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the _underdogs luis pareras

the _underdogs luis pareras

this book is us

the_underdogs c luis pareras 1st draft barcelona, 2014 printed in barcelona

"nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road�


true freedom is having

no past

barcelona, 2013 .

the _underdogs


we are entangled, like in ‘quantum entanglement’ two particles that can’t be described independently like heroin and addiction like ginsberg and poetry like the words ‘everything’ and ‘you’ (march 2014)


1 “sex is kicking death in the ass while singing” charles bukowski

this book starts with sex, as almost everything in life starts with sex or has something to do with it, somehow; I met you for the first time at the ‘sofitel legend the grand’ hotel in amsterdam, I was waiting at the bar for you, sitting at the bar counter, drinking red wine, the barman talking to me and going on about the origins of a great red wine they had on the house and me not paying attention at all and saying something like ‘good for you’ with a polite face, so not interested, looking compulsively at the time on my phone while looking at the entrance; and then all of a sudden there you were, standing in front of me, smiling to hide you were scared too, and you were wearing a violet traslucid shirt, and to be honest, I can’t remember if it was violet or blue, but it looked like violet and traslucid to me, the -13-

table was illuminated from the inside and I was seeing your figure through the shirt and you were so fuckable, I noticed your black bra and your breasts underneath, and yes, ‘fuckable’ is a word we should use more often, because you were indeed fuckable if you know what I mean, I wanted to fuck you from the very first second I saw you; and you talked to me and you kept on talking and I was mesmerized by you and I thought I was drowning in all the words you were saying and I couldn’t do anything but listen and say something now and then, and I was amazed by you even if I felt the real ‘you’ was not there yet; the real ‘you’ not being here, not even today, baby. and after some drinks I said ‘should we?’ and it was all so natural and we stood up and the prospect of having sex the two of us was walking in front of us, so fast we couldn’t catch up with it, and we got to the room and we closed the door and the sadness of the world remained outside, just our own sadness inside; and you inspected the room and you took your time and you couched for a second, like trying how was the bed, and you know my imagination, baby, it was already fucking you, and I waited for you leaning against the wall, and then you stood up and you came to me and you weren’t smiling, and I grabbed you by your waist and you -14-

grabbed me by my arms and we stayed close, my lips near your lips, but no kiss -steady, steady, not yet, holding it-, and I started unbuttoning your shirt and you were like dancing, bless you, you were like dancing and you were like singing very softly, I could barely hear you but you were humming, and I saw your white skin, and I went on unbuttoning your shirt and your skin was so fucking white, it seemed really white to me, and how fascinated I was by it, and then I saw for the first time the piercing in your belly-button and your birthmark on the left of it, and I touched your belly with my finger and felt your skin; and then I grabbed your shirt and opened it completely and pushed it back, and your shirt fell to the ground and your bra fell to the ground and all the debris of the wall-of-uncertainty between us fell to the ground and I saw your nipples and I touched your breasts, and now yes you were smiling, hell yes you were, our faces really close and you still like dancing from one side to the other, fluttering like the flag of freedom, but still no kiss, and my hand reaching for your sex and touching it from the outside of your jeans, trying to make some pressure around where your clit was, and our faces still close and moving, and our lips closing in and I felt your breath and now yes I knew the kiss was -15-

coming, and we kissed; and it was like an explosion, like demolishing a building, the building being all that I was before, the ruins of me now in front of you, feeling the warmth of your lips and then -I don’t remember how- feeling the warmth of your lips down there, kissing your sex slowly; and I felt like I was in desperate need of invading you, as if you were the enemy, and you were not, but a voice within was roaring INSULT HURT INVADE RAPE KILL ASSASSINATE CONQUER AND TAKE WITHOUT MERCY, and death was there too, as a primal instinct, in a threesome with us, so difficult to explain what I felt, the violence of sex taking over, it was fucking violent and I couldn’t stop my own uncontrollable lust for you; all the ancient gods of hatred getting up from their tombs armies marching over the battlefield of your body love dropping the napalm of pleasure on us and fucking you seemed like going to war, but the war was only inside of me, on the outside everything was calm; and now it all went fast and suddenly you -16-

were completely naked in bed, your legs open, your shaven sex just in front of my mouth and I opened your lips with my two thumbs and I tasted your sex, and it tasted so fucking good, and I started kissing it and licking it and biting it, and you moaned and you moved slowly and you took my head with your hands and you were using your hands to control the pressure I was making, and I kept on playing with your sex still not sure on how I should deal with it, exploring and reacting to your movements, and after a couple of minutes you suddenly closed your legs and my head was imprisonned between your thighs and you were really pressing them hard against my ears, and you arched your back and you moaned and you were breathing loudly now, and you pushed my head out but I wouldn’t let go, and you kept on pushing my head out and I kept not willing to let go, damn, getting mad at you, ‘don’t you fucking push me back, I want to be close to it’, and amidst this fight between your hands and my face I saw you coming for the first time and it was beautiful. then you said nothing, you just looked at the wall, you took your time, your eyes closed; and then you suddenly turned to me and helped me taking my jeans off and you got me naked and you grabbed my sex and you played with it and you kissed it and you blowed me, slowly at -17-

first, and nacho vegas was playing from your mobile, the wonderful dizziness of alcohol moving everything around, and nacho on the background, holy shit, you gotta be kidding me, we had listened to that song so many times before, and how great it felt to be inside of your mouth, you so fucking sweet and careful and nasty, and you kept on blowing, and nacho kept on singing,

‘pero que mal, muy mal, era un juego y ahora es real’

and you were pressing my sex with your lips and playing with it with your tongue and now and then you were engulfing it deep inside your mouth, and I felt you were really enjoying it and focused on yourself, and it was pleasure and peace at the same time, I couldn’t stop looking at you, so confident, so in control, and you glanced at me now and then, so defiant, reacting to my movements too, and at some point you started moving faster, and everything got faster inside of me and I felt my orgasm was near and I said ‘I’m gonna come’ as it was our first time and I didn’t knew what you were going to do, and then pleasure crossed the point of no return and I was no longer controlling anything and I just let myself go and I came, I came in your mouth while you kept on blowing, my lukewarm cum -18-

filling your mouth and getting you drunk of submission, and you heard me shouting during an orgasm for the first time, so like an animal, you know I just can’t help it baby, and all the neigbourghs in the rooms next to ours knew I came, of that I am sure, all of them; and I’ve seen that moment so many times, as I videotaped it on my phone, your mouth moving up and down like hell while I was coming, and then your smile, baby, your smile when leaning backwards just after I came, swallowing my cum, your smile like saying ‘I have the power’; and then you laid down on my left side, and you looked at me and you went on singing the song, dry martini SA,

‘nos quedara, menos mal, dry martini, sexo anal, el aire, el aire, quererte es intentar atrapar con las manos el aire, el aire, el aire’

and I will never forget the song pouring from your mouth and filling everything, drowning me under its Nile heaviness forever, and you wouldn’t stop smiling; and precisely in that moment I decided if I ever had a cat, I would name it after that song, you know. then I told you ‘I need to shut down myself for some minutes’ as after the blast from the orgasm I really need to -19-

be ‘inside’ of me, not caring for anything else, I need some silence, there’s always some sadness after it and I am exhausted in a way I cannot explain, no wonder why the french call the orgasm ‘la petite morte’ -orgasms are death somehow-; so I closed my eyes and we listened to some music and we talked and gradually I became ‘me’ again, and then some 30 minutes later we were fucking for the first time; you jumped on top of me and you just grabbed my sex with your right hand and you introduced it yourself inside of you, letting me in very slowly, and I was looking at you, every detail, the voyeur inside of me looking at you as if looking through a peep hole; and I saw you accomodating to my body for some seconds and then moving up and down in the ancient tribal dance of sex, and I grabbed your butt with both hands and I forced you to move the way I liked and changed the rythm, now it was me taking control, and the room was filled with light and I was seeing all the magic movements of your face when you are close to an orgasm, seeing them for the first time, how amazing and beautiful and sexy they are, baby, you can’t imagine, I love them, your mouth opening and closing, your chin moving to the sides, your eyelids flickering like crazy, and you groaning all the time, very softly; and some minutes later you were coming on top of me, and your face was next to mine and you said ‘eres un hijo de puta, te odio’ while you were coming, just in -20-

the middle of it, and it came from within, and it felt great hearing you calling me a son of a bitch, it made me smile as it was violent and tender, it really was, and it still echoes, baby, and you still call me son of a bitch now and then, and every time you do I remember that first night; and some minutes later I came inside of you while you were moving your hips in circles, and I was looking right into your eyes then, and you were saying ‘vente, luis, vente. . . come, baby, come’. and we then began talking about everything, just as we used to do from the distance, such a disgregated conversation, so full of changing subjects, and we ‘saw’ a girl crawling in the ceiling and you were mad at me for trying to scare you, and we discussed about africa, and we played psychoanalysis, and we talked about baudelaire and suicide and poetry and the nonsense of life, and about misanthropy and cats and dogs, and about so many other things I can’t remember, and then a couple of hours later I was touching you and I noticed you were wet again, and I whispered something to your ear like ‘wow, this is real wet, we need to do something about it, we can’t leave it this way’ and you laughed and you were on my left and I placed my left hand under your butt, from behind, and with my right hand I started touching your clit and introducing some fingers, while my left hand was reaching to you anus and introducing carefully one finger in it, no -21-

need to ask for permission, you knew I would never ask for nothing, I just did it because I wanted to and you let it happen, and after a while you started opening and closing your mouth again and you started groaning again and you came again, and then suddenly you looked at me and you almost shouted ‘I want to do it’ and I think you were surprised yourself about the way you said it, and you asked if I wanted to, and I said yes and we did it again and for the first time I knew love was a bum sleeping on the street over a cardboard in the middle of the day, drunk, disturbed, a beast surrounded by violent happiness because, you know, there was no happiness fucking over that big bed, it was just the promise of happiness, and it was violent and I was feeling this violence so deeply; and from that moment on I knew happiness was there, somewhere, and I was trying to reach it with my arm, happiness always out of reach; and yes, I was extending my arm to touch it without being able to get nothing -as a bum asking for some bucks-, and I’ve been trying ever since. we kept on talking until 5:30AM, and then we fell asleep and when I woke up you were gone, I woke up alone in a -22-

room that had witnessed raw sex and raw love, its walls and furniture no longer innocent, and then I knew that night would make the nights of the future burst into tears. I catched my plane and I went back to barcelona where my life was waiting; my life, waiting in the living room, hugging me cheerful as ever, but already suspicious something had happened and things were about to change. you were one of the UNDERDOGS, how amazing to have found another one, and I knew that from the very first time we spoke, and if fucking with the minds is possible we started fucking each other way before we met for the first time, and when I say fuck I mean fuck like hell, every day, several times, watching you slowly take down all the walls you had built up around your mind and letting me inside, and we were an amazing conversation and the conversation has never ended since then, and the conversation has no past and has no future, and that’s why we were free from the very beginning, as true freedom is having no past or future at all, expecting nothing from one another, and as I say, you were indeed an underdog, a fallen angel, you never fitted anywhere and even if you were a lawyer and you were smart and you were stappled somehow to society, you belonged -23-

somewhere else, like me, like all the underdogs of all times, we all participants in the fight of life and not being expected to win -as in the classical definition of an underdog-, we all running with the hunted, we forever losing the fight against something, most of the times not knowing against who or what we were fighting, but definitely losing, that’s for sure, all of us in desperate need to find reasons every day not to slit our wrists, as nothing is enough and will never be, but all of us so intense, so fucking poetic, able to inject magic in anything around, we magnets for the rest, we a group of smart misfits and troublemakers and rebels and bright and sad individuals willing to survive the infinite boredom of this place.


2 (puta poesia, vas a acabar conmigo) (fucking poetry, you’re killing me)

monica smiles and keeps on leafing through my allen ginsberg copy of howl, a 60s edition, one of the first ones; I’m so proud of it... pages torn, a burn in the cover, some markings on the side, smelling interesting and full of wonders; and she smiles while having a beer next to me -I just met her-, and then she reads some words that I wrote on the margins of the book, and those words are just ideas for some future poem, scribbled notes in an unintelligible handwriting, and the handwriting is just life -I don’t undertand my own sometimes-; and she just smiles, and she looks at me big eyed, and she asks how poetry comes to me it comes, I tell you, GRABBING ME BY MY BALLS, and she squeezes hard, and she won’t let go till I tell the truth it comes, I tell you, FLUTTERING to the wind of madness as the flag of ‘here and now’ as the flag of freedom -25-

it comes SHOWING ME HER TEETH as the wisdom teeth are always out and she bites and sometimes she hurts me with its claws so full of sadness it comes, IMMENSE as a jazz trumpet and I play the highs and lows at the jazzclub of the universe -my cheeks blowing the truth- and it’s the best fucking music you’ve ever heard it comes as a MESSIAH as a million old gods in their beards but they are not supernatural gods but fucking poets themselves, in flesh and blood, bless them all it comes SUDDENLY like a hard on like a slap in my face like a burn like jealousy like a stab like rage it comes as an EMPTY BACKPACK full of nothing, so full of nothing, as we own nothing and we should travel light it comes so FULL OF SHIT because she is a mirror and it comes as HUNGER in los Andes and she would eat me alive if necessary, I know that it comes VIOLENT as a bit in my lips and I bleed while I kiss her, and the taste of blood in my mouth reminds me who’s in charge sometimes it comes MASTURBATING herself just because she wants to sometimes it comes ASKING how much of me is repetition and tut-tutting with its


tongue while moving her forefinger from one side to the other ‘tch-tch-tch-tch-tch no luis’ some other times it comes UNDER THE INFLUENCE while I am high or it comes ANGELIC or it comes BARBARIC or it comes as a WHORE and I pay with tears as she’s the MASTER OF DISGUISE we poets fools of our own desire we poets always with a hard on because of her we poets under its pounding feet and I hate her no matter how it comes to me I hate her on my knees, as I hate you baby on my knees



‘el nosnas’ was for me the father of all underdogs and he did not knew he was the father of all underdogs at that time, and in fact, he never knew, as I presume he is now dead, you can’t survive many years living like he did, at full speed; and I remember endless conversations between the two of us that made no sense at that time but now are clear and shattered as he always had been, oh man, he was a broken glass. I remember the day I discovered why everybody called him ‘el nosnas’; his real nickname had always been sanson, as the biblical figure -cause he was strong-; he lived in a beautiful village in galicia, so small sometimes you can’t find it in maps, but it is there I assure you, and I spent all my summers in that village, loving every first girl and every first wine and every first kiss, because everything looked like the first anything to me when I was there; and I guess sadness never knew the whereabouts -28-

of cedeira, that was the name of the village. sanson had a small boat he sailed to go fishing during the days, and at night he kept the boat turned on its back at the beach, as hundreds of other small boats, and one morning, completely drunk, he painted his name on the side of the boat, and he forgot the boat was upside down, and since then, he went fishing in a boat with ‘nosnas’ written on one of its sides. people laughed at him but there was nothing to laugh about, he was a misfit, that’s all, and he was the first encounter I recall with someone different; and when I say different, I really mean it, someone extraordinary, someone permanently walking on a rope between madness and intelligence; he was smart, he was friendly, he was considerate with every peer, he shared his stories and his wine and all he had without hesitation, and all of us who loved him were always wondering if he would make it till the next morning, but somehow he always managed to do so, day after day, year after year, I still remember him with awe, and damn, I miss him, I really do. the thing is he taught me nothing tangible about life, I can’t recall any sentence worth keeping, there was nothing he said I can write down on a wall or on a piece of paper to remember him, but he taught me something much -29-

more important than words, he taught me about the existence of a different kind of people, a different kind of people I was completely unaware it existed, people living their lives with such an intensity that everything around was infected by it; and most importantly, he taught me that I had a radar for these amazing individuals, and the radar was always bleeping, always detecting them, blip blip blip; and no matter where I went I started finding them all, and I started taking from them, because I take things from them, I take. ‘el nosnas’ was the first underdog I recall, and eduardo is the last one; I met eduardo some weeks ago now, the day I went to ink myself, jeez, my very first tattoo, quite an experience, I had a verse from the flowers of evil, ‘les fleurs du mal’ inked on my neck, ‘sous le fuet du plaisir / ce bourreau sans merci’; what a day, and I met eduardo at the outside of a bar near the tattoo parlor, and as I saw him, my radar went crazy, blip blip blip, and he smiled and invited me to sit with him and share a glass of wine, and he even allowed me to videotape him with my phone to send you a message, baby, and I know you felt attracted by him the very same way I did, because underdogs crave for each other, and because being an underdog has nothing to do with social status, money, resources or anything like -30-

that, it only has to do with how well you fit, and how sad and how smart you are, and how capable you are of ‘loving’ everything that surrounds you, because that’s the real truth, we become poets to make love with everything, books, movies, trips, experiences, partners, with everything and everybody. eudardo is a poet, baby, like you, like me, like many other lost souls, and he started talking from the very first second and he wouldn’t let go, he even improvised a poem for you, and he blessed us with it, you know; and it does not matter if the poem was good or bad, there is no such thing as a good or bad poem, there are only truthful poems, written on the spur of the moment to defeat boredom and defeat nonsense and defeat death. eduardo is in his sixties, and he is dead on his surface, living on 600 euros a month, in a cold pension without heat, ‘just cold water’ he told me, but he was happy the day I met him because last night he had fucked an argentinian lady, and as he said, they managed to do it twice and he felt like ‘a hurricane’, those were his words, and I guess he really felt like that, and he seamed really peaceful that day; but we know better baby, don’t we? peace of mind is a blindfold, pain will never quit, and eduardo’s pain is eating him alive from -31-

the inside; and he writes poetry, what else could he do? and as I was looking at him I was feeling his pain. eduardo has a big ego, yes he does, and that day he started telling me about a trip in a bus he made, he was alone on that bus and he felt so lonely and no one was on the bus except himself and the driver, and he asked the driver to stop but then he decided not to step down, he told me he had a date with ‘hope’ and ‘hope’ never showed up, he told me just like that, and he smiled, and he immediately wanted to know what I thought about the story and I couldn’t help grinning, I wonder why we need acceptance from the rest of the world, and one more time I thought true freedom comes when we don’t need the approval of anyone, fuck them all. it was a good story, I said.



