when your legs are flexed on the table, with you smoking on the chair, I still
want them—
I have a plan.

15.
Although, some times when the pub empties and I sit alone on the trial stool, in front of a
mirror and gaze at a face amongst half empty bottles on the shelf... fuck... it's then that I think
about you the most. Your thought purifies me,
I get up and leave
I walk next to the river and
I get lost in the fog.
You'll tell me now, the world is too ugly to be so immacuLate.

16.
Sometime, somewhere around the center I saw a seagull. It rested on the bronze head of
some bigwig, looking at the rushed and indifferent crowd. It got bored. It flopped its wings and
flew away.
It was white.

17.
Do ye remember, in yer oblivion, that night on the balcony?
The time when we were drinking whisky, looking at the lights in the distance, and talkin
about the world. You wanted to change it... The sound of the rustlin' leaves would cut you off...
you felt cold at some point...

In no possible way, was you aware of the reality within the illusion. You see... the energy
in the gift box...—or did that much energy is needed in the box for it to become FUnCKtional;
to become life;
to become life;
to become love;
 to become
ash?
SLAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!

Our desires & passions still seek an illusion to sustain themselves.

Turn off the light and look at the glare of the horizon, look at the still antennas on top og
the roofs, the square and cylindrical water tanks. The myth is more real than what we can
comprehend. It's like when we play our strongest card in order to conceal the weak batch. Just
like when we used to play the hero in the neighborhood because we were the wasted generation
with no heros other than some millionaire cockstars—everyone hated Hector and Camilo... you
just play whatever you are not in order to complete what you are.
The myth completes our imperfection, right?

18.
I refuse the existence of any angle—I break the shape, I make a bouquet out of its pieces,
I come
and knock on your door.

19.
Ideological Anxiety. This was the doctor's diagnosis.
Then he gave you those pills to take with your drink. In the beginning you refused, but
then I persuaded you. That's why you fear me—
I always persuade you.
I swallowed some too as an act of solidarity. I saw your hair growing long one night,
turning into snakes, after the first pill. They got shorter later. I took them all from you, and saved
them for myself. You just ended up taking aspirins.

After all, you probably realized that the world did not change. It was just tired, bent and
took it deep. Poor world!

20.
Now I'm going to tell you about the Other One. The One that walks in the sheets when
you sleep. In the beginning he stares at you. Then he lays next to you, caresses your hair. Smiles.
Takes his hand under you, and inserts the first finger inside. You get wet, you smile, and then
you get serious. You sigh in your sleep. It's not me—IT'S NOT MEEEEEEEEE—you can't hear
me... Excitement. Spasms. You
shudder,
you finish.
Thereupon he whispers in your ear that he loves you. And of course you believe him—
what father doesn't love his baby. He stands on your bed and strolls around you. You sleep, with
a head full of me... from the waist down—cheerio!(!(!!(!!!(!!!!)))).
Before he takes off he leaves something for you on the nightstand. Money. Enough
money to keep getting you drunk until the second coming—let god and his cums n' goes alone
though... they're literary a pain in the ass.

The Other One just taught you how to see. (Imagine what would happened in yer blind
Referendum, how he'll convince you tae remain slave... oh babe, even Ulysses cannae be
that smart, you kno...)

And that's how you came to my house one day

to pick me up and go for a drink: ideo
lo
 gical(S)ized.
This is how the Other One ended up sitting on my feet: you see ideas, you make ideas
happen—you constraKt yeeeeeeeer life; yeeeeeeer liiiiiieeee.
And here I am now, caressing
the hair of your reflection.

21.
I will give you an answer to what you had asked me once, when you asked me if I believe
in gods since I have a cross hanging around my neck. Because it doesn't work, you said.
Back then I silenced. I changed the subject. But my answer then would be "No, I don't
believe... but you never know"
Now: Of corse I believe, that it does not work, but I know that I don't need to believe that
it does not work in order for it to work.

22.
I rejekt the angles. With fire, ax—paper & pencil I destroE your symmetry. I place your
pieces in a fancy and flowery gift box with a red font. I kome and knock on yer door.
"But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more" (The Proclaimers)
the radio has busted our balls.

23.
As for me? Cool. I still write letters late at night, in front of a sweated window... I
changed my cigarette brand... The chimneys are smoking... As for me, aw don't worry 'bout me. I
often converse with today in the beginning of yesterday. Let alone the fact that I think faster
than my own self,
I owe it
to Silence.

The day before yesterday it rained.

Yesterday it was sunny.
Today it snowed.
Tomorrow it rained—
way she goes!
way
she goes
& way
she'll keep goin.

