4 june 2012
Jorge´s Machete: Revisited
His rusty Machete gleams in the moonlight
over the scared scrawny head of Daniel
painting pictures of drunk tourists
and old buildings on the stone-lettered streets,
he is Jorge
and he has a machete, but he also has
a thick scarred Cuban accent.
Pablo, dirty and unwashed: watches with exitement
the pretty girls tripping over their heels
because even he knows those vulgar pick-up lines
are more charming on Fridays than on Mondays, next
to Gustavo chain-smoking like a stinking addict one cigarette
after the other between alien yellow fingertips. And
he complains like a man happy with unhappiness; about Spain,
about Argentina, about women, but never about the French.
A Danish boy who makes old ladies blush and sings newborns
to sleep, returns from Lavapies speaking in utopian tones
about French strawberry fields. Black women who endured
Rape in the Sahara to be raped by something worse
taunt English boys dazed by their own spinning stone-lettered heads amongst petty dealers in knock-off leather jackets.
I immersed, laugh at everyone
while the pretty Danish boy practices Bob Dylan poses
in the reflection of a water puddle, and the Chinese work harder
under the noses of the Conspicuous with back packs full of beer.
Soon though, this will pass and dawn will awaken cold reality scattering us as old ladies take in the laundry and humanity
moves on with drowsy hangovers. Our pockets will be empty.
"Go back from whence we came"
Come morning doors will only be locked when we
need a place to sleep. "They will not have the answers we seek".
and
"El Dorado is only a mirage of the Sun´s rays".