quinta-feira, 4 de fevereiro de 2016


it was not this music
made of cheap old
poems that made
me sit on the
dirty roof of
your flat
just like a junkie;
a madman.        
I drank and
sang and
murdered some
cockroaches that
passed by.
I was a foolish
young lad
and my friends
were exquisite
and remarkable
they made
me smile and
write colorfully
about death
before instructing me
on the less painful
way to slit my right
I was wearing
a straw hat
and I didn’t
know your name;
your address;
I hadn’t memorize
your phone number
and your favorite
author was Dan Brown,
or something like that.

there was a taxi
I had five bucks to
spend and
no idea
where to go.
I bought randomness
like a proud
capitalist freak.
five bucks of randomness
to be more precise. 

Sem comentários:

Enviar um comentário