24.
The day before yesterday I received your gift for my birthday.
The mailman, middle-aged, unshaved, and chubby knocked three times.
The first time I turned over.
The second time I awoke.
The third time I got up.
I rolled out of my covers wearing only my underwear. My head ready to explode.
He handed me the envelope, and a paper to sign. I held yor envelope between my armpit,
and stood in front of the wall with the paper against it, holding a pen on my right hand.
He paused and looked at me from top to bottom freezin' his gaze for 2-3 seconds a little
below the waist. And suddenly he withdrew it.
I sign. "This is my drama—it is hard,when you sleep alone in the bed and have someone
waking you up for a letter".
 I give him the paper.
“Hav-ah neice deiy”
O
“Ah- Y”
I threw the envelope on the bed and went to the
kitchen for coffee. I rolled a smoke and sat by
the bedroom's desk.
I looked at the gray sky for a while, the rain and the activity in the
windows across from mine:
1) someone is cooking on the stove top,
2) one guy just came out of the bathtub—wraps himself in a green towel,
3) she is dancing.
I took yer envelope in my hands.
Yo gift was fantastic, marvalous, the best gift I was ever given. I smelled the envelope
and I placed it on top of a book on the desk.
At some point, some day I intend to
open it.

Late at night I drank whisky and listened to Tom Waits.

And even though everything was calm & serene and my mind was clear,
I did not realize how I
kept thinking of you without even
thinking of you.

25.
Do you recall the first time we kissed?
"... nope..."
Me neither.
It was fast—even though it lasted enough for me to become the gossip
in the corners of the corners.
Flaming. Someone was burnt...
Burnt so fast that left no remnants in the memory—aside of the fact that it
happened.

26.
When is it gonna make california for us too? Hah!

27.
You are elsewhere. Always. I am within: a little outside of the angular circle.

28.
“But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more” (The Proclaimers)
Woman ::: I order you to gambol:

i.
da
d-da
, da d-da
da
da d-da da
da
 da
da
dun diddle un diddle
da
da

29.
I rejekt the angles. Death
squared, death cubed, death

shaped & the polygon power of death. SHAPE =

DEATH: SHAPE IN SEARCH OF FLAG,
SPONSOR, CHICK—
Remove from your figure yor right hand and
giv it to me. I'll think
later what I'm gonno do with it. Open your legs
to hide in—and I am coming. KNOCK,
KNOCK,
KNOCK--
OPEN
the door.

30.
In New Orleans I met this dude. Black
with gray hair and beard. On the grass in front of his porch he had a strange object.
"What's this?"
A pirogue, he said. Why do you have one? I asked.
For the next flood, he replied.
It was relatively small. His wife was huge. Short and about 400 pounds. And where will
you put her, I asked him.
"No worry man; she's a boat herself"

And so Love navigates humans, these humble roosters, through the Symplegades.
Thereupon, a bit behind the poets follow—in safe distance of corse--. Good lads, but they
never cross the Symplegades: beyond them they just imagine—Such cunts!

31.
You softly flick the lighter with your thumb to
light a cigarette. You burn yourself. You call the
fire department.
Why?

32.
I transformed my window into an espionage screen.
At this moment I look at you drying, naked
on the bed, I touch your hair. You sleep.
You snore, like a docker with tuberculosis—quit the art:
it induces fatigue. I smell your flesh—I will finish a few thousand miles
 away
from you-- in One
way
or Another.
Look at me now: at the pub drinking
black beer—each mile
and a sip—still,
a-
li-
ve.
Seriously, what do you like about him?

33.
GRADE MINDS NEVER EXI(S)Ted
It writes in black spray on a wall under
the bridge.
Underneath in red:
WOR STILL GOIN ON
I STILL JACK OFF
I stop and look at them, my baby. A homeless man a little further away
looks at me and asks for a cigarette. Wrapped up in a ripped up blanket. I go next
to him, bend over and I give him a cigarette and he offers me a bottle of cheap whisKEY. I grab
the bottle and sit next to him on the concrete—of a concreted city, with asphalted little
humans—I take a sip.
I cough.
"'s guid shite mah laddie" he stammers and smiles.
I nod yes. I wedge
a cigarette among the lips and I light it.

About after half of the bottle he tells me: "Awe mah laddie! Yer yoong, whit ye ken... left
wis alwis reit... nane listened"
I have a sip and turn to him. Unshaven
long gray hair, earring. He stunk more than the river's waters. "Left wis the ansa, mah laddie,
haur a' Scootlund--" he continued. He shakes his head and looks at me straight in the ice.
"--Whaur's left noo?"
I take a sip. Everything is whirling. In my gaze he is doing akrobatics: he is doing a
headstand.
"Left turned right—"
"Feckin' fascists--" he shrieked.
...
We are decaying in a period that decay and lifelessness is in style. We cannot even say
that we are going to hell: it is a historic joke, of the days, to get humiliated by humiliation itself.
I simply love you, simple as this—shit happens, ya know. I'm simply telling you this... I
can't
say it in a complex way, for it to sound more... poetic &
sophisticated.
The sun rises (also) & the leaves fall from the wind... Sorry... And this guy next to me is
sleeping with an empty bottle amongst his legs.
I want to wake him up so he can get to see the dawn. But he probably saw it more than
any goodnights/goodmornings I ever said in my life thus far.
 I stand up. I can barely walk.
I put my hands in my pockets.
I don't have a dime. I live him my cigarettes and
leave.

