I write about a perfect world
and i'm there
unscrupulously
I am not aware of time
seventeen years is nothing
and that's it.
there are cats at night
that meow calling the females
I bark at them
and I go out to tour the neighborhood
I pee under the moon
to mark my territory.
I drink my last beer
while I pee the neighbor's tree
so that it fructifies in sparkling beers.
I am not aware of space
seventeen years
it is an infinite time.
we play russian roulette
on route 22
that goes through the city
breaking it in two.
At three in the morning
we speed down the main avenue
with the old Renault 4L
and upon reaching the route
we turn off all the lights
and we cross it defying fate
good bye
because the present was eternal.
we survive
to that absurd death
to the drug
alcohol without measure
we survive in that tiny personal world /
maybe we just survive
to write poems
bad poems
that excite old comrades.
then came the time of death
of true death
from the torture of illusions
from a dark country
With darker uniformed killers
a world of infamous genocide
and again we survive.
the world was no longer perfect
pain became god
and the partner died
with a prod in the testicles
and a dry submarine on the head.
I write about a perfect world
But I'm not there anymore
time now exists
and it's heavy like a wounded brother
carried on the shoulders
and yet I keep writing
bad poems
dedicated to my old friends
who speak nostalgically
of a perfect world.