you are ahead of me you are never sorry and you will end in tears, you know? you have nowhere to go but everywhere you are a poem thought knife you are the future omming to calm me down you are rage like broken plates against the wall, sometimes you are gathering dust and you are beautifully insane and you are the road, baby and I can’t stop thinking I am the holy war between running away from you and loving you, you scare me, and I think of everything that I am when I’m with you I am the ruins that will come no matter what I am the ashes the shipwreck of us I am the fall the tears the sadness of the end I am the fucking nonsense of the smile that will die in our arms because the smile will die baby -33-

everything will die, we know that and what we will become frightens me and some lives are meant to be wasted and there’s so much sadness around -even if everything seems to work outand we need to believe every time that this time is gonna be different; but it never is, I’ve seen it before. there is an intensity between us that is unprecedented, it feels like one thousand suns to me; but I loved patty once and I’m not sure what happened but it is gone -I tried with all the love I had, you know, which obviously was not enough-; and I somehow loved cris once and I felt the same, and whatever it was, it is gone too; it’s sad, maybe I loved no one before; and now cris is my best friend, and she is an underdog too, phew, she is an underdog big time. cris is crazy, she’s confident, she knows what she wants, she is a poet, but we don’t talk much poetry nowadays and she’s become the only friend I have to whom I really explain everything, and when I say everything, I mean everything, because she never judges me and I never judge her, and this is our one and only rule; sometimes she calls me at 02:00AM in the middle of the night when she is falling into a deep and black and dank abyss and she knows she can come and sleep at my place, she knows that for sure, she does not need to ask, -34-

she comes and cries if she needs to. cris has moments of total despair because that’s the sin and the penitence of all of us underdogs-of-the-world, she feels everything with an intensity that the rest could not even understand, both the good and the bad things; she once told me she whispered ‘make me cry’ to a tango dancer, and that is the true nature of an underdog, we all want to end everything in tears... tears of joy, tears of sadness, who cares, but tears, because intensity is king, no matter if it is the next great victory or the next great tragedy; and the hand that rocks the craddle of intensity is the hand that rules the world, shit, and the courage it takes to get out of bed every morning and confront the same wrongness-inthe-world in the absence of intensity is enormous; and this means that sadness is gonna strike now and then, and you will feel it with an intensity that for some of us could end one day in suicide. I met cris for the first time at a bar and we ended up finding a cheap motel room, 40euros/2hours, I was married at the time and I could not go home with her, but I felt her intensity and she felt mine, and it was not sex it was something else, and we could’t help ending in a cheap motel room, and hell it was cheap and sad, but we didn’t care. she danced tango naked for me and she -35-

was an inspiration, she became a muse and a muse is meant to be forever, she still is a muse for me; we talked books and poetry and music and cinema and secrets, and she started bringing new movies to our dates and I started bringing new books to our dates, and we knew from the very first moment that we weren’t meant to share anything together, that we would never have a casual pillow talk one morning discussing about the color of the walls of our place, no, it wasn’t love like that, it was just ‘today’; but we had many ‘todays’, and then we decided to become friends; but not just friends, but the best friends one could ever imagine, a story of friendship that would last forever; and we are friends, and I think it’s gonna last forever, and we never slept together again since then. I called her some months ago from mallorca, in the middle of the night, on one of those fights that I had with patty, a fight that was like one hundred angels announcing the end of the world with the plagues and all, because, damn, I do loved patty, I really did, more than anyone before, and cris listened to me for hours and I told her all my sadness was inside a glass of vodka I had in front of me, and she listened and she understood me; and I cried, and she does not know but she saved my life that night. -36-


I once played with LSD, and it was not me running away from something, it was just exploration and discovery and thrill; I remember I had read ‘the doors of perception’ from aldous huxley, and it said on the first page ‘if the doors

of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite’;

and once the idea got into myself it just crawled to reality to make itself happen; and there I was, with a friend of mine and with a promise, ‘today I trip and you take care of me, next week you trip and I take care of you’; simple. LSD would be an underdog if it had legs and she walked, and yes, it is a she, because she is like a hurricane, she ran over me like a truck, I never saw her coming and she left me bruised on the ground and full of scars, and those scars are still with me, and they will never leave. I took the agreed dose and I waited, and nothing happened; and I waited, -37-

and I waited, and I remember I was so dissapointed, laughing and making funny jokes and all, and suddenly it hit me and I started to see things in a different way; the problem with LSD is that there is no language to describe what you feel, the reality it brings; the world it opens for you is not what you define using everydays’ language, no it is not, and holy shit, it hit me, it hit me hard. the size of the room changed but not because it measured differently but because I felt I was the size of all I was seeing; I was looking at my hand over the table and I couldn’t tell where my hand ended and where the table began, and I was the table and I was the floor and I was the ceiling and I was the chairs, all of it, and I felt big, way bigger than myself, enormous, I was a whale, thank god I never opened that window, I couldn’t have resisted being the size of the world; and all the objects around where no longer concepts, mind constructs, they were actual things, let me explain... when we see a table, we see the concept four-legs-and-a-flatsurface-on-the-top, but there it was, the surface full of little holes and some markings, and the assimetry of the sides, and the damaged joint between one of the legs, and the little cracks, and the color -38-

like waves with different tonalities coexisting, and all the dirt, and the things that were over it that I could not differentiate from the table itself; the concept had gone, I was looking at the ‘real’ table, I was seeing what reality was like without the construct of our language; and it felt good. and feeling good was not just feeling good, it was like being AWAKE, really awake, as if I had been sleeping and dreaming my whole life; it felt like this, and I was very conscious and very aware and alert, I was interested in everything, I asked questions ‘to’ everything and everything was answering and I loved the answers and I felt part of something great. then everything started to tease me, and I remember I felt things more and more invasive and big and heavy, and shit, this was the moment it all began to turn real mad and sad; it was indeed the beginning of a bad trip, and everything was so sad... reality was ugly and wrong and it seemed to me I was understading the true nature of what surrounded me, and you can’t imagine how sad it was, fuck; and I started crying and my friend said something like ‘hey what happens, calm down, everything it’s ok’, but nothing was ok, he was dead wrong, everything was ugly and nothing made sense and I felt the wrongness of all -39-

things surrounding me and the void of all the things surrounding me and the void inside my friend; and I’ve never experienced a more intense sadness, never, in all my life, I still shiver when I remember it, don’t wanna be there, don’t wanna get close to it ever again. sadness is a place, I recall myself understanding that I had just stepped down the last step of the stairs, and there I was, in full sadness, that was the bottom of it, there wasn’t more sadness downstairs, I was at the mother-of-alldownstairs; and now, every time I feel profound sadness I know how to go there, to that final step; it is like I now know the way, and it scares the hell out of me, I wish I had forgotten the way. and it all happened in a four hours trip, three hours of ecstasy and then one final hour sleeping with the mother of all sadnesses and I still cried long after the levels of the drug wiped away from my blood and it took me weeks to stop the sadness inside and regain normality again.



sometimes I am mad at you baby, as much as I love you I am mad at you, and I am pissed at you, and I hate you and all; and my hate is pure. bukowski said the words he wrote kept him from total madness, and the guy hit the nail on its head, that’s the reason why I keep writing this book and all my poems and all my ramblings, cause they keep me from total madness and they keep me from total pain, unbearable pain, and this pain gets me drunk some nights and gets me writing; and bless my holy pain, it tells me the truth, it tells me who I am; and neither me or my pain can’t believe what you’re doing to us.



lola wants me in a wheelchair, and I want to walk and to love and to fuck with everyone and everything forever, and here we are, she and I, constantly fighting like a couple; and I hate lola and I love her too, because she made me an underdog, fuck, I owe it to her, you can’t hate someone that turns you into an underdog, bless her; and she may end up being the woman of my life, she is just a disease, but so full of prophecies. so, from the moment I met lola for the first time on, death the great muse has always been making the eyes at me and I have always been making the eyes at her; lola’s a poet, she only speaks the truth, and she constantly reminds me I have no time left, tomorrow could be the last day I walk; and she constantly reminds me one day I will fall, and indeed she is right, someday I will fall and the multitudes I contain will shout a big ‘FUCK-you-NONSENSE’ and the world will roar an endless ‘NO’ -42-

and the world will cover its eyes with its millions of hands and death herself will cover her eyes with her hands and she too will be scared at the end, because she knows I will be coming for her and I will be pissed off, damn. I never found lola, she did, one day she stepped into my life and said ‘i’m here, baby’ and I said ‘who the fuck are you?’, and she smiled and she said ‘you’re gonna die’, and then she started showing me things that were broken, and she knew how to fix them, and indeed she did, and holy shit, life was different and it was beautiful and everything started being meaningful to me and I knew what I wanted and I said no to mediocre love and I said no to behaving and I became a rogue and it felt good, it felt like becoming a god. maybe one day lola will go away but the scars she opened will never heal and I will always remember sleeping with her every night was the best thing ever happened to me. when we started dating I hid lola, I didn’t want anyone to know she was there and this was a full time job, so exhausting; every time I had company and I needed to climb stairs, I waited so that anyone would notice her; and -43-

everytime I needed to stand up from a low chair, I waited so that anyone would notice her; and I never asked for help, and everything was painful and sad, and she was eating me alive; and everyday she was taking something from me, minor things at first, so slowly, but every bit she took away was a loud yawp telling me she was there. . . but then one day I got sick and tired of all that shit and I realised ‘shame’ was the real enemy, and ‘shame’ was nothing. I was afraid of not being lovable and I was afraid of not being fuckable and I was afraid of losing the attention of everybody and of losing my job and of losing the willingness to live, and I was so afraid, you will never understand how much, but after some years, shame just left and I started showing off lola, and I started being proud of her; and I was loved and I was fucked big time, many times, many women, and in fact, the more I showed her, the more women wanted to sleep with me, and the more people loved me and respected me, how amazing was that; and everybody remained interested in me and I didn’t lose my job, I just reinvented myself, and I’ve been keeping reinventing myself every year cause I know how to do it; and I discovered lola was a reverse queen midas, because she touched me and she turned me into a soul, -44-

and I started writing poetry and I started painting and I started cheating for the good and I started travelling alone, me and my backpack and I started meeting new people and love was a beast inside and I became raw as love rotten as love love-the-spider-web and I started loving everything and I understood there was no such thing as enough we take all there is and then there’s nothing left; and for the first time I knew and it felt good.



there’s a bedtime story I love for its cruelty and its sadness, and the story goes on saying there’s a fire in a forest, and there’s a river too, and a frog and a scorpion are on one side of the river, and they are both about to be burnt to ashes by the fire, and the scorpion begs the frog to let him jump over her back while she swims to the other side... the frog says something like ‘why should I do that? you’ll stab me while I am swimming and we will both die’, and the scorpion says ‘why would I do that? I wanna live, I will be grateful to you forever’ and then the frog accepts, and she starts swimming and in the middle of the river the scorpion stabs the frog and they both are drowning, and the frog asks ‘why have you done that?’ and the scorpion answers ‘I can’t help it, this is who I am’, fuck, people don’t change, they just pretend they do. I was deeply in love with patty and she has been the first true and deep and -46-

astonishing and out-of-this-world love of my life, and now I know the impossible exists because I don’t love her anymore, and there was a time this no-loving-her seemed as nonsense as someone stopping the sun in the middle of the sky. I met her at my office, she came in and the moment I saw her I knew; she was smart and beautiful and misterious and I was still married at the time and I’ve been lying to myself and to everybody not to feel the guilt, because even if she was not the reason why my marriage went down the drain -it had gone down the drain many years before-, I slept with her before leaving my place, as I had done with cris, and I was full of shit but I just didn’t care, love is never guilty and ‘qui davant l’amour ose parler d’enfer?’ ; and it all happened after lola showed up, and I was being true to myself for the first time in my life. I finally left my place and I went to live with patty and we had so many perfect moments together, moments when the world seemed to stop and happiness herself showed up in flesh and blood; and we were souls and orgasms and laughter, and we filled everything, and I have never been unfaithful to her, not a single time. . . we had a break at the middle of the three years we spent together and there I went crazy and I fucked everyone that moved around, but -47-

while we were together I never cheated on her, and I’m not saying that to justify myself at all, it’s just the way I am, if I love I don’t feel the need, that’s all. from the very beginning of the relationship I saw something was wrong with us, we were not able to build trust, and I knew this would put an end to our relationship someday; and somehow I had that intuition but I was fool enough to think she would change, and she didn’t, she just pretended to, just like the scorpion, and I never felt she was truly who she said she was, she lived as if she could do anything she liked and someone else was going to pay that bill, but we ended up paying it ourselves; but you know, I was in love, I couldn’t see anything but her; and once upon a time there was a kingdom ruled by queen patty and I defeated many dragons those years; and she once asked me to tell her a tale, in paris, and we were already inside a tale if you know what I mean, can you imagine?; and she was everywhere, meaning if I saw someone entering a bar, I thought that ‘someone’ was her, and then if another woman entered the bar, again I thought she was her, and when it was hot, she was in the hot, undressing, and when I was hungry she was in my hunger, as she taught me what hunger


was, and when there was sadness, she was in the sadness of all things that should happen and did not. we had plans, we had neverending conversations with glasses of wine in our bedside tables, and we laughed and we travelled together and we were in real danger together as in argelia when she argued with an eighteen-year-oldor-so soldier that had his finger on the trigger of a machine gun, christ, she shouldn’t have done that. then one day the truth found its way and we had a terrible fight, and the sun finally stopped in the middle of the sky, and I said goodbye; when we splitted I went rogue and I started sleeping with women again until I met you, baby.



I never loved a mind before. I have loved handsome faces or good sex relationships or the-romanticism-ofloving-and-being-loved experiences, or girls with amazing boobs and bodies, or girls with amazing tenderness, but never a twin mind, a twin soul. and then I met you. intelligence is the most powerful and dangerous aphrodisiac, of that I’m sure, and your mind stood up amidst the neverending conversation that the net offers, and I saw you, and I read you, and I knew from the very first days you were the beast inside of me and you were love-the-spider-web and you were another underdog and you were going to hit me hard. I never saw you coming, you being like a tide; when I noticed you the tide was up and I already had lost foot, and life is stranger than fiction because I started loving you despite the fact you were living with your boyfriend and you never -50-

promised me anything; and in fact, the absence of a promise, the true freedom among us really made me insanely and desperately love you beyond measure, and I thought you were the end of the world and after you there was nothing. as of today, you still live with your boyfriend, and you are living two lives: on life ‘A’ you talk to me for hours every day, you meet me at hotels and we fuck each other like crazy, and we touch each other and we lick each other and we have fantastic sex together; and when we are far away we masturbate together and we play erotic games, and I come and see you in amsterdam or you come to barcelona to sleep at my place; and you sing me a capella songs that end with me having amazing hard ons -I’ve never understood how you do it-, and you say you love me and I feel it true, and you write me love letters, yes you do. and on life ‘B’ you sleep every night with your boyfriend and you go and visit his parents and you make plans with him on where you two will go on vacation, and he knows nothing about me, holy shit; and these two lives, baby, are on a collision course and it seems you don’t mind, or if you do, you do nothing to avoid the collision, and damn, everybody will get hurt; and love is now a train at full speed heading against a concrete -51-

wall and everybody is jumping out of the train and screaming and all. and here we are, at the engine room, feeding the roaring train with more coal, wheels hissing with railroad steam; and here, at the engine room, I love you so much I would eat you, and I know this could be described as canibalism. and these days, when I’m alone in my bedroom my solitude is a couple kissing and groaning and making love in the room next door 1.325 km away from here.



patty never liked cris, somehow she smelled the danger of having cris around, but she was so wrong about that, cris was no danger at all, and she forced her hand and she asked me to stop talking to cris and this was a mistake. this almost ruined my friendship with cris; but cris was patient and understood and she saved us because as always she never expected nothing from me, she just waited and when patty left home we recovered our infinite conversation, and I will always owe her for her patience. I blame no one, I understand why patty was uncomfortable and indeed it was very difficult for her to accept such a shining frienship; however I made myself the promise no one, ever again, would take away cris from me. patty and I were happy together and liked to travel and we ended up going to crazy places from boston to tokyo, we rode in lisbon cable cars and in kyoto bullet trains, we crossed the frontier of -53-

jordania and israel and we were scared, we traveled from north argelia to the desert in the south in a car with a driver full of cocaine, and that meant driving 800km south in the night with an unknown man, and we didn’t thought about it twice, we just did it, we smelled the fresh air of the atlas mountains in morocco and bought goods in the elfna square, we walked la via dolorosa in jerusalem, the whole of it, and it was painful for me but we did it together as she held my hand and helped me out, as loving as ever, and walking up that crowded street was pulling down my pants and showing my ass from a car to lola -smiling- and I swear she smiled me back; we saw the destruction at hiroshima and we were the enola gay of our own destruction but we didn’t knew at that time; we went to the world premiere of an indie film in new york, she liked indie cinema so much, and we bought lingerie for her at victoria secret on the 115 5th avenue, in fact she made me go there three times to buy lingerie during our stay and it was so funny to watch her beg me ‘do you mind if we go back again, sky?’ because she used to call me sky, and she was so sexy wearing all the pants and the bras; we visited harvard and walked the campus at 4:30 AM when everybody was sleeping and the sun was rising and I lectured there as a -54-

guest speaker and I felt she was proud of me; we visited torino and then we crossed to geneva and we saw united nations together and I remember how she smiled during the visit, daydreaming, she really wanted to work there someday, and maybe she will; we saw brussels together and we visited the red quarter in amsterdam and when a guy offered us to enter a live sex bar she said ‘never’ and the guy said ‘you’re smiling already’ and she was indeed, and we laughed about it all the way back to the hotel; and we saw the museum of modern art in london and the pompidou in paris where I showed her the ‘white square over white canvas’ painting from malevich, and fuck fuck fuck we visited so many places and we had such a great time together and in a way I will always love her. we did all this in our last two years and it amazes me how deeply and intensely we lived. . . we were going to visit istambul in a surprise trip I had prepared for weeks, but we said goodbye 10 days before the trip and I still have the airplane tickets somewhere as a reminder life is impredictable and you never know what will happen next. she is now in UK and it’s been 10 days since we spoke for the last time, I know nothing from her now, and it feels strange.