34.
After that, at Starbucks I order a double espresso.
The cashier gives me an odd look. She offers for free an expression of disgust. Eventually
she asks me if I want a glass of water--
NO—I nod.
I sit on a table. On the television
a piano is playing--yor song--the pianist is
drnk-
ing it.

35.
I deny the angles. Allow me to break the ice: bring me
the ice-crusher------------------------and place your heart on the counter. It will only take
two minutes. Then------I prepare a drink for you and I am coming
to knock on your door.

Last night I dreamt of you. I was with my head between your legs. Huh, I've found it and
it turns you oNNN.
it tastes...fine?!
but why fine
me?
AH LUVE YE, AIN'T AH?
36.
I deNY THE ANGLES and I prohibit the
act of hypokrisy in theaters, in
cinemas, on the music scene, in
politiks, in skools, in the akademy—that has becum a memorial of the dead dead—, and in any
public place----------------------- I burn them and I get drunk from their smoke. Stay put, my baby,
silent on the balcony--------------------------------------------------------------------and I'm coming
and I knock on your door.

ii.
da
d-da
, da d-da
da da d-da
d-da dada d-da
diddle undiddle
d-da
diddle
da d-da da
da
da
da
dun diddle un diddle
 da
da
d-da
da du du da
diddle d-da
da
d-da

37.
I rejekt the angles. I break the shape in portions of
food---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------
--------------------------------------[And I deny
the reproduction of whatever pre-existed, and exists again in a new apparel & wrapper—I spit
ON the DETERGENTS—Every night I rape
orthography , I wipe off grammar's tears, I give to her sweet
promises and then I push her on the couch]
Hold my hand, tight.
Let's go and start a fire. A fire so strong to erase the past from the present—yes, my baby, hold
my hand and Let us go and start a fire and throw in it all the musical instruments from the music
piazza. We would get
warmer this way; their sound more melodic would be too,
rather on stage---feel their nuance carving your flesh.
Then hand in hand
we arrive the two of us in front of your door.
And we knock it.

38.
Thank U, you told me one night.
I never understood the reason.
You welcome, I replied.
Then you hugged me.

39.
Tomorrow the children drew.
Today under the bridge another syringe was emptied—in which filthy waters do you
want me to teach you how to swim?—the first line is always offered
for free.
The day after tomorrow we buried them—with their eyes wide open: they were beautiful
and the still carried the scent of Haribo on their flesh—oh mister Death
take care of them
in the other world you are takin 'em.
Next year we resurrected them. We had, you see, a deficient number of workers. We set
them up like scarecrows on the boarders so they can protect us.
from the wind's whistle. And they sang NOTHING

And all love you. Still.

40.
And when you smile at me, and when you look at me------------------------and when you
talk to me, and when you hug me everything lasts-------------------------------------and the korners
become---------------------------------------------------------------------grape vines
that hang
from our navels—flames
that connect us.

41.
So, I think death should be free of charge.
Love they should sell in bottles
in the grocery stores and not whiskey and Russian experts (aka vodka)--------------------
then it would really be affordable... But since things are still otherwise let's waste ourselves again
again,
again,
again,
&
again.

42.
“But I would walk 500 miles
And i would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks a thousand miles
To fall down at your door” (The Proclaimers)
Dance.

43.
I come and knock on your door. You open.
You look at me and smile, and before you
hug me a mass destruction rocket falls-----a war begins? (this is what they call it now?)—
We get wrapped up in flames.
And as we are melting unable to roll within each other, you mumble: "How can you
always be the one that comes when he leaves?"
"The love, Love, came an end late—" You smile at me and I wipe your tears with the last
finger.

22/10/13, Glasgow
With this and that.

vodka
whisky
hash
lighter
et cetera
all in estrus
among
a scarecrow's
legs.

whore,
society—
bent
and stoned
taking it
timidly
nostalgic:
refresh and
refreshments.

ah luve ye
babe
only as ah can
hate ye:
coke
crack
lungs
folk
songs
diet loves
Strauss
and downers
dopy
drugs.

as long as yer hae

holes
ye'll be taking it
bent and
nonchalant.
Holy spirits.

Whisky makes you

ski
in the shadow
of a tree.
Meeting Mary, reaching Merry.

I used
to love
a MARY
who used
to make
divine
BLAAAH-DY
Marys.

She used
to take it
slow
and
steady
(remember... aye)
she was
always
AH veeeeRy
MERRY
lady
when eating
mah big
cherries.

Now,
she's gone;
bleed
on the beach
a night
with tide (
cut her throat
with sharpened
stone—felt stoned);
now know
that if she bleeds
you—indeed—
can kill 'er.

Today
ahm soft
parading
the empty
streets
of vanity,
green tea's
mah like
& love-
living:
I also bought
from an antique
shop ashore
a private god—
wholesale stuff:

Quenching
mah thirst
with VIRGIN
Marys,
NOW—NO
KNOW (?):
extra
chilled, slightly
more tabasco's
required.