solos

Mario Canal 04



Sick. White pills falling from your gum and swallowed every six hours, tied with the sheets, boiling, a monkey screaming whispers on your ear, the ceiling sticked to the cold side of your wrists and also dull, weak. Again you in my sensless me.

Asphixiated, I write to you fearing to break my fingers. Iced stalactites, transparent hands, as you say, that drips on these words bluring us. Another useless therapeutic slavation, expired; another television slogan burning in this confinement, hidden behind the abiss of my fronthead, unable to feel my needs, blind.

Without knowing where will my bones end or how will they break 'undoubtly they will as soon as I give up- I feel the cities like dark pictures, the street lights watch switched off and only an impossible walk can recreate that compact mist. And I can't. And I don't want. Stupid prothesis of myself.



I need you, try to contact, please me lifting your small ass off the floor and cheer me up again. Make that fucking phone call and wait for answer, swallow your salive, breath deep and when after the third tone you hear the message of the machine or even the real voice, scream motherfucker. Hang up. Smile. You won. This time you took the prize, the blood flows again through your vains, splashes your eyes and fills them with wine, colours on red the bedroom of your disgrace, fly. Absurd revenge that will strike back. Brief colirium. Cyclic burial.


There are only three truths: I will harvest, I will freeze, and my cold fingers will trap his neck under the geared kisses of another hidden sunset. As usual, without even knowing him. Without taking any time to ask his name I will suck his life to keep on being this vampire that smiles showing the eyetooths; shameless, reasonless and homeless. Who the hell they think they are. To witch absurd gods they give their faith, where are the stinky slums where they hide their souls, their incredible cinism, their ridiculous truth with witch they insult us trying to confuse our lifes saying that murder is suicidal.



















Don't loose any time listening their preachs. We are the lords of our own lenguage. The idiom we heard thousand of times at the holes we got drunk in will guide us while joining the revolution, advancing with hands shaken, spitting faces only we understand, covering our laughs with the black masks that distinguish the non initiated from the killer; the master of terror we become when we ride our gorgeous leopards and jump elasticly on their back, cutting throats just to have fun. Poor stupid brown birds.


Then later we'll be the cowards. Red and black fear brigades turn around our eliptic arms with metallic colds. Yesterday I even cryed. They were fake tears, of course. Perfect white examples of this scare that separates me from the perpetual liberation, or drives me to it, I don't know. We don't have ideas, that's why we do it.


We laugh knowing that it's the best solution and because we are, at the end, hustlers of this borrowed reality in witch we try to stand balanced, sniffing clowds by day, putting stones in our pockets by night, always on the line. Smiling faces trying to take the client to bed and, after the fake love, steal their wallet. Small avengers who forget the intuition of an upcoming panik attack, who naughtyly smile, those who for the Ethernity will beat the stupid emptiness of History.

So here we are. A waste full of heaven gifts, as you know. Second hand virtues sold another time for the ridiculous prize of a love promise. Scratched bodies disapearing in the sad bore of this prose, of those nights I remember now and always drinking from a glass bottle shaped in loneliness, licking my crystal rock heart while I feed my unreal breath with empty words and try to stand the spank of the time that hits my ear like a bad electric rithm.


I remember all the times we screw the sun. Happy shadows laughing of their own shades, perfect waterfalls of rage and shouts, perfect mess of red shiny sherry fruits we used to taste in couples, one by one, with lazyness, creating greetings, knowing it, twisting seconds to calm the thirst of those endless dreams that over a flat horizont falls in the sea surface. Dirty foam on our young but rotted lips.


Now, in this scale of white pages I free myself. These will be the new doses I'll inject silently, in the dark. Is that what they want? Ok, this is what they will have: the emptyness of their kisses, my pain holding on your luck, the crispy sight of your eyes, your life walking on my back and our perpetual love written on this black words, quietly, senseless of thick days and yellow nights.


Allucinated, I will never be myself if that's what they want. I'll only be you, only your body in my united chest. Perfect agony where our eyes meet reflected in a mirror, as if a photo camera would be taking pictures of our common sickness, informing us that we are dead. Amen.


Meanwhile, only as long as our extinguishing bodies resist rotten we'll have each other, we'll want to be without eating the holding bottons of our naked souls. We'll be able to hug the broken branches of the wasteland we conform, stealing to the trees their blood and their oxigen, stealing ourselves in the easy nap of our siamese life, not assisting to the cocktail of the new times with the courage of the forgotten. Looking straight to their faces.


Then they will really know what a problem is, and not that absurd take care, you look awful, you are too pale, don't eat enough. Yes. And I also breath too much. I belong to the race of the abandonned, and nor this or other stables will hurt our raped body. The wounds you can see under my eyes where provoked by the tears you sent us without a sender, hidden. So don't waste your prays when he and me pull out your empty heart betwen industrial hymns to step on it. Absurd balance of fearless pride, perfect dance.

And even using their guns remember that we are the enemy. That this hands are made of glass, that our eyes are double edge weapons shooting on their backhead, and this words, lies waiting in the gun charger. Our sideheads? Ready. Our lungs raw, our vains aereal and your love is mine. Don't forget it motherfuckers. We where conceived by two men fighting among dirty water podels, eating each other in a brutal trashland. We where driven by the silenced dark time that now kills itself beside your empty beds, exploiting your dry faces.


Then, in our last laugh they will try to respond but you keep everything under control and I watch the scene before holding a sun with one hand to express its juice in our burnt eyes. This will be our masterpiece. These words will free us and their mouths will shut up forever. Then we will hit them all the time and the blood of their lips will be our favourite orgasm.


Sons of the Mars Spiders we'll win this estherile butchery. Sons of our common tomb we'll be those little idiots with dirty hands, stains that never go away but we want and try to clean, unforgettable scarfes that links us forever with the athoms that generates the poison structure. That bloody endless sunrise of our silver infinits. Our nothing. Our small and misery nothing.
Memories...


Now, my brother, inside me there's only a good bye.

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