you just called me and we spoke for some minutes but you knew I was full of sadness and you just said ‘bye wolf’ and then you hung up, and a few minutes later you texted me saying you were afraid of the wind, and a wave of tenderness just put me upside down and rolled me to the shore of happiness; and as I start imagining you naked again -and I’m begging you, please stop doing that, I mean, stop showing up naked while I am alone at home, I just kicked the shit out of me against the door- I don’t know whether to masturbate thinking of you or to roll a joint of marihuana and smoke and write under the influence; and here I am, writing under the influence. and I know now I’m writing our story and this book will be the unfolding account of the true events surrounding an unconventional and impossible and fascinating and doomed love, and my efforts and your efforts to tame it and either make it happen or to throw it -56-

out of the window, we don’t know what to do with it, baby, and maybe it can’t be tamed and at the end we’ll see, baby... and I know as well the whole story will be surrounded by unconventional and impossible and fascinating and doomed characters, and this is no coincidence, we are them all, and they are us, all of us underdogs able to feel life with an intensity the average man or woman would never be able to imagine. and under the influence I am casting a spell on you and I summon your presence naked as the apocalypsis my mind is a shot blessing marihuana the peacemaker blessing orion and vega and the north star and all the stars of the big dipper as to the ancient greeks the big dipper represented callisto -virgin hunter and goddess of the crescent moon-, and you are a fucking goddess yourself blessing your cunt and my cock binding us as glue and for the vultures it will take just ten minutes to clean up our corpses after we are done, baby, what a shame blessing the vultures as well blessing these nights together that will put the nights of the future on their knees and will make them cry blessing death because it makes us free as dogs in an after-life strolling -57-

through the streets of what we were blessing the ‘maybe’ that tells me that it is the cities and the world and the skies who will vanish, not us and blessing you baby, blessing you without any reason, blessing you for nothing, just blessing you; and then I remember again how difficult is everything and how I couldn’t care less about it being difficult and I stop writing for a second and I walk my home as you did some days ago, and I wish I could press fast forward to the night because it’s gonna be a long one.



I just had a meeting in my other life, this other life I live during the day that is just a cover, a smokescreen for the rest of the world, and the guy I was meeting entered the room with a cup of coffee, and you could read on the side of the cup ‘the beatles’, and he noticed me smiling and asked me how much did I love the beatles and started rambling how great they were and all, and I said I would never have a cup of coffee in a cup reading the beatles on one side because they were all corny, and the meeting almost came to an end because this is a matter that raises a lot of hormones among music lovers. and I can’t help thinking that the nerudas the verlaines the miguelhernandez’s the darios and the benedettis are the beatles of poetry, and my taste is more on the rimbauds the baudelaires the pizarniks the kerouacs the ginsbergs and the bukowskis and the blakes of the world because they are the rolling -59-

stones of poetry, and I have been always a rolling. I used to be a brain surgeon but lola never liked it very much, all the standing up for hours and hours and all the sleepless nights on call and the endless weekends worried about my patients, so I decided to leave and reinvent myself, and now I am a venture capital investor, if they just knew what goes on inside my mind. leaving neurosurgery was one of the saddest things in my life but I left with the conviction that there was no turning back, and I burnt all the bridges and locked all the doors under seven keys and I jumped from the seventh floor of my ordered and responsible life into the thrill of starting over again, and that, too, changed my perspective on what ‘order’ meant for millions of reasonable individuals out there, and ‘order’ took another dimension for me, and while lola and I started to get acquainted at each other, sadness slowly backed down. and again, being an underdog has nothing to do with social status and in fact many of the underdogs I’ve crossed paths with in my life where ‘bohemian bourgeois’, middle class individuals that somehow learnt during this life all was nonsense and escaped through poetry and art -60-

and intensity and love and experiences and the holocaust of who they were, to be reborn as Bo-Bo’s and never look back again, as in kerouacs quote ‘nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road’, bless him. and hence, most of us hide behind the smokescreen of our jobs and behind the cover of our misanthropy that has us hating not the rest of the people but the rest of the individuals that never break the limits and never break the routine and never break themselves and cry, as it all has to do with breaking up. when pope boniface VIII summoned all great artists of the time to choose which one would paint the st peter’s chappel, giotto was among them, and when the pope asked him to prove his talent, he draw a perfect circle, freehand, and the story goes on saying perfection is a powerful message and bla bla bla, and I don’t buy it at all, as there is nothing more boring than perfection, a perfect drawing a perfect face a perfect body a perfect whatever makes me yawn, as perfection has to do with conventionalism, with doing everything according the rules, with accepting what perfection means for others and denying the beauty of broken things, the beauty of decadence, -61-

the beauty of a graffitti over a dirty wall, the beauty of unworried and unconcerned nudity without the prejudice of the 90-60-90 rule, the beauty of freedom and chaos and risk and danger and death, all of them being far from perfect, and I now never use the word perfect except in poetry, where words may mean something completely different than in real life -how beautiful is that-, or to refer to the concept ‘perfect moments’, not because they are perfect, but because they are precious and unique and sometimes beautifully decadent. and I think giotto never got the job.



I have this recurrent dream, there’s an endless field of tulips and the sun is shining and the day is awesome, and there are hundreds of people holding hands and singing and tiptoeing through the tulips, and I can’t believe what I am seeing, and I think to myself what the fuck is this; and then the sky opens biblically in half and there’s blackness up there and it looks like a black hole or something is there, and the black hole starts sucking all these poor people that are now crying and shouting in despair; and I stare at them and I do nothing. . . then I feel the suction myself and I reach my left back pocket in my jeans where I always carry a book, and I take it out and it is ‘howl’ from ginsberg, and it’s not just ‘howl’ from ginsberg, it’s the first edition of ‘howl’ from ginsberg, and I love it and I love how it smells; and I hold ‘howl’ in front of the black hole as if it were a crucifix or something, and I start shouting so loud my veins in -63-

my neck seem as if they were going to explode ‘I AM SAD I AM SAD I AM SAD’, and then I am spared and the sky closes and I wake up. I sometimes feel sadness is my saviour, my guardian angel, sadness-the-bitch, sadness-the-whore-that-swallows, because she does swallow everything and leaves me only with the things that matter. sad people are so much more interesting than happy people and they are a magnet, I feel attracted to them instantly; there’s a special kind of sadness that surrounds all the underdogs I know, and this sadness does not come from a biochemical sustrate, nor from sad things that happen in life all the time to all of us, it just does not come from my-girlfriend-just-left-me-whatam-i-gonna-do, or from daddy-got-cancerand-he’s-gonna-die-in-pain; no, this sadness comes from AWARENESS, from the awareness of meaning or the lack of it; and it is deep, and when it strikes it takes the form of an abyss, and she scares the hell out of us. it took just 10 minutes for eduardo to tell me about his abyss when I met him, and we didn’t knew each other, but he felt the urge to share it with me; and he called it the ‘poet curse’, and he just mentioned it for a second saying he was cursed and blessed at the same time and that all what he wrote -64-

he did because of it, to escape from it, from the abyss, from the sadness; and I couldn’t help thinking about the list of all the suicide poets, there are so many poets and artists on that list, it’s scary; alejandra pizarnik, antonin artaud, louis aragon, paul celan, cesare pavese -death will come and she will have your eyes, fuck-, thomas chatterton, phillip k dick, rainer weiner fassbinder, sylvia plath, safo, ernest hemingway, yasunari kawabata, jack london, yukio mishima, guy de maupassant, vladimir maiakovski, anne sexton, virgina wolf, alfonsina storni. . . and the list goes on forever, and these men and women were not just sad and that’s it, they simply never fitted in here and they were incredibly intelligent and talented, and every time I read their poetry they grab me by my arms and they yell at me ‘do you understand’, and they look me in my eyes in silence and wouldn’t let go, all of them being underdogs; and eduardo was staring at me and he kept silent, and I wish he finds every day a reason not to kill himself. I tell eduardo about fabrice graveraux, and he does not seem to know the story about him, and now I’m thrilled because I know he’s gonna love it, and I tell him how this french poet decided to commit suicide and how he slit his wrists and how he had to run away while bleeding -65-

from a multitude that was eager to save him, he was that commited; and yes eduardo laughs and his face illuminates with his laughter, and he is not scared of talking about suicide, as none of us is. but sadness is one side of a coin, one of the edges of the double edged sword, a twin, a sibling of the immense joy of painting, the immense joy of writing, the immense joy of fucking, the immense joy of loving, the immense joy of the intensity that surrounds a life lived with freedom, being ‘the master of one’s fate and the captain of one’s soul’, as henley would have put it.



once upon a time there was a kingdom and this kingdom was ruled by a tyrant, and he was unable to love and he banned love and love was a crime punished with death; and people just accepted it, and after the years no one loved no one; but then one day a foreigner arrived and his name was ‘puto’ and indeed he was, and he fell in love with a beautiful lady that lived at the top of the highest tower of the kingdom; and it came to pass that the lady had forgotten how to love; her name was ‘brightmind’, and puto tried and tried relentlessly to make her love him, because he knew she had it inside, because that’s love, you know, love makes you see things inside other people that no one else sees; and then one day puto tried to climb the tower, and the tyrant found out and he sent a witch named ‘time’ to stop him; and when puto was climbing the long rope brightmind had thrown to him, time took out an AK47 she had, bitch, a sniper rifle with -67-

telescopic sight -chamber full of sad bullets-, and she had a shot and god, that was really precise, she blew the right side of puto’s chin off, one single shot, and puto fell disfigured to the ground. puto was then captured and a hating mob brought him to the main square of the town and they spitted on him and they throwed him food and dirty water and stones and hate and everything, and he was whipped in front of everybody, and he had his tongue bored through with a hot iron, and then someone took his eyes off; and finally the tyrant slaughtered him and he bleeded to death and no one did nothing, fuck, can you believe that, no one did nothing; and I always love to finish a fairy tale as a tragedy because that’s what life is. a tragedy.



martha was a mexican painter I met in a museum in barcelona when patty and I broke for the first time, and I always have felt attracted by people experiencing life on their own, travelling alone, going to a museum alone, going to the cinema alone, and it is not that common, you know, but there are people with an inner drive to experience that just can’t be stopped; and the exhibition was about british pop art after the second world war -the ‘crazy brits’ as they called them-, and martha was so attractive, and she moved like an animal, and I was at the museum alone as well and she started making the eyes at me and I started making the eyes at her, and it was like a hide and seek game. I catched her in front of a painting of a mickey mouse that was so damn full of different colors, and she was looking at it, and I stood beside her, and she was laughing and she knew I was coming for her. -69-

we had lunch together that day and the conversation was so rich with art and with poetry, and she showed me pictures of her paintings; she painted ultrareal paintings and I’ve never liked that sort of ‘ultra-real-things’, you know, and I said I really was not into that style, and she was ok; then I showed her pictures of my sad and sexual and aggresive expressionist paintings and she told me she was not into that style neither, and I was ok with it, too; and I saw she was an underdog, so straightforward, so unashamed, so not willing to please no one but herself, so ‘authentic’, and she kept on smiling and what a beautiful smile she had, and what a beautiful breasts, she was wearing a white t-shirt, and god, her breasts were so beautiful. she came to barcelona in a three month visit as a sabbathical, but the real reason behind was she had just split with her boyfriend, and in fact, her boyfriend had dumped her because she loved her no more, and after 7 years, he just found out, as real as it gets; and she still loved him and it was painful for her to know he was cheating on her with a teenager, and she couln’t stand imagining him ‘making love to her’ as she said, and I thought he was probably just ‘fucking’ her but I said nothing as she was in pain. -70-

she gave me her phone number and she said she wanted to see my paintings, and that meant coming home, and that meant fucking with her, I knew and she knew, and as I said, she was so unashamed, so willing to please no one but herself. at the time I was really confused, patty and I had split but somehow I felt the relationship was not over, I still loved her, and strange as it may seem, I didn’t feel the urge of fucking martha right away, it was not the time yet, and I just had had a one night stand with somebody some days before and it had been a complete disaster, bad sex, bad karma, bad conversation, just me being drunk and my need to empty myself, nothing more than that, and it was disgusting, fuck, so for martha and I it took us one month to finally sleep together; and I remember I slept with her just after knowing patty was fucking someone else, I didn’t knew who he was at that time, but he was someone patty had been flirting with during the last days of our relationship, talking, chatting through the net and all, in fact she was chatting with him the night we broke, so knowing she was fucking someone really made me sad, and I called martha, and I invited her to come to my place and have a drink with me that night. martha showed up and she acted as a friend, just a smiling friend coming to -71-

see my paintings, and that’s what she was indeed, but she knew we were going to fuck because she had shaved her sex that day, and we laughed to death later when she confessed that, and we had sex that night and it was good, it felt good, and she had beautiful orgasms and her body was beautiful and she was tender and she had a little ‘sadness’ on her inside that one more time in my life was acting like a magnet to me. and without planning for it, she spent three days and three nights at my place, she just went to her place the morning after to grab some clothes and things and she came back; and we had three great days, and we visited barcelona together, and we had sex in the morning and in the kitchen and over the table and it was dirty and messy and filthy, and I liked it. we both felt the need, it was not love, it probably was nothing but need, pure and raw need of one another, we lost and sad souls in desperate need of sharing with someone else some tenderness, as we both were bruised and sad and empty at the time. and three days on a row were too much for a couple of underdogs in such a need for freedom; and I remember after the third night I wanted her to leave so badly, I just couldn’t stand her walking my place and grabbing something from -72-

the fridge and watching a movie next to me, and she understood, because I guess she felt the same; and that was the end of it, us consumed in a burst of sex, and afterwards there was nothing left. and she left and two months later patty and I started dating again, and I told her about martha and she was jealous but she was ok, but she lied to me about the man she had been fucking, and I didn’t realise it then, but that was the day goodbye started to happen, as goodbyes are never said, they simply happen.



sex the troublemaker sex the ancient god of hatred on our knees sex the snake in my bed crawling over frightened love, bringing exhilaration and sadness and then oblivion, always lending a hand when the dragon of death comes forth sex the needle and the syrinx and the elastic band on the bedtable sticking intensity on my arm as holy morphine sex the cheater wearing a nameless hundred faces in unashamed underwear discussing sex with you baby is like discussing fire with a firefighter, he knows what he is talking about, and so do you, and sex has been sad and passionate and creative and dark and rogue with you since the first time we slept together in amsterdam; and sex is not wearing a mask when we have it, it’s just simple sex without the mask, full of fantasies and empty of shame, you know you can just ask, I know I can just ask, and we -74-

can be so filthy, and we never pretend we are amazing porn stars or supermen or superwomen; just us trembling. and I just asked you what sex meant to you, and then you went on rambling something about the cigarettes after sex and about relief and about what we invent afterwards, and you know you got me again, I’m all ears baby, just go on; and you go on and tell me about that cliche of the couple that just had sex and they are both smoking a cigarrette, and how relieved they look and how peaceful they look, and sex is just that, ‘the peacefulness after it, but then the cigarette consumes itself and then you need another one, and sometimes you just need another brand of cigarettes, and sex is not that important, it is something pretty straightforward and natural that you can do at anytime’; and I smile because I remember some days ago you told me you had been masturbating and I asked you ‘how many times?’ and you said ‘I was really anxious you know’ and I asked again ‘how many times?’ and you said ‘dunno, like ten or so’, and my eyes were big as two plates and you weren’t there to see them staring at you; and I love you for being such a crazy and damaged and wonderful woman. and you go on saying ‘sex is more what we invent afterwards about it than -75-

what actually happened, sex it’s how we remember sex’, and hell yes, I will just shut up and let you go on, and when I confront sex with love you tell me ‘love is just like an orgasm, it is great, but it will come to an end, just like an orgasm’, and we both know that is so true; and to me sex and love they both are immates in the death row, they both are going to die, the only difference is that sex knows, and love doesn’t. I always saw sex as a drug, it is addictive, it has a withdrawal syndrome and it brings pleasure sometimes beyond belief, god, you know how I scream when I come, baby; but love. . . ahhh, love’s the real bitch, love is so fucking addictive and dangerous, once you taste it you are fucked up for your whole life, and the more idealistic you are and the higher expectations you have about it, the more fucked up you end, because you probably won’t reach love, he’s like the cookie that mum hid in the high closet in the kitchen, it is just way too high to reach it, and then you use women as chairs to climb and grasp it, but the chairs are broken, as broken as you are, and the chair cracks and moves and trembles and the chair wants to use you to reach the cookie too, and you always end breaking up your ass in the floor and hurting you real bad; and here we are, all of us trying to reach the cookie one more time. -76-

and love doesn’t know he has a death sentence, or if he does, he just won’t accept it and kneel and stop looking, he wants an epic win at the end, he wants to be saved at the very last minute, maybe the governor of life will call at the last minute and suspend the execution and then love will love big time, forever, and love will love with an intensity that no one has seen before because he was going to die and he was spared, and that changed him, and now he knows what is it to be ready to die; and death is a motherfucker and we love because we don’t wanna die, and love is just the antidote of death.



