untitled chapters I II

I

good guys go grind.
february goes blind and tosses in fear, crushing crusty ice with my boots.

and then I saw you walking down the stairs
in beige monteau with wispy fingers half-smiling,
small,
elfin, looking at the world through bulky glasses,
but head and shoulders above the mobs
pottering in full of tomatoes bananas, canned goods,
getting their tongues 'round talking 'bout
politics and zen. too loud
swarming lower and lower,
swarming and smoking
and biting their tongues when it's time
to show how exactly the things are going.
______________
under the trees looking at the full moon
a girl said: "You have a good head for maths, dude".
and then she's gone
and left a perfume impress for the dead leaves to breath it in.

I saw you, Garcia Lorca, burying your head in sand, in shapes of tomorrow
in shadows of past,
chewing the cocka leaves somewhere in Granada
shot by Franco's pig.

"There is more in this pill than meets the eye"
— you said and fell down to the green grass
by a narrow margin touched by Aurora.

II

for those whose faces just dont fit for it,
                who's lost his face at the
                high school graduation,
                who saved his face beating
                faces of others for being respected,

for those whose head is full of fallen stars
and small tatoos
lo-fi dances and punk zines,
                who's getting their teeth into
everything that could get them
out of this heavy concrete-ground ghetto,

for those who fell from stairs giving their
right arm for icy soup and then beaten,
because who cares,

for those who's swarming in canned goods
waiting for the summer rain,
or kiss,
or anything except crowded trains at 7 p.m,

for those whose poetry is wretched by
permanently arguing issuers,
who's treading on each other's and your toes
and pointing their fingers
and laughing, breathing the smoke of a Cuban
tobacco plant's offspring
and expell them out of the blind eyes of
another five-floor skyscraper, crying that your
poetry made their toes curl,
like hair of a nazi baby from the Goebbels' posters,

for those who left their hopes on the front door's
dirty walls keeping their fingers on the pulse of the epoch
being the one in the eye for relatives, friends,
dogs, girlfriends, boyfriends,

I could say:

"If you're not safe — I'm not safe".