Matthew Bass, 20 lutego 2012
I think about how much I miss you
on my solitary walks from Lavapíes
to Sol to Malasaña,
Along the river through Imperíal
to La Latina to El Palacio Real.
The sullen eyes of Africa
with their unspoken epitaphs
of rape death and fatigue
from the Sahara follow
the path I take,
the path I take everyday.
I am not Spanish
and never will be,
still I tremble with fear
when the rythmic drumbeats
echo down my waist.
Chants of U.S.A, U.S.A, U.S.A
are heard in the distance
squeezing the small rock
in the center of my stomach.
My hands are cleansed
but the scent of blood lingers on
from a war not that long ago,
but I feel no remorse
nor deny it.
The frigid lake effect chill
does not run through the white of my bones,
I am not made of that tough blue collar stuff
because the dry spanish breeze is too much
for me to wait at the bus stop.
Here life is not real
with nights that live on
past the breaking dawn,
melodic tears of the Roma
recited by imposters,
and rusted brick buldings
with bar after bar after bar.
Ponce De León searched for
the fountain of youth
when it was always
in the old world
although,
youth is very different
from never aging.
I have fallen out of love
with Madrid, only because
I have fallen in love with
you, and just you.
Matthew Bass, 19 lutego 2012
(Sometimes you have to suffer
to be with the one you love)
Some nights it becomes so unbearable
on the dark 4 a.m. Malasaña streets
swamped in the cologne of liberation
and sketchy prose, because something
is always missing, something very deep.
The street musicians and drunken small talk
cannot extinguish the thought of you
burning so hot it melts the inside
of my skin.
I plead with myself in the vain hope
you will hear me thousands of miles away,
how I am lost without you
how you are the only thing
that keeps me going
in an otherwise redundant life
going nowhere
in a chaotic cadence.
I try my hardest
to stand perfectly
still
in the fleeting hope
the sun, moon, and stars
will fall from the sky
and the next time
my eyes open
your naked body
will rest
seamlessly
inside my long arms
forever,
and all this pain
will be for naught.
Valentine´s day passed
with a skype conversation
and a metaphor for a kiss
that wasn´t the same
as the real thing.
It´s taken three days
to write down the feelings
lodged on the back
of my tongue, feelings
you already know; for
I´ve said them many times.
Yet, I am compelled
to express them again.
I do not worship you
but I will never put
a god, a leader,
a movement before you.
I will not die for you
but I will never live
at the expense
of your happiness.
-In submission to you
I am a man
Matthew Bass, 19 lutego 2012
I am alone,
connected to everything
I touch
I see
I love.
I am God
with unwashed feet
unnoticed, laughed at, spit upon
ignored, revered, respected,
all encompassing.
I live in alleys with the trash.
A hero to no one,
a bystander
in a masterpiece
that does not blink, flinch,
nor hate.
I am free.
Matthew Bass, 19 lutego 2012
like ashes
dripping from the cherry
of a forbidden cigarette,
on a cold morning
drunker than I intended
to be.
The bile
builds up
in the back of my throat
as I hover helplessly
over the toilet,
wishing my stomach
would make a decision.
I have never been lonelier
in this bathroom
pondering the point,
of all this!
While I try to recover
what has been redacted
from my memory,
then find the courage
to look back in the mirror,
and continue on till
tommorrow.
Sixty-Four days
since the descent
began, and the bottom
still seems like an illusion
although I know it´s there
waiting in the darkness
keeping close watch
over the other half
of my soul.
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