cris just showed up, she texted me and she wanted to come and see me and I knew she would not accept a ‘no’, and I never try to talk her down when she is in such an excitement state as it never worked in the past, so I just give up, I had plans with a friend but I call him and pospone. cris is excited because she wants to see a movie with me, she has seen the movie the night before and she wants to watch it again with me; she thinks the movie is unconventional and bohemian and pure poetry, and she thinks we need to watch it together and she even brings a champagne bottle with her, she thinks the movie is THAT good. so here she is, and she brings ‘apollonide, souvenirs de la maison close’ from bertrand bonello, a french director I think; and it’s a movie about a french whore house at the late XIXth century, and after catching up and a quick appetizer together we send you a video, baby, because cris wants to socialize with -78-

you, and I think it is a great idea given what happened with patty, and she wants you to ‘feel’ she means no harm at all to us, and I know you know, baby, and I know there’s no need for that, but she still wants to send the video and I still think it is a great idea, cause I want you to love her as I do, she is my best friend. we finally lay in my bed and we start watching the movie on my computer -cris and I usually watch movies laying in my bed-, and I’m mesmerized from the very beginning with some photographs the movie flashes in the first minutes, really good pictures of early century whores doing their clients, and god, I now know for sure the movie’s gonna be great, she was right. as always, cris now and then messes around with my hair or touches my cheek with her hand in a gesture of affection and I do the same, but we do that in a way none of us misunderstands nothing, it is pure affection, no desire whatsoever, just affection, and we discuss the most interesting scenes and we stop the movie every 30 minutes to go and fill our glasses with more champagne, and we argue about the movie, expressing our different points of view and all. and I remember ten months ago, one month after breaking up with patty, cris came to my place, we were drinking -79-

and smoking marihuana, and she laughed so much that night, I remember her laughing more than any other day we’ve met, everything was funny, we were happy for some hours and how weird is that, how uncommon for us; and we decided to go to my bedroom to rest as we were drunk and she was laughing and she stepped in top of me while we were lying in my bed and I remember we both stopped laughing and there was an astonishing silence then, and she was wearing some short skirt and I was seeing her panties over my waist and I was having a hard on, and she knew I was having a hard on because the bulge on my jeans was just there and she was sitting on top of it and she felt it, and our faces were real close and I felt her breathing real close, and then I stopped her and we started laughing and we hugged... and she knows I stopped her because I won’t risk her friendship, she is too important and we are not meant for each other as a couple, and I’ve fucked many friends in my life just for fun and for the pleasure of it, but not with cris. and as I write down all this after she leaves, I think about all the truth this book is bringing to my life, and how truthful I wanna be in writing it and how important it is to me; and I know there will be something missing in the


book, some important truth that I will not dare to write down here, and it’s something about cris, something I know about her and nobody else does. she trusted me with this thing long ago and I would never dare to betray her talking about it, and knowing about it would be important for you guys to better understand the intensity of our friendship, but I will not betray her, and this is it.



I’m heading back to the tattoo parlor because I want to add another text line to my tattoo, I’m so happy with how it feels to have baudelaire in the back of my neck, and damn, I want more baudelaire, sounds crazy I know, and as I go there I wonder if eduardo will be at the usual place, I want to see him. and there he is, having a glass of something-not-healthy at 11:00AM, that’s how it goes for him, but still sober; and as I see him I can’t resist smiling and he sees me coming laughing and he immediately stands up and makes some comment about my funny walk, he knows about lola, and he offers me his chair to sit -as there is only one chair and a barrel outside this shabby bar, just one, can you imagine how shabby it is-; and I order the girl behind the bar counter a round of what eduardo is having, and fuck, it is orujo, a high grade liquor, and it is 11:00AM but what the hell, let’s have one, and this won’t be the first time -82-

in my life I have a drink at 11:00AM and I tell eduardo this round’s on me. if solitude had legs I guess she would be sitting at the table right now with us, she always sits next to eduardo; I just have 10 minutes this time and I ask how is he getting on and we have a casual conversation, just feeling him it’s ok, and I secretly pay the bar tender a meal for him and I leave. when I get to the tattoo parlor, oriol is already there waiting for me, and his dog shows up making a funny noise with his legs over the wooden floor, and this is the first time I see his dog but the dog is as friendly as oriol, and I offer my palm and he starts licking it and wagging its tail, and the first thing oriol tells me is that he has a terrible headache cause he had an ‘intense’ evening the night before, sex drugs and rockandroll, and now he has a hangover, ups, I feel a bit scared now, but he laughs and I see he is telling the truth but there’s nothing to be worried about, and I smile back at him and at his long beard and at his belly fat and at all the tattoos over his body. one hour later and some excitment later and some pain later I walk out with ‘les fleurs du mal’ inked on the back of my neck, and I now feel baudelaire himself walking over the face of the earth. -83-


now and then I say something like ‘god has a short dick’ in the middle of a conversation and I add ‘why so much concern about sex and forbidding things around sex and band sticking his nose in other people’s businesses that have only to do with pleasure?’, and then people around me know for sure I am an atheist big time and I just can’t stand the nonsense surrounding religion; and I am well aware I will lose, don’t know, maybe a 30% of my readers right away with this chapter, but let me be honest with you readers leaving, I just don’t fucking care, and no underdog would care about that, and be prepared because we are entering hell now. religion has tried to dominate people’s minds and steal away freedom from them since the beginning of time, because religion is just politics and domination and control; and the church has done that using ‘the carrot and the stick’, the STICK being the concept of ‘sin’; and -84-

what could be more effective than, let’s say, banning something that is natural and can’t be avoided such as sexual desire, poor sinner souls going to hell, and then making them confess, and then ‘forgive’ them - how magnanimous - after confession. and they can’t lose, as all of us have sexual desire cause it is something so fucking natural; and there you go, everybody already caught in their web of lies and mind control. . . and if you wanna know what fear is, you just need to read the revelations, they make no attempt to veil their threats, you know, and they go on with all the ‘babylon the

great is fallen, is fallen, and has become a dwelling place of demons’, and bla bla bla, and with ‘the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun; and power was given unto him to scorch man with fire’,

and bla bla bla, and after reading all the plagues stuff and all the satan and the antichrist stuff and all the ‘suffer the wrath of god on earth’ stuff you’re into it, what a sad god. but the CARROT is even more dangerous, and it is indeed deceptive and tricky and disgusting and twisted and sick, and it takes the form of a choice, and a choice must be made between ‘the comfort of religion and an afterlife that guarantees that after all we-have-not-lived-for-85-

nothing’, and ‘the truth of atheism’, that truth being ‘we are all gonna die and that’s it fellas, I know it’s painful but no one will save us from that’; and what a twisted choice, don’t you think? so what really makes me sick about religion is the fact that it craves for happiness while we, underdogs of the world, we crave for truth, and there’s a continuum between happiness and truth, the closer you are to one of them, the far away you are from the other, as life is futile and helpless and tragic, and there is no emotional room for a god in such a tragic universe; and most of the times there is sadness surrounding us and that’s ok, and sometimes there is intensity and beauty and truth and sex and love around us, and we are fortunate enough to experience it; and now I am writing all this in a dirty napkin sitting in a bar counter, with my headphones on and the music as loud as it can get, and shaking my head to the rythm and reading poetry at the same time, and I feel good, and people must think when they see me smiling and shaking my head and writing and all that I went completely mad, bless them. happiness, whatever that means, is completely overrated, and so here we are, free men and women against slaves, literally, engaging in a discussion about who is right and who is wrong, what a -86-

waste; and I promised myself long time ago I wouldn’t argue with anyone about religion again, I am so not interested, you take care of yourselves.



I just saw a very young girl in a book store today and she was 11 or 12, dunno, something like that, and she was like crazy looking for a book in the bookshelves, and you know, it is not common to see a young girl like her buying a book on her own, without her mum or dad ‘protecting’ her and ‘advising’ her what to buy, fuck off mum and dad; and there she goes up and down the corridor, looking in the bookshelves, and then she finally found what she was looking for, and I couldn’t help peeking the book she had in her hands, and it was anne frank’s ‘diaries’, good choice; and as she was paying I was looking at her and she literally ran out of the book store, and I saw her walking for about 5 meters, just that, and she sat on the floor, back leaning against the building, and she tore the gift-wrapping paper and she started reading. she couldn’t wait, she was literally gobbling up the book, eating it with her -88-

eyes, so full of hunger; and I swear I was this close to burst into tears, I swear, and I admire her, and she will be such an interesting woman, and she is already an underdog.



every time I want to write something important here I just don’t know if I end up writing prose or poetry or both of them at the same time, my mind still a bullet, thinking faster than what I can actually write down; and you baby, you are both the people at the main square of the town and ‘brightmind’, and you do nothing, baby, you just let the days pass by, you and your two lives, and god is my typewriter, and I see the days passing by one after the other in life’s waiting room, and I die of tomorrow, death dripping from my sad and wet eyes and death dripping from your sad and wet sex and cinderella and the prince never lived happily ever after and I would like to have a word with god as I want to tell him he is a son of a bitch but god doesn’t exist and now there’s no one else to blame but you, baby you will kill us -90-


marc is so full of shit and full of madness and full of awe for everything, and he has the privilege of being borderline mad, so fucking close to it I guess, and he just told me ‘I looked out of the window and saw ‘tonight’ and then someone said ‘oooooooo’ in spanish’, and think about it, how come anyone would tell the difference between saying ‘ooooo’ in spanish or in english or in any other language, but that’s him and he is a poet, and you never stop being a poet, it’s a full time job. he is wearing like 12 or 13 rings, all of them big and explicit and flashy, and he tells me he designs them himself, one of them is the size of a phone, and he does with language what music lovers know as ‘anacrusism’ in music, that is starting sentences off-beat, outside the usual rythm of language; and some of my underdog friends do that again and again, and this means they start the sentence not at the beggining of the sentence but -91-

at the middle of it, and it is weird, but you understand them pretty well when you get used to it, it’s like listening to poetry rather than language; and he would say something like ‘no to him that motherfucker, I said no, me working at that poledancers club and the owner was like don’t mess with any of the girls, marc, and I was like yeah boss, won’t do that, and I fucked one of them the very same night, JJAJAJJAHAHA, he tries to stop me doing something, I do it, weirdo’, and then I would say ‘you fucked one of the girls, you devil?’, and he would answer ‘real truly awesome fucking you know’, and he would go on explaining all the details of the moment, but not the sexual ones, but other details, unimportant for anyone else but so damn important for him, like ‘fate it was and the door wouldn’t open and we broke the window and we were on the inside and who cares about the moon, you know what I mean’ and I didn’t, but I was mesmerized as always. but then he tells me about love, about him loving a woman these days, and I just don’t know when he changed the subject, such a random conversation, and his face changes, and there is no longer laughter, now he is serious and he tells me again starting with an anacrusism ‘all the hearts of the world beating at once, oh boy, how much I love her, and she’s gone, -92-

but she will come back, you know, cause we are blessed souls and our love won’t die in cold as the universe, it will die in heat in the big crunch, all my love there contaning the universe itself and exploding in a blast’, and then he goes on and says ‘motherfucking whore you just come back and shut the fuck up because you love me!’; and I’m not sure if he is talking to me or if he just mindtravelled to the other side of the universe where she is now, and what the fuck, I write it down, you drama-seeking-bastard, you won’t never know how much you’re giving to me.



the bell sounds and you are downstairs and somehow I think about the difference between friends that call you and ask ‘can I come to your place?’ and the real friends, partners, lovers, twin souls that just ring the doorbell and say ‘I am downstairs you fucker, open up’, no permission asked, no permission granted, they are just there and they are coming up; and obviously you are coming from amsterdam and I was expecting you, but the bell sounded like it was an ‘I am downstairs fucker, open up’, yes that’s how it sounded, and waiting for you is a horse, a purebred horse that’s going to bolt and throw my common-sense-the-rider down and wants to gallop and fuck you baby, right away. I see you climbing the stairs and this is your first time here in barcelona, and now you’re close and I see your face and I know something’s wrong, and you kiss my cheeks, twice, and you say something -94-

nonsense, and you come in dropping your baggage over the table, and you sit down at my white bar counter, and fucking guilt, I know what you’re going through, and I hold the horse. you say nothing, you just freeze, I guess there’s a lot in your mind, and you hear me talking to you but you are not listening, and you say something now and then, but you are not talking to me either; fear is sitting here with us, between the two of us; and you say ‘I was this close not to to board the plane, luis’ and you smile, and what you just said does not go along well with the smile, so I see there’s a tempest over us now, and I know I must wait and let it pass. I try to remain calm and reassuring, there’s a battle inside you and I’m losing the battle right now, and there’s no one sitting in front of me and I feel you’re about to run, but there’s nowhere you can run; and I say ‘I’m here’, and I say ‘everything’s fine, baby’, and you see my sad face. you’re used to talk to me but you’re not used to see me, and now you’re really watching me and I feel it and it feels good; I move around and you watch me and I show you my place and we leaf through some of my books, and I’m not sure if it helps or not but I keep on talking to you, and you see the paintings -95-

on the walls and then we DJ together and we talk and we start preparing a mixed salad together, or maybe I am just preparing it on my own while you watch; and time flies and you’re not here baby, where are you? but I remember our conversations in the last days and I realise we are as lost as two stray cats, and I know that you love me baby, I really see it when you look at me, and we eat something and we drink, and you want to prepare some mojitos; and I see your eyes are just imploring me to run over your sanity and come for you, and I do, and you are facing the fridge and I come from behind and I grab your waist and I trap you between me and the fridge, and you just can’t run away from there and I can’t see your face but I bet you’re smiling already, and you turn towards me and you kiss me, fuck you kiss me, it was about time, and then you kneel and you unbucle my jeans and I wasn’t expecting it, it was so fast; and then I let you do it and you blow me, and I feel your warm mouth, and I feel you again, and I just don’t want you to blow me, I want you to fuck me right away, so desperately, and we go to my bedroom and we fuck fuck fuck, and I know the war inside you is not over but I feel some peace. we do it twice, and we have oral sex and we touch each other and then we stop, -96-

and the japanese condom was a complete mess and we laugh, and I tell you something like ‘I would have fucked you right away when you got here, baby, in 5 seconds, and it took you three hours’ and you say nothing, and then you say ‘I love you’, just that, and it sounds exact as three bullets, I BANG love BANG you BANG, the sound of the shots still echoing in my mind, the war still inside of you with all the casualties and the names and the friendly fire and the emotional bombs and the prisoners of war and all. and I know just showing up was heroic for you, and I know about the guilt coming from the other side of your life, we live at the dark side; and I watch how you put on a shirt and walk my place naked and what a beautiful and sexy body you have and all the empty rooms turn their heads to see you passing by and all my things fall in love with you as well and I realise I know nothing about love and it is my last warning before really making love to you.



08:00AM and I open my eyes and you’re still here, and you sleep and I hear you breathing and you are probably still here because you have nowhere to run, you fierce stand-offish woman, trapped in my bed as a wild animal; and I see how you sleep and what a cliche but I do love it, seeing you, sleeping, and then I start thinking that maybe you are ‘pretending’ you’re sleeping, and I laugh at the thought that just crossed my mind, and I imagine you secretly observing what the fuck am I gonna do next and, yeah, you definitely could be not sleeping, and here I am, playful and frisky, looking at you, how about that, one of us standoffish and the other so frisky; and I approach you from behind and I know we won’t have time for a ‘quickie’, your plane leaves in two hours, and we had lots of sex yesterday, so I don’t really need a quickie now, and forgive us father because we have sinned, we had ‘bonzo’ sex yesterday, it certainly was immolation -98-

by fire; and I remember when I took out this ‘v-shaped-thing-that-vibrates’ and how fascinated you were by it, your redhaired curiosity screaming and jumping over the bed shouting USE IT ON ME USE IT ON ME USE IT ON ME, and indeed I used it on you while fucking, and I remember your face and you looking at me, and then to your sex, and then to my sex inside your sex with that ‘v-shaped-thing-that-vibrates’ inside of you as well, and then you looking at me again and saying ‘what are you doing to me, luis’ and smiling and moving and breathing heavily and all. so I ‘spoon’ you and I kiss your back and you seem relaxed and you say ‘gd-morniiiing wolf’, and you smile and you go take a shower; and I prepare some breakfast, just a coffee and some food that I bought yesterday, and to be honest I never have breakfast but maybe you do and it will be fun to have breakfast together; and now I see you walking down the long corridor all dressed in black and you look so much more at peace than yesterday. I start to record one of my clandestine videos but you catch me one more time, what a voyeur I am, always tring to capture moments to take them away with me, and it is impossible and sad and the camera can’t do that for me, no one can, -99-

but I do love to videotape us and now you’re asking me to stop it, but you didn’t ask me to stop it yesterday baby, what a porn video-library we already have the two of us together. and I look at you knowing there’s just minutes left for today and I know as well that if I asked you how much future do you have in your pockets, petty-cashfuture so to say, you wouldn’t know, you don’t even count it, enough future I guess for one more drink, enough future to share more joints and more sadness with me, enough future to fuck me again and let me fill you with more poetry and cum and marihuana and safe-conducts for the dark side of life; and nah, you don’t really wanna know about the future, and that’s why I love you. and you leave and I don’t feel sad, I feel so fucking at peace.



