pink Mai one

    You can even harvest it from the floor at dawn. That harsh Asphalt Flower. When the streets are not so dead and the people not so gone, there's that little plastic breath that someone has forgotten or let drop out of weariness. You can get it anywhere else before, of course. Don't need to hide that much. Guess a pocket or a hand, bet a price. Lick, dip, drink. The noon gets fueled up as you become field and crowd. And at some point you get back to your flat, with your jaw knocked out, a sense of boredom perhaps, your arms weight and your feet weight as well, you let yourself fall into the bed and gesticulate the air with your tired arm until you reach for your worn-out blanket that some hustle last week has burned with a cigarette. He didn't intent to, he just didn't mind the ashes and that's how... And do you ever think about delivering children to this world or to that city or that bitch? Did you know there are snipers on the roofs outside with their only eye wide open spilling out fire? Have you read about the girl, they kicked her head like a rugby ball with their heavy boots, heavy like a heartless cyborg they are planning to build in the near future or past? You will read about that tomorrow anyway, when you wake up with your tongue so dried as sandpaper, your arms still tired, your heart just pumping enough for you to reach to the internet device. You will learn that she had tattooed pink Mai one in her tongue and that she was showing them her tongue with smile and happy, with a rose still attached to its long stem between her boobs and down her trousers, with each hype on the street quietly exciting her clitoris. And what about back home? When you go there to your sadness and you learn about the thefts and the prostitution around you, the prostitution where it is not wanted and where it was never necessary but indolence made it necessary. You remember those family trees you used to draw on the streets with a white chalk, and you learn the fathers and the uncles and the big cousins are also drawing their long white lines up the trunk down to the leaves playing so free in the nearby square. Every night some walk back home. You can guess a dark shadow on that dark dark night. A night made of hands you know. If you are not stepping on the floor it looks like you can beat your shadow. That's why I jump up the stairs to my house back home, and then I shut the heavy door and not in my house but usually a jesus christ sign or something blesses you so there isn't any more night anymore.

Three nazi tales: I, Oranienburgerstraße.

At the corner Friedrichstraße with Oranienburgerstraße there was a pizza restaurant. I didn't use to go there: too expensive for me. But it was near the place I study and could see it everyday. Two weeks ago I walked by with two friends who were visiting me.

The place isn't a restaurant anymore. It was closed. The inside was dusty and the furniture removed out of its place, chopped into splinters. At each and every one of the wide windows someone had painted gross jewish crosses from the bottom to the top. I double checked the calendar: it was 2011. I double checked the place: it was Berlin-Mitte.

We left the place towards Brandenburger Tor. A shade of sadness. We slipped through a bunch of Syrian people demonstrating for the current president of their country who has been recently accused of crimes against the humanity by Amnesty International. "We'll blast you all", one could read on their shirts, or see the smiling face of president al-asad. "We'll blast you all", my sorrow sang.

Berlin, Warschauerstraße

The walk between Warschauerstraße and my room at a student's residence at Ostbahnhof was like playing a ramshackle piano on the dislocated tiled floor. That, whenever I walked the tiled floor. There was also this trip down the stairs from the high bridge at Warschauerstraße, where you could fuck around the dirt underneath, fuck up a lad or a chick who wouldn't complain about the sour smell; then walk the narrow vanishing path while any short of tick could get attached as it jumped out of the weeds which now and ever tried to erase the walkway; pass the tumbledown cottage, once --if ever-- a kind of train relay station; already near to the student's residence the huge Berghain disco stands, over and over again chosen the best one in the world, whoever decides it. The companion as good: any drunkard who got so far; a couple, an orgy shook the bushes, laughed the waxing waning moon which slipped roundly at either side; some children playing dirty vodka or rum sat on the curb of a road driving nowhere.

For a last time: back to the stairs descending from the high high bridge over the train rails, the bridge itself being Warschauerstraße. And the stairs hanging held by an armless night, with all the majesty of a suicide drop. And this was my preferred way back home.

For a last time, I say, cause they aren't there anymore. Now only a wailing of wind rocks the bridge, the soul. And my drunk steps, and this void. And I must walk back playing the quivering tiles, which soon won't quiver anymore. And as I pass by I see the old path changed into a neat BMX rink. The relay station is now being build into a railway museum or whatever. Yeah, the disco is still there. You can get ice cream inside. And whoever it chooses, s/he'll choose it again as the best one in the world. But people like me, the beaten downs, are not allowed in anymore. Instead, mama kids pretending to be whores but who wouldn't fuck --even suck a shit-- when sunk on the bitter night.

So this is what it means the fall of the Berlin wall. Capitalism as a busy beaver working back and fort, to and fro; fixing up whatever soviet disruption remains. Like a come of age of the whole city, mature enough that it doesn't need me anymore.

The heat in Granada

I saw ourselves as from a camera zooming from deep beneath our feet; from down on the boulevard with boiling, living people; smoke from the bars; a gleaming haze of yellow light which rises just over the first and a half floor; and the camera zooms out so close to the edge of the building as a sudden vertigo, and a further twisted life can be intuited in the corner of the sight where an also-gleaming darkness trembles in the aMazed streets fueling up the night. And so the zoom buzzes as it passes by, a shiver of our ears and the sky stays still just above our heads and Granada, so warm, so almost summer. So with short pants and t-shits and our browny skins so willing to touch themselves. So your eyes so your nice the blue behind. Each one a can of beer, alone in the terrace where I'll always love you. The heat is to sway our heads pleased and forever; long enough for the camera to stop, hold and fall, and make us shake this time with the violence of the ephemeral. And a sudden burden on my heart pulls hard from me and drags me down the terrace into a nightmare of mere night, of concrete vertigo of building edge when zooming my head down into the drugged hardness of the city paving.

I'll miss you so much Granada, your very essence.

Fake and Queer

To lie under the sun while you wonder who you are, while you abandon yourself to the just-being. To act as a response to the tip of your cock. Just play around with yourself, never with any other... yet. Watch World Cup matches. Get happy for an identity you don't know yet if you have... Get happy, indeed, for two identities you are not sure that you have. Remain politely not-so-happy as you wanted. Be about to cry, don't to cry, to cry. To get drunk by the remains of Berlin's Wall...

To wake up sad. Without any identity yet, but with labels you always feared. To feel misread and alone. Looking back, not so much changed... but everything's changed...