THE REASON OF MY SINGING

Perhaps because destiny
needs my singing.
Perhaps because there's such a
huge hunger in this Hell
that bread won't kill it.
Perhaps because I see B.A.
dawning in disgrace,
with the plain image
of electric wires
crossing the winter of its sky.
Perhaps because I need to believe,
because I precise strenght
to avoid sleeping
in dayly boredom's bed.
Perhaps because it depends
on the flowing of these words
the piercing of your fortress
to rock myself within your heart.
Perhaps because it's the only remedy
that gives me the chance
to cry for love.
Perhaps because I'm so vulgar
that I take advantage on this excuse
not to get in the
huge wheel of mediocrity,
coarsely and legally allowed.
Perhaps because my soul muscles
get cramp when I refuse to scream
with voice of ink.
Perhaps because it's like that,
plainly.
I find these words
indispensable to beg a little ride
in heaven vineyards with style
and to share some wine
with God there.
Perhaps because I'm blessed
or cursed with this gift
and/or fault.
Perhaps because if it weren't like this
the remaining story
wouldn't have sense.
Perhaps because of that,
or of many things more
I sing;
because I need this pain
of bearing songs
a lot more than the caresses
I'd need to calm it.
Perhaps because my destiny just
put me on her way
because she needed my singing
to make it more interesting,
and I can't choose
What the hell do I know.

 

FOR THE MOMENT THE END COMES

And if only silence remains,
the sleeplessness of a faucet
that doesn't get tired of dropping.
And if only a story remains,
a story without story,
the null night
of 40 cigarettes
crashin themselves with no sense.
And if it's just about
picturing always the same landscape always,
always thge same window,
always the same misery.
And if this heart felt asleep
with local anaesthesia
and it feels shallow
beating at half engine,
crying at fake tear.
And if the only remaining joy
is this lexotanil peace,
that tedious song,
this monotonous melody,
this double-beded loneliness.
When the improvised end overcomes,
there won't remain anything
but a 'resign yourself, brother'
to pay the entrance to eternity,
or the nothing that waits for us as well.
Only tired muscles will remain,
only tired lips, only tired hands,
only tired fingers,
only to justify
this absense of existance
which we never get tired
of conceive overunderstoodly present;
vulgarly, and ironically.
Special and eternal.