LOVE and FREEDOM are at war, there can only be one, and the war is brutal and fierce and takes no prisoners, and it takes place inside of me, deep within, as it takes place inside many other underdogs; and the closer you get to either love or freedom, the more you need and the farther away you are from the other one, life’s a bitch. BEAUTY and TRUTH are at war as well, and what a magnificent war, oh boy, the closer you are to one of them, the farther away from the other too; truth being the real world, even if it is sad and ugly most of the times, truth meaning the wilingness to accept things as they are, not trying to idealize them; and beauty being precisely the opposite, the willingness to idealize the world, not accepting reality as it is but ‘wishing’ everything to be perfect and happy, even if it is a lie, a beautiful lie. and what a magnificent two by two matrix we do have here, don’t you think? -101-

(reality/real world)


love freedom

beauty (idealization/ideal world)

we could have like a cross or something, with one continuum representing ‘love and freedom’, and the other one representing ‘beauty and truth’, and we could locate us at any moment in time somewhere in the matrix; and as some of the times we are happy, and most of the times we are sad, it really would make sense to look if there’s any pattern showing up there, maybe being in a quadrant is useful for you to cheat sadness, I don’t know. all I know is that now and then the abyss strikes, this infinite sadness grabbing us by our shoulders and shaking us and telling us ‘all this is -102-

a fucking nonsense’; and I learnt in the past that the abyss hunts me down precisely when I don’t move across that matrix, so at the end of the day it is not about where I am, I don’t care where I am at any moment in time, it is just about weather I’m moving or not, and hell, I just know I need to move. my mind prefers the right upper quadrant, that is freedom and truth, and they are both my home base, and I don’t know about you, you should ask yourself the very same question, but me, me I easily feel like being trapped in a cage, and I need to travel and to experience things, girls, emotions, and I need to be thrilled about new things, you know? and love is in a way focusing into someone else and staying there, love is just the oposite of freedom, or at least, love as I know it, maybe love should be redefined. and truth, oh boy, truth is what keeps me up every morning, making sure that I am not deceiving myself, that I am not wishful-thinking about things around me, that I am not fooling me about what I feel and what I want, and that I don’t let other people fool me about that as well; and that I am who I am, the ‘real’ luis rather than the ‘beautiful’ and ‘idealized’ and ‘perfect’ luis I wanted to be in the past, I just want to be the truth. . . and -103-

beauty has never taught me anything and she is usually boring, and after a long exposure to beauty I start to feel tired of it, as imperfection and sadness and drama and decadence and suffering are all right, we need those to feel alive and kicking, there is no happiness without sadness, how could we tell then that we are happy? and it is so damn difficult to put all this into words, you know, but being perfect or aiming at perfection or beauty is childish and so not human. but as I said, life’s a bitch, and if I just rely on truth and freedom, there’s always something missing, and sadness knows her stuff, she really does, she knows what she is doing and she knows how to strike to catch me off-guard; and I know now and then I need to love, as much as I can, and I know now and then I need beauty, and I know that stopping moving around the four of them would be like dying, and here I am, moving like crazy, wanting to be free but wanting to love you at the same time, what a contradiction; and pablo once told me ‘the’ truth about poetry, and he said poetry had only one purpose, and that was helping us in expressing our own contradictions, and no wonder why I write poetry all the time, I’m so fucking helpless and contradictory.


26 “je sens s’elargir dans mon etre un abime beant; cet abime est mon coeur brulant comme un volcan, profond comme le vide rien ne rassasiera ce monstre gemissant et ne rafraichira la soif de l’eumenide qui, la torche a la main, le brule jusqu’au sang” baudelaire

pablo is a maxillofacial surgeon and he happens to be an underdog as well, and we used to have long talks while we were at the surgical room together, and we would talk and talk for hours and the rest of the team would not even dare to jump in and say anything. he had an ego the size of a skyscrapper and so did I, so we usually ended up very pissed off at each other, and there were times in our lifes when we did not talk to each other at all, but we always ended up coming back for more conversation and more discussions and more drama, so addicted to that. of all the underdogs I know, he probably is the less ‘poetic’ and the more ‘intensity driven’ one, he being so -105-

hiperactive you just couldn’t follow all he was doing, always trying to cheat death by doing things; one day he told me he wanted to open a private practice clinic in paris and another one in shanghai, and I asked ‘and why the hell do you want that? there are plenty of unexplored markets here’ and he said ‘I dunno, but I want an office in paris and another one in shanghai’ and one year later both offices were up and running, and patty and I visited his french office and we had a great time walking the streets of paris the four of us, pablo, his girlfriend, patty and me. the truth is we intensity-addicts we are a bottomless well and we keep on throwing experiences and things and love and sex and trips and books and poems and faces to the well but the well never fills up. . . the void never gets filled with experiences and the only thing you can do is understand you can’t grab anything, you need to flow; but some of us never get it, and once intensity dominates our mind there is never enough to satisfy the thirst of it. and you want more, and people surrounding you just don’t understand but you still want more and more; and people surrounding you will not be able to follow you -it will be very exciting for them at the beginning but they will be tired in a few months and then they -106-

will leave you-, and love will not be enough and art will not be enough and sex will not be enough and no fire will be hot enough and you will need someone to hold tight the world for you because it will be shaking under your feet; and you will sense the cliff, right there in front of you, and all the things that you could have done and you never did will visit you at night and will sit on your bed, and what a threatening look they will have. and fuck, sometimes I am a bottom-less well and I can’t help it and I imagine myself one day in a therapy-session with other intensity addicts, me standing up from my chair and saying ‘hello my name is luis, I am an intensity-addict and it’s been four days since I last smoked life as if it was marihuana’ and everybody will applaud, and I am so doomed.



lola stayed the night yesterday, and she is planning to stay for a couple of days, lola the-gulag-of-my-life, lola the-ladder-of-doom; she loves to show up without warning, naked as the truth and surrounded by drums -how’s that for a girlfriend-, and she keeps on telling me ‘I am the one, luis, I am the one’, she jealous son-of-a-bitch. . . she wants me just for her and she goes on weeping and fucking with my mind, she’s such a sad sad woman. I don’t need her anymore but she keeps on bringing sadness and fear and loss of control to my life; salute beloved comrade, I send you my tears from the gulag.



I got your letter yesterday and what a couple of weirdos we are, writing old postage stamped letters; and what a fascinating letter you wrote, baby, I felt your stray-cat love in every sentence, all the time, quietly meowing. and I started reading and everything went quiet, and miles davis played his music from somewhere in the 50s and the music travelled across six long decades until here and now, and I swear he knew about your letter because the music played to the rythm of your words, kiddo.



satori is a japanese buddhist term meaning ‘awakening’, ‘understanding’, ‘enlightment’, and I just had one. your life, baby, is a pressure cooker under extremely high pressure, and some months ago the pressure was getting higher and higher, a beautiful mind about to explode and destroy everything around, and the debris and the ruins and the death count and the fall out and all the sadness were going to be front page news around the world, such a story. . . and then you found me, and I became the pressure valve, hissing safely now, lowering the pressure, bringing all the things you desperately needed and were missing in your life such as poetry and conversation and creative sex and the confidence to show yourself as an artist to the world -you stepping out of the closet- and thirst and hunger for new experiences, and a different kind of love, and yes, the dark side, too; I became all this and I thought this was OK, but -110-

it wasn’t, and this has not been working for me, I just understood it; instead of showing you the path to freedom, I may have been saving your relationship. and now you have it all, the best of both worlds, in your first life you feel safe -and this gives you a sense of security and direction, even if you are bored in there-, and in your second life you feel all the excitement and the love and the poetry of a new relationship, the one you are sharing with me, this life in which we write books together, in which we speak for hours about everything every day -infinite conversation-, in which we say ‘te quiero’ to each other, this life in which we secretly meet to have sex and in which we plan outreageous threesomes and toys and fun and you bring your fantasies to life. and I know the longer I stay the more you will have all those needs fulfilled and the less likely it will be that you will understand what ‘us’ means, the less likely it will be that you understand that ‘us’ is something you shouldn’t let go, that ‘us’ is magic and scarce, that ‘us’ is a wishing well and ‘us’ won’t happen many times in your lifetime, so precious to find; we both know if we do nothing time will take away our passion and will kill everything that we have been and we will become past. -111-

and maybe you don’t see it, but if I dissapear now your life would suddenly be empty of poetry and thrill and darkness, and the pressure cooker would stop hissing, baby, and pressure would start rising again, and then you would try to find another pressure valve in someone else but you would realise it is not that easy to find poetry and darkness; and then one day your life as you know it would come to an end in a beautiful supernova; and I am smart and I know what I want and I love you and I am free and what a risky and terrible choice I have, don’t you think?



love drops napalm over me burning everything at 700ºC armies marching over the dead bodies of all my old lovers and all their old tears in black eyelash flamethrowers vomiting gasoline and forgiveness and forgetfulness purifying everything with a hundred goodbyes and the sun shining the day after like a thousand sunrises - as life the whore goes on the night patty left I felt the sun was never going to sunrise again; there were shouts and yells and screams embeded in all the walls at my place and a ‘never again’ echoing everywhere inside my head; one day we had been invincible, and suddenly I knew we just were two dead bodies in love’s ditch, because the moment the door closed I knew I wouldn’t open it never again, I swear I knew. too many lies at point blank range and too many fights and way too much sadness, and the lies went away with her, and -113-

the fights went away with her, but the sadness stayed, and then I knew sadness was precisely that, remembering patty sitting at the toilet with her panties half down and talking and talking and talking to me about anything, whatever, just life -and how sweet it was to hear ‘life’ from her lips-, and I knew sadness was everything before and after her name when I arrived to my place and I said ‘patty’ as if she was there and no one answered, and sadness was her phone number flashing on my cell and me not answering the phone because talking to her was still so painful, and sadness was me, too, me bursting into tears, crying as I never had since that moment, crying until my flesh and my bones and everything that was me disolved, me vanishing in a puddle of sorrow in the ground, fuck, those days were sadness itselves. the day she left she said things that scared the hell out of me, things that I’d never imagined she could say to me after the three wonderful years we spent together, but I don’t blame her, as I said very horrible things too, and we underdogs we explode, we drama, we kill with words, and our words are mushroom shaped, and we were in love, and love and despair make you say terrible things and I knew we were deeply in love even saying goodbye. -114-

and as all the couples saying goodbye not for the lack of love but for the lack of a life project together, we kept on seeing each other now and then, and yes, we kept sleeping together now and then, it was so cold outside us, and sometimes we would go to have dinner at night and then she would say ‘how about going to your place for a moment, I feel tired’ and then I would look at her smiling and raising my eyebrows, and she would go on and say ‘ok, how about going to your place and making love, sky’ and she would smile and I would have a hard on, right away, in the middle of the street, as I missed her body so much, patty really knew how to make love to me, she knew all the things lola liked and all the things lola had forbiden, and it was so natural, I felt she truly loved me. but then her visits became less frequent, and there was not a specific reason for that, nothing happened, just life, life happened, and she met other men and she slept with them, and I met other woman and I slept with them as well; and I wandered and I fucked around and I wandered and I wandered and one day I found your mind, baby, and I had never seen such a beautiful mind and I fell in love with it; and then with you.



all underdogs I know love to experience the world on their own without needing anyone, and so most of the time they are looking forward to being alone, and everything is always at its deathbed, you know, so they better hurry and taste it. and travelling alone is not just travelling, travelling alone is a tool, a swiss army knife for our minds, because it does not mean going to other places but going to other different people; and in every trip there is bliss, there is tomorrow, and comrades, and poets that have lost their names, and voices and buzz and parties in the nightclub universe, and drama, lots of drama, and sometimes there is anguish and danger too, and we crave for danger as it makes us feel everything around is so fucking important and intense, and we keep on trying to cheat death by experiencing life at full speed. el cairo was the trip of my life, -116-

february 2011, the arab spring at its peak, egypt burning with shame and anger and poetry ruling the streets; and I needed to see it with my own eyes, and my green small backpack and lola and me we took a flight there. when I got at the hotel, the receptionst said ‘gd-morning mister luis, your room is ready and it will be room 2213’, ‘jeez that was fast’ I said, ‘I even didn’t introduce myself’, and he answered ‘there are only four guests staying at the hotel, sir, we were expecting your arrival’; and the hotel had 25 empty floors, sixty rooms or so each, it was the sofitel cairo el gezirah hotel, and there I knew I was completely crazy. and I didn’t need to unpack as I always travel light, just one extra t-shirt and one extra jeans and some underwear, lola loves to travel light, and I went straight to the tahrir square, and I had never experienced such an intense roar of people with flags and fists and chants and smiles, yes they smiled so much I blinked and closed my eyelids to adjust to it, and there was this weird sensation that everything was going to change so deeply from that moment on, like a may 68 in paris, but now, in 2011, in egypt, and I felt so privileged. there were more than 300.000 people at the square that day and I remained at the outer edge of it, just looking, -117-

hearing their chantics and seeing the tricolored flags waving and swinging, and watching women lifting their veils, proud of herselves, so sick and tired of their veils, rage in their faces, looking at me as it was clear for them I was a foreigner, and smiling and crying, I swear, crying so helplessly, it was pure freedom and pure happiness, just as a needle and a syrinx and an elastic band and having freedom sticked through their veins in a continuous perfusion, and their faces full of ecstasy. two of the buildings surrounding the square wew completely burnt up, windows smoked and broken and black as the past, and it seemed el cairo was an underdog herself, she the city that rages and writes poetry into history with the blood of its citizens. then there were some shouts, and people were no longer happy and I saw them running back, and I was scared now, lola does not allow me to run, and I even don’t know why I did back off but I started walking out the square; and I saw some soldiers were deploying and trying to move people out of the square, but I knew it was useless and futile, they wouldn’t shut them up, and I backed off smiling and 200 meters from there there was a taxi cab and it was strange to see a taxi cab there but I went for it and I asked the driver and he said ‘come in’, -118-

and how weird it was but I jumped in, as always in the front row. I asked him to drive me to the hotel, and the hotel was a tall building in the middle of the city and I could see it from there, and the driver was heading in the opposite direction, and I felt something was not good, and then the car stopped and two guys sat just behind me, no good, I felt the danger, my body started pumping adrenaline into my veins in that ancient hormone dance that nature has nurtured for thousands of years, and then I said ‘ok, I am getting out now’ and I tried, but one hand reached my shoulder from behind and said in a poor english ‘no, you here, no out, no move’, and there was a military vehicle just 20 meters ahead, and without thinking I just opened the door and jumped, my right side impacting the street so hard, and it hurt so violently, and I started screaming for help, and the soldier next to the tank just turned his head toward me and the taxi shut the door and dissapeared amidst the other cars in a second. my right shoulder was dislocated, out of place, a subluxation, and I knew just as I was trying to sit on the floor, and fuck, I was scared; and the soldier just came and asked how I was and I told him about the shoulder and he just pulled me toward the building, and I sat there, my -119-

back against the wall, and he told me to wait. it was a moment of pain and that was all, the military guy just pulled my arm and the shoulder went back to where it belonged, and I had done that manoeuver so many times before in others, and now I knew what it felt to have a luxation reduced, and it was painful; and they helped me to stand up, and I walked alone to get to my hotel, and there wasn’t any pain now, just a smile on my face, and the thought I would never forget that perfect moment and the thought on how fortunate I was.



10.37AM and we are already chatting and playing and there’s a lot of hormones in between our words messing around with everything, and I tell you to just shut the fuck up and feel me, and I tell you to relax and let me do you; just opening the gates of pleasure, your lips, all of them; and some months ago I prophesized madness would open her legs for me and she would let me taste her, and I remember the taste in between your legs, baby, and you taste like madness, you are madness herself, and I like it; and you say ‘hahhaha and now the poor thing -mehas to masturbate and come’ and I say ‘go for it, wolf, just think of my head in between your legs when you come’ and you say ‘always’, just one word, the right word, exact as ever, and I smile; and you are probably now coming and moving your mouth compulsively as I’ve seen you do when you come, so sweet, and I am now writing down our story, and life around just goes on without caring about us. -121-


sometimes I get drunk at nights and it is not that I am proud of it, and it is not that I am ashamed of it, it is just that sometimes I get drunk at nights and that’s all, and I smoke marihuana, and I would love to be able to cry and I know I can’t, I’m never able to cry sadness out of me, she just stays inside. most of the time, the world is a sad sad waiting room, and I sit in front of my old underwood with a bottle of vodka at arms reach, and my imaginary cat just jumps out of its picture and messes with the papers over the table, and ginsberg and kerouac and burroughs and many others stick out their heads at the door like saying ‘you all right, pal?��� and sit and have a drink with me and my sadness is like me retching and heaving love out like karma police raiding my soul at dawn looking for something I don’t have like waste -122-

like a used condom and the pleasure is over like dust over my past cause no one has cleaned it up and there’s plenty of crap there like me delivering a sermon to an empty room like all my ex-girlfriends fucking their partners and coming on their cocks like if the door in between universes just slammed on my face and I am stuck in here and you live in the other universe, baby, and the fucking door won’t open and I can’t do nothing, as this door only opens from your side.



there’s something elusive about tenderness; I could explain sex in a minute you know, I could explain sadness, I could explain freedom, beauty, truth, I could explain the meaning of a perfect moment, even love is dopamine in our bloodstream and I can measure it somehow and it’s biochemistry based and responds to an evolutionary need, but tenderness, tenderness is not an instinct, tenderness I can’t explain. all I know is I need tenderness, all I know is that everthing else fades out and dissapears, love, sex, passion, even conversation at the end, they all dissapear; but tenderness, oh boy, tenderness is the only thing that remains, tenderness-the-core-ofeverything, tenderness the only thing I can hold on to when I fall into the abyss, any port in a storm, baby. tenderness needs someone else, needs to travel the distance between you and someone else outside of you, another -124-

human being, an animal, a plant, something alive; tenderness only real when shared. and tenderness needs you to love and it does not care if you’re being loved, and you know, in life, sometimes you’re loved, sometimes you are not, but the real tragedy is not loving, fellas, not being able to love, that’s a shame, and we underdogs take that as a life principle and we love and we fuck everything around, and yes, we end up tired of everything we fuck, and hate is our destiny, and loath is our destiny, and the oblivion of everything we loved is our destiny; this is what I call the love/hate/loath/oblivion cycle, and if I love you, be aware, I will be tired of you some day, and I will forget you, and there’s no shame in that, it’s just the way it is; and all underdogs secretly want to break that cycle and love forever, utopia may be possible, and if it is not, she keeps us walking, and all underdogs are tender by nature, as tenderness is the key, tenderness-theonly-thing-able-to-break-the-cycle; and even if they show no tenderness at all, even if it seems they don’t love, even if some of them even end taking their lives away -poor round pegs in square holes-, underdogs will now and then suddenly fall in love and adore something, and -125-

they won’t look for perfection when doing so, and this is the highest form of tenderness, accepting anyone, any soul, any wretched being, heroes and antiheroes alike, we all losers alike; we underdogs love everything without prejudice. and you think you don’t have tenderness in you, baby, but you are wrong, you think about tenderness as being cuddles and frippery, and you are so wrong; tenderness is you sending me a picture of a distant wall over the canal in amsterdam with a graffiti that reads ‘LOVE ME’; tenderness is your hand up the ramp in our first night at the hotel; tenderness is accepting me exactly as I am, no need for me to change; tenderness is you singing me an acapella song and demanding a ‘where is my song in return, damn’ immediately after; tenderness is you texting me a happy birthday message at 11:52PM, eight minutes before my birthday being the first one to do it, your impatience’s watch is fast; tenderness is you knowing I don’t sleep much these days and sending a text message at 08:11.AM you saying ‘goooood morning baby, you tell me now, you slept well?’ and then the smile just there, after the word ‘well’ and the question mark, and you know, baby, that smile is just tenderness, and it drives me crazy.


