The barman served me a drink, smooth and cold Martini, olives, bitter as
her lips. The barman is one of those men who can see and read your pattern, reconstruct
your sadness, and find the reasons why I’m here drinking cold beverages if out
there the cold howls and bites the yellow taxis and streets.
It’s getting
late, the Barman said…
Well, there’s always a story to tell.
The sips are not a constant, only
happen in those days, balmy and dismal, if this is possible, when the route
seems to double in size and close in width and your feet loose the ground
beneath and you may ask yourself:
What Lies Beneath?
She asked me this one question one
morning, glorious as an autumn apple, she stared at me, channel hair,
heart-shaped glasses, a long time ago before our air got dryer and our sunsets
looked like worked steel on the ironsmith store.
Nice
Horns the barman said, looking at the antlers on my head. Thanks, I said.
How d’you
get those, boy, he asked.
Well, I
answered, I helped a little girl to bury her mamma and dadda, and that’s just
what I remember, Barman.
Barman is a good friend, serves me now juice, I’m
not a drinker so I like the things soft, he reads me and knows, I drink memories
so the relation has to be made or no deal, baby. Nostalgia is a bitter sucré, girl, and a candy that I always suck,
cringing on my teeth, orgasmic under my tongue.
O casal ao meu lado divide o mesmo rum e os seus goles e
brindes são a sinfonia cálida da minha noite, junto com o suspiro dos abstêmios
e o silêncio da voz dela no coro da cidade.
Candy Apple is my favorite color
girl, the same of your coat and I remember very well, my first kiss was on a
empty and abandoned factory, charcoal and the smell of the lamp, soft childish
lips on mines, oh wait, there’s the bitter sucré
again. My shirt was so long over her body, and the clouds in that day we’re
cotton candy, air was nice and wet, sweet, kaleidoscopic vision of her smile. And
the barman snapped his fingers and took me out of my daydream in the middle of
the night.
Crossed
long legs covered with a dismal light, chiaroscuro over the cheek bones, so
lovely and chemical, my heart melted in hot copper and sulfur, chemical flows while she kissed me,
Mex Cow licked my forehead and said:
Lorelei
is waiting on the Railroad follows these rails and hugs her, but tell her to
take care with yer antlers.
I’ve wonder for so many places and I still
want to go yonder, just to find that purity, over the hills maybe or inside a
Submarine. Piledriver sounds over the city, full of halos and lights, the
molecules burning on windows while my dreams are diluted on the streams of acid
rain on waves of plumbic clouds. Up there only the toughest Little Birds can
survive.
Yonder she goes, but I cannot track
or discover who. And I don’t understand
those people in waves, well if I ever treated you bad; just remember how bad
you treated this world before.
Feet on the railroad, loves stay behind
‘cause I’d never really felt them. Dimes on the tracks hoping the train came
and make them flat, maybe truth lies in the silver lining that covers the
azure. Shadows dance in time while I go further on the railroad, crushing daisies
with my boots, further on to where my horns lead.
And if you ever find yourself
clueless, remember that maybe the barman have a few.