35 (so drunk and high) to patty and carlota because now I know I have loved twice in my life

late at night when the demons come I will see your scared angry face, baby, your face saying ‘I’m upset’ and five police cars parked outside my place their red lights revolving in love’s deathbed and the red lights of the red district revolving in my face me looking for an angry fuck cause love is dead and mass media announcing love’s inconsolable death me not willing to confirm or deny -loudhailers at every street- all poets mourning and the impossible whispering at my ear ‘this is how defeat looks like bro love is dead’ and a magic lamp of empty vodka that has no genius inside and grants no wishes now that love is dead and preachers preaching ‘the end of love, repent you fools’


and bards singing love songs to closed windows and no one is there and the dragon of pain vomiting fire over all that I loved once and me the cannibal eating the flesh of love and he is still alive and cries and me in my shivering throne of ‘everything I have’ and everything I have is worth nothing and does me no good - I just wanted to love you baby and time the love-beheader with its axe and its black sack covering its merciless face and time the caesar his face covered with blood pointing his thumb down no mercy for the ones who love no mercy for the ones wounded by love and time the fallen angel spitting love in my face and the meaningless universe stroking my cock as if it had a purpose and its purpose was to give me pleasure and love but it gives me tears and a demonstration of one thousand orgasms that were meant to be with you shouting endless ‘I want to come’ and throwing eggs against my loveless soul and kerouac and ginsberg and burroughs and bukowski and blake grabbing me by my arms and saying ‘nothing behind you everything ahead of you as is ever so on the road’ but love is dead and north korea and iran and syria dropping bombs on us looking in the -128-

eyes of the dead and I no longer care because love is dead and truth breaking through wiping away all lies in the mother of all tsunamis and my know-it-all karma looking at me and saying ‘I told you, you deserve nothing’ and all the people I killed looking at me saying ‘we told you, you deserve nothing’ and lola looking at me tears in her face black eyeshadow down her cheek and saying ‘I told you, you deserve nothing’ and the shrouded corpses of all who I have been in the past returning home covered with a love flag and the perfect storm upon me and all my prophesies gone down the drain and you not being my ann druyan and then your scared face again, baby your face the day we shot love at point blank range



every time love is dead, at the end of every lap of the cycle of love/hate/ loath/oblivion -sometimes without the hate-, we underdogs celebrate freedom and we paint the town in red in mischiefs in poetry in laughter in sex in sadness in epic mistakes and in us. freedom-the-queen-of-hope, freedom-the-voice-so-deep-within, I salute you.



the pulitzer hotel is my favourite place in barcelona, the most bohemian and bourgeois bar counter in the city, always plenty of underdogs fluttering around; located near ‘plaza catalunya’ -the epicenter of everything that happens here- and near the ramblas, the pulitzer is a place where all creative and weird and non conventional souls wander at all times of day and night, lost into their minds, so full of artists and painters and poets and all. let’s face it, sex makes the world go round, whether we like or not everything revolves around sex, we dress for sex, we go to the gym to be more attractive for sex, we write poetry for sex, we go to places and visit other cultures to capture experiences and make ourselves more interesting for sex, we crave for sex fellas, it’s written in our DNA, sex is such a powerful driver of nature; evolution programmed us to look for it desperately, and when I use the word -131-

‘desperately’ I really mean it, just because life depends on it, our survival as a species depends on it. people now and then want to have casual sex encounters and they spend enormous amounts of energy and time to have them; and most of the people think that in order to find someone to have casual sex with, one should go to a discoteque at one o’clock at night and start looking, but they are wrong; the best place to meet someone and have casual sex is the bar of an hotel at 11 o’clock at night, preferably at the bar counter, you gotta trust me on that one. . . think about it for a second, women or men arriving there alone to have the last drink, long day behind, the room just upstairs -so easy to get there-, most of them feeling so lonely, stranded in a strange city, stranded in a strange room, knowing no one around, in desperate need for a smile or some conversation as they’ve got such sad and boring lives; yup, looks like the best place to hit on, don’t you think? and yes, I had one story at the pulitzer, but I won’t explain it now because I’m just waffling again, maybe at some other time, all I wanted to say is that patricia and I used to meet at the pulitzer and we had amazing good moments there, amazing memories indeed having my favourite drink, some cocktail the -132-

bar tender called ‘french 75’, vodka and champagne, with some secret ingredients they never told us, and I asked many times, bastards; but it was a cocktail and a place designed to defeat emptiness, and it was damn good at it if you know what I mean, because after a couple of drinks life seemed to make sense, life-themagician with all its tricks, fooling us. patricia and I met there the day I left my place, the day I left my now ex-wife, and patty and I were not in a good moment then, as we had had some fights and the relationship was at the very earlier stages and was struggling, and I’m happy it was that way, because you can’t end a relationship and jump straight into another one just like this, you need to leave a relationship not for anyone else, but because you are not in love anymore, and more importantly, because you know you will not be able to fix it, no matter how hard you try; and I wasn’t in love with eva and in fact my relationship with her had finished in my mind not the months before but the years before, and I knew there was no going back. and I will always remember that date with patricia; there I was, at the pulitzer, waiting for her the day I left home, at 11.00.PM, in a cold november night, all the sadness pouring from my previous life telling me I failed, and -133-

all the thrill of experiencing freedom again for the first time in years, and all the plans, all the trips, all the poetry ahead. . . and there we were, sadness and freedom and patricia and me, at the pulitzer.



I can’t recall the exact words, but you once told me something like ‘we shall never ask for forgiveness and we shall never have it’ and I think it was in my second visit to amsterdam, the night we slept together at the ‘japanese’ hotel, can’t remember its name neither, we were at the bar and you suddenly said something like that, and I was engulfed by it, it opened a cascade of thoughts on what it meant to be guilty, or more exactly what it meant erasing guilt from a relationship as the right way to stay hungry and stay foolish, just going on and experiencing things without being afraid of the judgement of others nor our own judgement; and this reminded me of another of the characteristics of underdogs: never judging others, and never accepting judgement as well, because true freedom is not needing the approval of the rest of the world, and let me tell you, of all the things that underdogs have in common, I would dare -135-

to say this one is the more constant, the more reliable, the more solid; in fact it’s so important that if someone goes on judging too much what others do, I would reckon he is not an underdog for sure. and can you imagine, baby? my mind just started connecting things and even if I said nothing, I thought as well about something someone told me a few weeks before, maybe we talked about it that night but we were drunk already and I can’t remember if we did to be honest, and the thing was that fish don’t have recent memory, and there I am, listening to you and imagining a fish going around in circles in a fish bowl, and then someone introduces another fish, and the first one goes on saying in every lap ‘wow, look, a comrade’ ‘wow, look, a comrade’ ‘wow, look, a comrade’, and then, at lap #15 it goes like ‘wow, look, a comrade???’, and yes, I guess that at the fifteenth lap even novelty can be boring, and I just had a satori right there, at the bar, in the japanese hotel, and I thought after breaking with patty I had been looking for ‘new’ women but not ‘different’ women, and I was already sick and tired of ‘new’ in my life. . . what I really needed were ‘different’ things if you know what I mean, and being used to feel guilt in all my previous relationships, the idea of trying another way of relating to someone, reinventing -136-

trust so to say, was really attractive for me, and I couldn’t stop smiling and smiling about it, and you kept on talking, and I kept on smiling, and it was one of the perfect moments of the night. that evening we smoke a joint of marihuana that you had brought with you, amsterdam bless you, and the joint gave me a bad trip because I got really mad at you for one kiss you didn’t wanted to give me and the night went real bad, and we fucked and we had oral sex and we did many nasty things to each other -you brought a very special toy, I remember that very well-, but it was like a preprogrammed fuck, and I was so pissed off. and I finally fell asleep and you left at 05.00AM and I never noticed you leaving and I woke up alone again in an empty hotel room in amsterdam.



I just got your letter, I opened my mailbox and there it was, drowning among the other letters as we drown among people, whispering something like ‘read me putito, I’m important, read me now, hurry up’, and the letter was in fact you in an envelope -your big eyes staring at me in silence-, and I took you with me to have lunch together, both of us. and as I read it I understand no one has been so truthful to me ever in my life, baby, and you know how much I prefer truth over beauty, and the truth feels good and you are the Truth, you are authentic, you are not willing to be someone you are not, and maybe this is why I adore you so recklessly. you say ‘I don’t want us to get tired and I don’t want you to get tired of me, luis, the rest I don’t know’; and baby, let me tell you, I don’t want us to get tired neither and I don’t want you to get tired of me, baby, and I expect nothing from you, won’t hold onto you, I promise, -138-

as we are rats in a maze, everything is so confusing, and it’s like the whole maze is underwater and we have been trying to grab a bucket when we should have been grabbing a swim suit, as we will probably keep walking the maze for a long time and maybe there’s no exit, we’re trapped inside, so why not just forget expectations and simply enjoy ourselves? and I text you and I am about to tell you who we are the two of us and my mind’s a bullet again and I reckon there is no name able to describe what we are and why the fuck should we put a name to what we are, baby? we are old 50s underwood typewriters no backspace key and all the keys dancing to the rythm of our minds of our poems we are the holy worshipers of the love/hate/loath/oblivion cycle that has no beginning and will never end and we kneel before it and we take communion praying to it so blessed by it we are sunflowers surrounded by thousands of suns not knowing which way to turn as everything is a sun and everything is holy and everything is fuckable and everything will be forgotten soon we are an unread book sticking out of the back pocket of an old blue jeans thousands of poems sailing the rough -139-

seas of love and no lighthouse we are notredame’s dome seeing the sunrise in paris the desert of algeria moving its sands at dawn or a bed in dubai cause we can live in all places at once we can live all lives at once through poetry we are a rusty neon ‘LOVE’ sign in an abandoned bar -wind blowing and dust everywhere- with some of the neon letters flickering one letter not working baby we are an empty room at a mental institution with two beds with walls covered with foam with an extrabed for love and no closet as we travel light as love travels light we are love going belly flop over the grenade of time and the clock is ticking and we wait for the inevitable explosion as there is no one whose love is perfect we are the nameless utopia forever beyond us utopia-l’enfant-terrible so useless but she keeps us walking keeps us moving ahead she bitch WE ARE POEM ROCKETS SCREWING THE STARS WITH WORDS SHAPED IN CUNTS IN COCKS AND THE STARS BLOW US we are patty smith’s poetry pulled out of the bar by its hair -all poems screaming and howling - the bar full of bored people laughing at us god forgive


them as they don’t know what they’re doing WE ARE THE FUTURE ALREADY HALF NAKED IN THE NEXT BED in the next body we fuck in the next mind we fuck but still here naked panting moaning gasping in our bed of poetry we are the seven sins, all of them, and forgive us father for we will sin and sins will love it and sins will rip their clothings and will beg us for more we are needles / empty bottles / trays full of ashes coming from joints/ allucinogenic drugs peyote mescaline opium LSD ecstasy / used condoms / music piercing our ears / poems piercing our souls - and still hungry fuck still hungry we are the wise who know all trains go to death, death-the-terminalstation, death-the-whore-that-fucks-upeverything, death-the-tarantula-alwaysweaving-the-net-of-the-end but it’s OK we are the architects of shortlived heavens in darkness - building cathedrals and knowing they will be some day pulled down but we build them anyway and it’s OK we are love-the-bomb-blastdeactivated-at-minus-3sec, love-theillusion that doesn’t exist but needs to and at least it will exist in our poems and it’s OK


we WROTE the bomb we were the love bomb blast that never happened we were the supernova we were the end of the world and it’s OK and we are so fucked up baby and everybody sleeping with us is doomed and everybody loving us is doomed and everybody trying to make us happy is doomed, and we are buried here and we sit in our graves surrounded by all these sunrays and we are doomed too.


40 “desperation is the raw material of drastic change only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape” burroughs

fucking nonsense; when the universe ends in cold or in heat and all the conscience becomes nothing it will not make any difference if all this both did and did not happen, everything we considered real once will be gone and if you understand this you will understand the abyss’ infinite sadness because the world is on the wing; and if everything is but a blip on the infinite radar of eternity and if everything is but a blink of the infinite eye of monster darkness and if everything will be no more, who cares if we love or we don’t, who cares about morality and good and evil, who cares about life, about freedom, about truth, about beauty, who cares about meaning, you tell me.



misanthropy is the general hatred, mistrust or disdain of the human species, and a misanthrope is someone who holds such view or feeling, and certainly all underdogs share a common disdain for the rest of the world, and they all prefer to live up in their minds where no one can bother them; they can’t be bothered with all this nonsense and this boredom, and in fact misanthropy is not about hating other people, but about hating the 99,98% of other people, because misanthropes we do tend to get bored very easily, you know? and most of the people are boring, no disrespect at all, it’s simply that they live very boring lives, and for us, boring means not intense, and fuck, this is bad, fellas, ‘not intense’ is ‘you don’t have my attention’, as at the end of the day we are addicted to intensity; and it may seem selfish, and indeed it is, shame on us, but we can’t help it. but there’s more, our misanthropy is even more complex than that, underdogs’ -144-

misanthropy comes really not out of hate but out of too much love for ourselves, too much ego, oh boy, ego being our achilles tendon, ego the fascinating monster, so big in all of us, ego filling everything, ego-the-creator-of-art, egothe-destroyer-of-relationships, ego-thetwisted-mirror-of-the-soul. after a few days alone, and this is very common in my life, my ego takes command and he is a crazy son of a bitch, he always catches me off guard -writing, painting, creating, whatever I am doing-, and when he comes to visit me he ends up filling everything and I am hijacked at my place - you can even imagine my picture holding a newspaper’s front page reading ‘I am the best artist ever, you fuckers’- and damn, when he is here I can’t stand no one near; I’ve learned in the last years how to cheat on him and escape from my prison of solitude, but it has been not easy, and it takes a lot of courage every time, but so far I’ve been able to break away, I’ll let you know how in just a sec. my ego looks like me, but he is just the ‘outside’ of me, he has nothing on the inside, pure vanity, pure facade, so empty, and he has been the cause of many broken relationships in my life, I know him well; it took me 40 years to tame him, and even now he is still a dangerous -145-

motherfucker, he is like a lion opening his mouth at the circus, me the liontamer, and I would be a very bad liontamer indeed cause I somehow control him -my whip cracking beautifully in the air-, but I would not dare to put my head inside his mouth, he probably eating me alive if I gave him the chance; so here’s me, more and more whip cracking beautifully in the air, ‘SLATCHHHH’, and more ‘EASY BEAST’ and more ‘HOOOPLA’ and more ‘BRAVO’ and all. he is a fucker, but at the end of the day, whether you like it or not, all creation needs ego, otherwise how could you dare shouting something to the world? so, you don’t want to necessarily vilify your ego; and if I look at ego with the X-rays of a poet, I would say you just need to tame ‘him’, you just need to realise one thing, just one, that every conquest is vain, even the conquest of yourself -that being the supreme egocentered conquest indeed-; and to really use ego for the good instead of him using you, you just need to feed him big time, give him more and more, and take him to the highest peak -you climbing and your ego barking and moving his tail and climbing after you as a happy dog following the master-, and then, once you are at the peak, you need to surrender it, leave him there, and no need to worry, he always finds -146-

the way down and gets to you again, good and smart dog, bless him, it’s just that he needs to stare at the world from the peak, he loves that if you know what I mean, and you can go then, leave him there, CREATE and LEAVE, create and leave, create and leave, the magnificent cycle of art. and there’s more I want to say about this, and I think it is important, insecurity works magically along with ego, both of them a really amazing couple, and playing ego and insecurity combined will get you to the best peaks, the best friendships, the best love relationships you can ever imagine fellas; and believe me, the best hit man, the best gun for hire, the best marksman to keep ego at bay is LOVE, loving things, loving friends, loving partners, as love is the only thing ultimately able to make you forget about yourself. and if you remember how misanthropy came from excess of self love, you just filled the dots.



my place is my castle and my kingdom and I ride my horse at dawn through my territories while looking at my things and it feels good, and in my mind this is exactly how it happens and I imagine you here and I call you by your name, lady carlota of sherwood, and suddenly I ask you to ride with me cause the villains are near and I draw my sword and we end up riding each other over the table -you such an awesome amazon baby-, and this is exactly how it happens in my mind, and holy holy holy. . . it feels good.



I rot inside, both my body and my soul, my body always tortured by lola -she such a tireless dominatrix-, and my soul so full of love for things, and love unfulfilled most of the time, and you know, unfulfilled love rots, that’s the thing, and it smells, and I shower and my skin is clean, but my inside still rots, and no shower can take away the smell of defeat. lola came yesterday, I went for a business trip to andorra, beautiful place but so full of slopes and little hills and high curbs, and lola shined so brightly there, she looked awesome, and everything else was eclypsed by her, and I got home really tired, sadness waiting for me under my sheets and no one to talk to. cris called me just as I was getting home, she wanted to tell me something about a new life-project she is starting, she always so enthusiastic and full of energy, and she heard my voice and she -149-

knew, and she said ‘I’m coming to talk to you, on my way’ and I asked her not to come and ten minutes later she was downstairs ringing the bell and saying ‘you just shut the fuck up, open the door, I’m coming up’, and she came up and she hugged me and she tried to talk me down, as usual, but my sadness just kept me silent, she knows my sadness gags me; ten minutes later and a long long hug later and a beer later I asked her to leave; and then she did, she knows she can’t argue with me when I ask her to leave, she just goes and says nothing. lola will take me down sooner or later, she’s gonna wipe me out, and nobody seems to understand that, and no one sees the consequences and no one sees how this changes the way I live, the way I plan my life; and no matter who I sleep with, I sleep with lola as well -what a deadly and daunting threesome-, and she wouldn’t let me love no one, always whispering to my ear when I see someone ‘this is just sex luis, you are mine, love will be no more for you, you have no future in your pockets, I am the one, remember, I am the one’, and she makes sure I understand I have nothing to offer to anybody, no future at all, just present, my life is just today, forever stuck in the present, tomorrow may be a wheelchair or the wrong side of the grass, no future plans allowed. -150-

and I keep falling in love now and then, and it becomes painful, but I can’t choose whether to love or not, it just happens, there are minds outside mine that are so wonderful; and I can’t choose to love ‘moderately’, that would be like consuming heroin moderately, such a nonsense, heroin is outrageous, and love is outrageous, anything less than that is simply not love, and all these beautiful minds outside mine become impossible because I’m already dating lola, and nothing looks more attractive to my mind than something impossible, and fuck fuck fuck, I want out of this relationship, lola please go, baby, just go.



I have been in a bad mood for the last days as you said you weren’t coming to barcelona and you cancelled your flight, and we both understand why, and we both are ok with it now, we discussed that several times, but yet, I’m really pissed off; we know we need sex, and it’s been weeks now, and the prospect of not having sex with you tomorrow is killing me; and you understand how this works for me, all the needing and all the frustration and all the skin that I can’t touch at the other side of the computer screen; and we play punishments, and I ask you to touch yourself in front of the camera and send me a video, and in fact I’m not asking, I want it now, I want you to obey and that’s it, end of the story, and you get horny and you say something like ‘I see, Luis, you want to be the commander in chief now’, and you smile, and you say ‘OK’. and then some minutes later I see you in my mobile, completely naked, touching -152-

yourself, and playing with your red toy, inside and out, your white skin under the sun that comes from your window, the silver piercing in your belly button, your shaven sex, your lips down there no longer pinky but purple, your hands that know exactly what you want, and your face baby, your face talking to me and smiling -such a bad girl-; and you show me your face as you know how much I love to see your face when you come, all the breathing, all the moans, all the bitting your lips and all the sincopated movements of your eyes, your eyes wanting to remain open and see the world through an orgasm, but then they stare to the ceiling and they close and you can’t help it and you say ‘I’m coming baby’ and I barely understand what you’re saying and you smile and you groan and you come. I once told you ‘let go the whore within you’ and you never hide the whore now, you don’t hide the madness, baby, and it’s not real sex but it feels like it; sex-the-mood-setter, sex-the-primalinstinct that goes back and forth through our cell screens, sex-the-shatterer-ofsadness, sex-the-unimaginable-god, sexthe-destroyer-of-egos; it’s like a mind quickie, and then my imagination takes command here in barcelona and you know my imagination baby, she starts fucking you right away. -153-


ego is at war with tenderness, ego the driver of misanthropy and art, and tenderness the driver of love, and the way I experience life tells me again the closer you are to one of them, the far away from the other, and in fact, creation and ego want to kill tenderness, and I found many poets and writers and artists unable to love precisely for that reason, their big egos always blocking their relationships with others, they don’t know how to deal with tenderness and how to forget about themselves; and the best artists are misanthropes because they prefer to be inside ‘themselves’ instead of being inside ‘others’ -loving them, and caring for them, and projecting a future with them and all. and intensity and peace of mind are at war too, inside of us, and we crave for one and when we do so, we forget about the other one; and our inner life goes on moving in this two by two matrix, and in my mind this matrix is very similar -154-


(being inside myself)



(being inside others)


to the love/freedom/beauty/truth matrix, but this one is not about what we look for ‘in the outside world’, but about what we look for ‘inside ourselves’, about the emotions that happen inside of us, stormy weather inside, you bet. and I am rambling again, but I just wanted to say that for me sadness and happiness are a hide-and-seek game, and the key for cheating sadness is to keep moving around across these inner emotions; it is not about where you are at any moment in time in the matrix, but about whether you are moving or not; and after some days of creation and misanthropy -ego at its peak, looking at the world from the highest vantage point-, I need desperately to love and -155-

feel loved, as this is the game life plays with us; and after a period of intense emotions -love, travel, whatever-, I crave for ‘peace-of-mind’ then; the world always fooling us in the opposite direction, the world always keeping us wishing for what we don’t have, what a son of a bitch. I used to live in the ego/intensity quadrant, that has always been my home base, but some years ago, when lola came to my life and I became an underdog, I understood, and now I just let go, I just flow through the four quadrants and I force myself to move from one side to the other if I feel I have been too long in one emotional state, and I know I always will end up returning to my home base, but all this movement allows me to hide from sadness sometimes, not always, but it does work now and then, and it’s something. and the big discovery for me has been admiting to myself it is really easy for me to go from ego to tenderness, but I feel like I always struggle to go from intensity to peace, I struggle to find peace, intensity both my weak point and my goddess as I don’t know how to control intensity -so addicted to it, as all underdogs-, and anyone giving me peace is a god, anyone taming the fire of peace and controlling it and letting it warm my life is a modern prometheus -stealing -156-

peace from the gods and bringing it to me-, and I always feel attracted by prometheus-like-women that bring some sort of inner peace, and patty knew how to give me peace, and I felt it now and then, so real within, and for that reason patty will always be a goddess; and you gave peace to me too, baby, I know for sure, peace was here even if she slept away in the last weeks, and you’re a goddess too; and peace always comes and goes fast, but maybe someday peace will like it here somehow and she will stay more often, peace-the-eel-that-slips, peace-the-awesome-soul-morphine, peacethe-other-side-of-the-abyss, I need you.



this book is a message in a bottle, the message being our undefinable story, a story like pushing the sky away, you just can’t do that, the sky is there and it’s violently overwhelming and full of drama and beautifully sad, and our story is like the sky, it can’t be pushed away; a story like a punch-drunk fighter facing blow after blow, whatever it is between us falls to the ground every day, baby, we know that, but somehow every day it stands up again before life counts to ten, life-the-love-boxing-referee, life-thegood-friend that tells you ‘be thankful for everything as soon there will be nothing’, and if one day life counts to ten, we won’t say goodbye, as goodbye is never said, it just happens, you told me that; and ours is a story that none of us understands, perhaps someone will find the bottle some day and will understand. one day I warned you, I said ‘I just need six words to rock our worlds’ and you didn’t dare to ask which were those -158-

six words, your red-haired curiosity dying to know, and the ‘control-freak’ bitch inside of you taming the beast of chaos, as if the beast of chaos could be tamed, baby; but those six words were meant to be said, and you knew it was not a matter of ‘if’ they would be said but a matter of ‘when’ they would be said, you knew that, right then, and then one night I told you. I simply said ‘I fell in love with you’ and that was it, six words, as simple as that, and kerouac came to my mind when saying ‘one day I will find the right words and they will be simple’, and those six words were simple and those six words changed things, it was the truth finding its way, and truth is always poetry, you know that, baby, and I couldn’t help falling in love with you, it simply happened; and it was outrageous to find out, and it was exhilarating and it was real and it was there, like the elephant inside the room I had been trying to hide to myself, and now the elephant was reaching everywhere with its trunk, wonderful beast, and it felt good to tell you that I loved you; and then we had one of the most beautiful conversations we ever had, and I remember bukowski was all the time sitting next to me and reading his poem over and over again ‘beware the average -159-

man/the average woman/their love is average/seeks average’, bukowski himself, yup, he coming from hell with his cat to read me that poem, just to tell me you were not average, just to remind me this something between us was not average, whatever it was, it was not average, so damn sure about that; and peace just slipped into my bed naked and she rested her warm head on my chest and she stayed for weeks, an island of peace surrounded by the sharks of boredom biting to death everything that tries to get away from the island, baby. and I remember what it felt like, and it felt like everything else in life was a song coming to an end and fading away, slowly, it felt like kamikazes heading towards your body, it felt like junkies after a mad fix, it felt like sirens singing me a song and I was tied to the mast but even the mast would not hold me, it felt like a puzzle when you fit the right piece in the right place and then for the first time you see the picture, still blurred, hundreds of pieces still in a pile next to the puzzle, but fuck, you ‘suddenly’ see the picture, and you realize how beautiful it is, and we were a wonderful and difficult puzzle, I felt that, and I’ve been trying to fit more pieces since then, what a gigantic and difficult jigsaw puzzle indeed. -160-

and the night had its perfect moment, and I remember you asking about lola and how I felt about her, and you wanted to make sure I understood you loved all of me, including lola, and you said ‘I want you that way, luis, I just want you to know’, those were the exact words, and it was like a bomb-blast inside of me, you will never know the intensity of the blast, the intensity of FEELING you, feeling you with capital letters, lola just bowing her head and accepting she lost the fight for that night, and what an epic victory that was, baby. and I remember how much I needed to get inside of you, to fuck you, your absent skin now being the skin of the night imagining your breath in my mouth like the eyes of a snake mesmerizing its victim imagining your naked sex scrubbing mine like madness, me not being able to tell where you end and where I start imagining my fingers smelling of you and smelling good and tasting good the whole room smelling of sex and we were 1500km away, but we ended the night having sex through a computer screen, how sad and how beautiful is that and the next weeks were love-theimpossible walking the earth in flesh and blood, howling. -161-

47 “I am married and would like to fuck someone else” ginsberg

the best love definition I know says love is a button in front of you that reads ‘press this for free cookies’ but every time you press it, a bird shits on your head; and you keep pressing it, and once in every 100 times you get a cookie, and it is the best fucking cookie you’ve ever had; and while you’re eating it you realize you’ll willingly get shit on 99 more times in hopes of getting another cookie; but then one day, the cookies stop coming and love is many things as he has many faces love is tender people used and kissed goodbye love is fucking someone while thinking of someone else love is a woman dating che guevara and asking him to shave because he stings, kiddo, I don’t know what to say about that, really -162-

love is a folder full of porn in your desktop labelled ‘old docs’ love is an airplane failing to lift off -engines roaring- and the plane’s gonna crash and everybody’s gonna die but you still want in and love asks everybody to put on the seat belt, what a joke does he even have a licence to fly people around? does he even know how to fly? does he care for the casualties? and I am so sick and tired of alpha males and alpha females and all this shit and I can’t help thinking an italian gondolier is surely fucking a young lady somewhere in venice and coming inside of her and she just sent a text message to her boyfriend saying ‘italy is wonderful, baby, I wish you were here’ sometimes love is outrageous as if you were snow white and you were getting a big black cock up your ass, no lubricant and you can’t tell pain and pleasure in love and drugs are doping for writing and love is doping for writing and I write under the influence of both and love could be spanking you right now, cause I guess at the end of the day love is nothing more than playing, baby, no rules, cause when you know the rules, the game’s over. -163-


mojitos €10 each hotel room €240 ‘yes to everything, baby’ free of charge putitos and bastards and sinners unimaginable gods sprouting from within sucumbing bodies full of hedonism surrounded by the ruins of the world nude animals seeking each other out in the drunkenness of raw sex my head buried in your naked tormented pussy breathing your skin and your legs are wide open you kissing my naked tormented cock as if you were kissing it farewell every kiss could be the last supersonic cunt and cock intensity cum swallowed full of ‘yes’ full of ‘do it’ full of ‘come on me’ orgasms like bomb blasts on the ground as seen from the warplane leaving a trail of flashes and emotional destruction -164-

dropping bombs on your body -no mercy for your body- and gasping for I am about to come too poetry not love but you coming looking at me right in my eyes poetry not love but the absence of morality or sin and sex not ending today as there will be daydreams tomorrow your mind the intrincated kasbah of an old arab city two steps and you’re lost but there are wonders everywhere no map for your mind and I can’t ask for directions but you speak the ancient language of sex - bless you minds two decades apart -no distance for the soul- writing all the poems fast FAST FASTER DAMN and there will be unwritten poems and we will regret them one day strangely familiar mind-body-soul as everything is deja vu when done with you for the first time your obscurity hailing me like a siren song all your shattered souls inside like perros barking at the distance like a peep hole loaded past aiming to our heads -165-

and we play with the past like two kids kicking a ball and laughing as it went over the rooftops of the present below us the undone bed of life everything else is a nightmare and I suddenly wake up in you and we are fucking


49 “I am getting so far out one day I won’t come back at all” burroughs

almost everything in life has something to do with death, and camus once said ‘there is but one truly serious

philosophical problem, and that is suicide, judging whether life is or is not worth living’; and understanding this and

accepting camus was right is probably the saddest and scariest and more difficult thing I have ever done.


50 “happiness is a byproduct of function, purpose, and conflict; those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war” burroughs

03:00AM, everything’s calm but me, rain pouring from the sky as the truth, stubborn and pig-headed, bob dylan’s cracked voice in front of a silver microphone singing ‘knocking on heaven’s door’ back from the sixties, one window lit in an ugly facade, the entrance of the massage parlor in front of my place still lit too -champagne and pussy €80-, big cocks and small cocks weighting the same in the sex marketplace inside the whore house but outside there’s no democracy; and a guy coming out of the parlor, he looks like a truck driver or something, he is fat and greasy and he looks happy, happy endings only happening in massages, and I realise how happiness needs tension and relief, tension and relief, what a war we carry within ourselves, happiness -168-

needs conflict, and I think of you and I toast to conflict and happy endings and I smile. 04:00AM, bob still singing from the past, my mind is a bullet again, smoking grass and high, black night pouring over the city roofs from somewhere my mind cannot grasp; the coldness outside will never quit, but you sent me a picture of a wolf fighting a bear today, they were both circling around a prey, and the bear was huge and menacing, but the wolf was showing its teeth and the wolf was fierce and the wolf was a deadly motherfucker if you know what I mean, and the wolf was savage and determined and not willing to let go, and you don’t mess around with a wolf like that, you know? that’s for sure; then you said you were the wolf, and there was a silence; and then you said lola was the bear, and you can’t imagine baby, it was like me falling to my knees looking at your fierce face, you now turned into an animal, and you were showing your teeth and you were a deadly motherfucker too, and you were savage and you were determined and not willing to let go, and I felt the tenderness and the violence; and your mind is the moon, the full moon I can see, but the new moon I see nothing; and I think of your mind, and it turns me on, and I masturbate thinking -169-

of you, the rain still pouring from the sky as the truth, a couple kissing in the back of a car, the entrance of the massage parlor now in darkness.


51 “in the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer” albert camus

sitting in front of a white paper is the most violent moment of the day and writing is like waking up in a cheap motel room without knowing how I got here, and I can go anywhere when writing, life itself being a cheap motel room and writing is like having no past writing means no more angry past tears on its eyes, shouting at me, spitting on my face, saying ‘what have you done’ and many other unpleasant things and writing is the promise and the quest for the invincible summer within and when I write I become so absolutely free that my very existence is an act of rebellion and tonight I write for a while until it gets late and solitude herself stands up from me like an astral projection and turns off the lights, bless her. -171-

52 “the building blocks of the self are experiences and we are nothing more than our experiences” jean paul sartre

yesterday I had dinner with patty and we had a great time together for the first time since we said goodbye; these last months we’ve been talking over the phone and chatting and seeing each other now and then, but we have not dared to meet at night; some of the last times we did, eight or nine months ago, we ended up in bed. we went to a fish restaurant and when I saw her approaching the table I realized one more time how beautiful she is, and my hormones started dancing in my blood for a while but she didn’t notice, and after a few minutes of feeling weird the two of us, our infinite conversation went on as if nothing had happened, and we just started talking about her projects, her last experiences, her last trip to israel where she had been with someone. . . and I went on -172-

talking about my things and my projects as well, and I told her about my new tattoo and she was so surprised when she heard about the tattoo, what a beautiful smile when she saw it, and I told her about this book and about the poems and all the things going on in my life, and I told her about you too, baby, and she understood and she kept on smiling; and then I showed her the poem I wrote for her, and she was deeply moved by it, the poem being one of the remainings of the wreckage of the two of us, but still showing I had loved her so deeply, as it was deep love, I know it was, I never had loved anyone so much. the night went on talking about everything and I draw in a piece of paper my theory of what life is, all the matrix and the circles and the truthbeauty diagrams and all, and she was so genuinely interested, and she kept the piece of paper with her, and she told me she wanted to live in the love/truth quadrant, and that’s indeed the quadrant she needs. and we were the last ones leaving the restaurant, we just couldn’t stop talking and talking, so many unsaid things in the last months, and when leaving I noticed the place had a difficult access to get outside, and there was a ramp and I said nothing but she anticipated -173-

the ramp as usual and offered her hand, and we walked up the ramp holding hands as we always did in the past and it felt strange and warm and peaceful to hold her hand again, and I thought the remainings of love between us were so huge and so astonishing and so unbelievable, and when she told me about the guy in israel I tried to smile but it was painful, and she knew, and when I told her about you, baby, she smiled as well, but I knew she was in pain, too, as love had never been an issue between us, we deeply loved each other, it wasn’t the lack of love that killed us, it was the lack of other things. and then we looked each other and we knew the night was coming to an end and we said we both had a great time that night and we simply said goodbye, and I jumped in a taxi and I was full of peace; and as I was getting home I thought of her with tenderness and I realized I owed her so much, and I remembered we were so many things together we were a ten minutes hug in the back of a boat in boston -sunset over harvard- and the future was a friend then we were big eyes on the bullet train in tokyo, mount fuji hidden by the clouds, and we were the awe of the temples in kyoto and we were the shock of the stopped watch at 08:15 in hiroshima and -174-

I remember those japanese bathrooms with automatic high pressure water and she saying ‘I’m staying just a little more time on the bathroom, baby’ and we exploding in a burst of laughter we were an amazing first kiss with jazz music on the background, I remember I whispered something at her ear that first night and then it took me 10 sec to cross the distance from her ear to her lips, so slowly, what a great first kiss, and I remember that very first night we were talking about how much I loved to sleep with someone holding me from my back, as a spoon, and she said ‘do you want to sleep like this tonight’, just like that, and we both smiled in silence for some seconds knowing for sure we were going to go to my place and have sex we were all the places we visited, we were a tram in lisboa and we were the bolacha we couldn’t find for her brother and we were the pessoa book in my pocket and we will always be there somehow, at every place we visited together, as yesterday never ends we were love junkies and we were drunk sometimes and we smoked weed sometimes and we sniffed cocaine once and that night we ended up really high at her place and I wrote ‘I am ungovernable’ we were her face full of wonder at the UN headquarters in geneva, her face -175-

infecting my face with wonder -as well as my soul we were so many intense emails full of poems full of secrets full of invented new words, all the poems of the world speaking about her, speaking about us we were porn videos together, so many of them, me the director, but no acting, just real life -real sex- real ‘slowly at first, baby’, and beatmatching her movements with mine never had been so easy before we were the MoMA in new york, the pompidou in paris, the modern art museum in london, and so many other museums scattered through the world, always looking for an art fix straight into our veins we were fights, too many of them at the end, we were the H-bomb of anger and sometimes it felt as if our anger could destroy the eastern hemisphere we were a 800km night ride to the desert in argelia with a guy high on drugs driving and she sleeping at the back of the car, and I waking her up to see the sunrise in the desert, and peace was there, in the middle of the sunrise, at the desert we were a hammam in morocco and dozens of kids wanting some spare change in el-fna and the blue sea at essaouira and we were all the drinks at all the bar counters the first night at -176-

every hotel we visited, so many of them we were the excitement of a world tour in 12 wines, glasses of wine in our bedtables so many nights -poetry whispered to our earswe were a taxi cab in brooklyn with a crazy taxidriver trying to evangelize us and he wouldn’t stop, crazy son of a bitch we were a wonderful book written together so full of joy and wishes for a more fair world -a los que hacen una

fiesta de todo’-

we were us making love in amsterdam brussels torino madrid, and even istambul, even if we never went to istambul, fucking fights, as I will make love one day in istambul and I will remember her we were comrades, we were so many dreams together -not a single night was enough to hold them all-, we were the unfulfilled promise of happiness we were a love guetto -me the misanthrope in denial of the rest of the world most of the times-, we were manna for each other, soul identical each to each, the beauty of a doomed couple fighting back the love-hate cycle and not willing to kneel before it, the ship sinking and we bailing out sadness the best we could we were a crowded via dolorosa in jerusalem and she having an argument -177-

with a mormon mother about the freedom of her sons -leaving the mother speechless- and she winning the argument in just 10 sec, oh boy, she was good at that we were the fear of being kidnapped in jordania, and me whispering ‘grab your passport and some money and if I say so just get out of the car and run’ and then the thrill and the excitement and the relief of getting safe and sound to the hotel in amman we were the muse and the artist and she pulled out the best of me and I painted her nude so many times and we walked down montparnasse in paris, at night, as all the XXth century painters and muses did before we were les enfants terribles in the pro circuit -so bold so straightforward so ‘we can’t be bothered with all this nonsense’we were sometimes so full of shit, we were mistakes all the way, so many mistakes, shame on us we were the promise of ‘love does exist and it is here’, even if the future left tiptoeing without us noticing at first, and patty had the saddest biggest green eyes I’ve ever seen the night we said goodbye, they were so full of sadness and now it’s over but we did all this she and I -178-

we did all this and there were days when no one could explain anything about me without naming her and she made me go beyond joy and we were so blessed together for three years and I want her to blossom, damn, I want her to blossom and thrive and shine.


53 “le temps detruit tout” gaspar noe

we are trapped in the amber of the present; the acid of time destroys everything, corrupts everything, love is no exception, nothing remains untouched, and when love rots, people tend to ask ‘what happened?’ and the question is meaningless, nothing happened, time-themighty-acid happened.


54 (radio broadcast transcript, any morning, baby, that could happen any morning)

good mooooorning amsterdam, this is KHPNS-radio-happiness broadcasting through the 172 frequency band, and the sun is shining over the city and we have 16oC and let’s move to our headlines as there are breaking news hitting the streets this morning the netherland’s administration just confirmed maxima the queen of holland asked her magic mirror who was the queen and the mirror answered ‘carlota’ and the truth was revealed and there was most wailing and gnashing of teeth and maxima wept and she shouted and she threw some candles to the wall and the mirror was broken and as of this morning the netherlands government is deploying black uniforms patrolling the streets to escort carlota and protect her if there is any social unrest -181-

snipers across the roofs will make sure no woodcutter sent by the queen will mean any harm to her when asked about the subject, carlota stated ‘I mean no harm to maxima, for god’s sake, I mean, maxima is so cute, she’s argentinian and I love her’, and immediately after saying that she put on her orange wig, what a handsome shemale/ gaylord she looks like with that orange wig on, and then she dissapeared into the night with ceci. and when I saw your pictures with your orange wig on I said ‘you’re the queen, baby’ and you said ‘loudeeeeer!!!’ and I said ‘THE QUEEN, FUCK, THE QUEEEEEN’, as always.


55 (mad at you and at the universe and under the mighty abyss) (the first time you said ‘no te soporto’)

we had a fight yesterday, baby and you said ‘I can’t stand you’ and all my luises inside stopped what they were doing and looked at us and it sounded in my mind as a match lightning a sad joint and then the fuse on us as the wings of nonsense spreading out and he’s about to fly and he is scary as a whip cracking in my sadness back and she is chained and bites her lips and she’ll stay strong as one thousand bayonets stabbing the flesh of our story and she will die slowly as the knife removing her scalp while she begs me and I don’t know, you said many more things like I had been rude and I just did not wanted to go on talking about the death of love and how great it is when love does not show up -183-

anymore and how great it is to know love does not exist and all the things you always say about love I just said ‘I don’t want to talk about that’ as I had been sad the whole week and I don’t choose sadness, she chooses me, and I just didn’t want to talk about that, baby, that’s all and my whole day I had been playing with you singing to you outreageous songs broadcasting radio happiness at the 172 band frequency looking for the crack in your endless I-love-no-one and trying to sneak in and I blame you and I blame you and I am mad at you as we are just the last thing we do the last thing we say as nothing remains but the last thing as yesterday does not stay shame on us and all the poems and all the songs and all the smiles and the radio broadcasts and all the love will end in a big ‘I can’t stand you’ they always do and I don’t know where all this things go when they end maybe they go somewhere and they gather dust and they become beautifully irrelevant


all our poems will become irrelevant one day how sad is this, baby? does it make any fucking sense? will the universe ask for my forgiveness? will he say he is sorry? six drags and I’m high, underwear in bed, right leg crossed over left, smoking marihuana, looking at the ceiling and tonight even the ceiling drips sadness as you just said ‘I can’t stand you’ and my reflection on the mirror of sadness turned her back on me and said ‘you’re on your own’ and nonsense-the-vulture spread his wings and flied in circles over me and the world roared an endless no and the world covered his eyes with his millions of hands and love himself covered his eyes with his hands and he was scared too



what path should I choose knowing what I know today? -what paththe path of freedom and its loneliness and its pride and its arrogance and me being ‘le roi soleil’ everything revolving around? the path of beauty and its awesome lies coming back as a boomerang hitting on the face of how fucked I am? the path of love and its prisons everywhere and its cuffs everywhere and the unescapable death of love and me carrying dead love in my arms and still not understand? the path of truth and its ugliness and its unbearable coldness? or sould I choose to become a rocket and leave all paths behind and forget loneliness and forget lola and forget lies and lift off this world -one way ticket -186-

an unstoppable poem rocket singing the comforting song of goodbye a . . .POEM. -ROCKET- - - - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . atescapevelocity love whispering ‘what have I done’ beauty ripping off its clothes and crying freedom nodding and smiling truth shaking as I take off and no one’s watching



and while I think about what it means to choose a path, to redefine a home base, and whether this is even possible or not, the satori finds its way and I see; and when the satori moment happens, my thinking stops and I understand how wrong I’ve been; and when the ‘eureka’!moment happens, something inside me shifts, and I know my mind will never go back to its original state. there’s a connection between the two matrix, the one about our ‘outside’ and the one about our ‘inside’, and I realise they both tend to be a mirror, they follow the same rules; when we love intensely ‘outside’, our ‘inside’ is focused on tenderness and we are tender and we care for the other and we try to live inside the other and we forget about ourselves; and when we experience true freedom we don’t need the acceptance of the rest of the world and we allow ourselves to develop very -188-

big egos; and then again, when we bet for beauty and we choose to live in an ideal world instead of the real one we bet as well for intensity on our inside as everything needs to be so fucking intense and wonderful and sad and emotional and dramatic -we drama seeking bastards-; and when we choose truth and the empires of the real, we calm down and we tend to feel peace.

(reality/real world)


love OUTSIDE freedom



(idealization/ideal world)

(being inside myself)




(being inside others)



and both matrix adjust themselves in the very same direction, and this is the recipe for sadness and disaster, and I was wrong, and what a satori it is for me to find out, and if this book has been useful for something, it has been useful for this lines that you are reading right now, and it may not be a universal truth, but I know it works for me; I was wrong because we should fight the natural tendency of both matrix to align themselves, as alignment and uniformity are the road for sadness; the two matrix should not be aligned but opposite, to compensate ourselves, to balance ourselves, and when we choose to LOVE, we should balance our inner emotions precisely in the opposite direction, we should develop our egos instead of focusing on tenderness, we should try to live more internally, more ‘inside ourselves’ to be able to bear the absence of freedom... what else could we do to be happy without freedom? and if we choose FREEDOM, we should try to develop tenderness for others, to feel others minds and bodies, loving now and then and experiencing tenderness, even if it is short lived, as too much freedom -190-

unleashes the big motherfucker ego inside us and we feel as gods and we feel as if everything is possible and it is not, and maybe that’s why I value so much tenderness, even in one night stands, even in short relationships, that’s why I need it so desperately, because I tend to have a big ego. and if we choose BEAUTY and to idealize everything and to live in an ‘ideal’ world, we should try to find peace instead of intensity, as we need the peace not to fall into the abyss, so many abysses around intensity, everyday is an abyss; and finally if we choose TRUTH and we live in the ‘real’ world and its unbearable coldness, we better find some intensity inside or we will be overwhelmed by the uglyness of truth, the nonsense of everything, the nonsense of living, the frightening presence of the rocket, the mighty rocket inviting us everyday to lift off.



I choose freedom*.

*(and this is the shortest chapter on the whole book, just three words, as I don’t feel the need to explain why) -192-


you got here early this afternoon and this time it took us minutes to get naked and reach with our tongues everywhere we could and go to bed and orgasm like crazy, so desperately in need of sex the two of us; and we made love under the sun, and freedom was you bending naked over the rails of my balcony, showing your body to all the neighbourgs who I suspect were already grabbing a seat at their windows to catch the next piece of the action, voyeurs, bless them, we didn’t care; and then we laid on bed, face down, and we talked about everything, and you were being picky at me because you didn’t find the rum in the kitchen and you thought I had drunk it, but I hadn’t, and we were arguing like if we were to turn at ten paces, for love is a duel, and we were having that french beer, the belzebuth, and life tasted as the belzebuth, intense and bitterly free; and you know, some moments are great, some are greater, some are even worth writing about. -193-


you blow me baby, and the world splits in two, the inside of your mouth and everything else. I am lying at my bed, face up with my legs open and you just get in between of my legs and make me bend them, and you kneel down and you huddle and you look at me smiling, and you are not in a rush, as you take your time to look at me from there, I guess you’re just trying to figure out how much I want you to do me, you feeling your mighty power now; we had sex some 30 minutes ago and you are already naked cause you love to walk the house and to lay on the bed naked after sex; and I grab the camera and you say nothing, you just look at me and smile. I lay back with my cock in the air to be kissed, and your head goes down on my sex and you lick it and you grab it with your right hand and you prepare; and I choose the framing for the camera, and I notice the painting of patty behind you -194-

is now on frame, you being just between the painting of patty and me, patty just opening her shirt and showing her body surrounded by blue strokes of paint and the lines of the baudelaire poem written all over her body

‘maudit soit a jamais le reveur inutile qui voulut le premier, dans sa stupidite s’eprenant d’un probleme insoluble et sterile aux choses de l’amour meler l’honnetete! celui qui veut unir dans un accord mystique l’ombre avec la chaleur, la nuit avec le jour ne chauffera jamais son corps paralytique a ce rouge soleil que l’on nomme l’amour’ *

and then I see your white skin and your head going up and down on my sex just in between the painting and me, and I think life is pure poetry, life’s

* may he be cursed forever/that idle dreamer/ the first one who in his stupidity/entranced by a sterile, insoluble problem/wished to mix honesty with what belongs to love/he who would unite in a mystic harmony/coolness with warmth and the night with the day/will never warm his palsied flesh/ with that red sun whose name is love! -195-

more poetic than poetry sometimes, the innocent truth making its way into the world without malice, and for a second I think of the poem I wrote in your skin once

‘hemos venido aqui a destruirnos te toco y te hablo tu placer no sabe que es dedo y que son palabras el sexo se convierte en morada de poetas al venirte me miras empunando tus 23 anos como un punal y a partir de hoy quien dice cicatrices dice tu‘ *

and it was me and not baudelaire who wrote that poem, you made it happen, you fragged it from me, you summoned it from somewhere to come here and be truth, and I know you are a scar and you will be a scar forever, baby; and I see your

*we came here/to destroy ourselves/I touch you and I talk to you/your pleasure does not know/ which is finger/and which are words/sex becomes/a poets dwelling/when you come/you stare at me gripping/your 23 years/as a dagger/and from today on/if I say scars/I say you -196-

back arched and then your butt on the highest grounds at the end, and I watch you blow me slowly, up and down, moving your head in circles now, biting my glans with your lips, letting me see my sex outside your mouth and then suddenly engulfing it deep inside and then again going in circles, now and then licking it and kissing it so thoroughly, and you go on like this for some minutes; and suddenly you grab my phone from my hand and keep filming, now you the director, and while you keep blowing -no hands now-, you reach with your finger to my anal region and you press it gently, slowly, letting me feel what you’re up to and what will happen now; and I know you won’t ask for permission, as this is our deal, we don’t ask, we just do things and nothing is forbidden, and if I don’t stop you it simply will happen, and I want it to happen, and you keep massaging with circular movements my perineum and my anus, more intensely now, exercing more pressure, and it’s so fucking sexy, and it feels like any moment now the anus will surrender and will let you in; and then I feel your forefinger just breaking in, very slightly, but it feels huge, a mischievous anal intruder, and I can¡t help thinking this is not for the faint of heart, it’s a mix of pleasure and uneasyness; and I see you filming everything and I can’t believe -197-

it, pleasure is madness, baby, pleasure is madness. after a while I ask you to stop and concentrate on blowing me, and you hand back the camera to me again, and you keep on biting my glans with your lips and licking it and now and then engulfing it and all, and your right hand goes up and down in perfect synchrony with your head, and now feel my orgasm is near, and I am fucking explicit ‘I want part of my cum inside of your mouth and part outside of it, in your face’ and you just go on and say ‘mmMMM-mmMM’ which I guess it means ‘ok, master’, and as usual I say ‘slowly’, as this is too intense and I always fear the orgasm coming -it is just an irrational fear I know, but sometimes I feel I will not be able to bear it-; and indeed I feel the orgasm coming now, and this time I feel I really will not be able to bear it, I swear to you baby, I won’t, and I say ‘slowly’ several times, you know me, and I can’t cope with what I feel but I dunno how I manage to keep on filming, and a huge chain reaction starts building inside of me and keeps on growing and I can’t stop it now, and I feel I’m coming and I tell you ‘I’m coming’ and I add ‘don’t stop’ -as if you were going to stop, you would never do that, baby, I know, but I need to say it, I need to make sure-, madness building inside of me with such an insane -198-

violence, and again ‘slowly, baby, I beg you’; and I imagine my orgasm being a facepainted savage with a spear crossed by white bands summoning pleasure as he would summon rain chanting and dancing and all and I am gasping now, and here it is, and I let go and I don’t want to close my eyes, I want to see it happen, and you remove my sex from your mouth and you bite it with your lips and lick it and the world vanishes and death dissapears and my ego dissapears and I come, and I shout as usual, and the yell comes from the top of my lungs, violent and raw as the orgasm, and my sperm starts to gush forth, once per second, six or seven times, and now I see it pouring from your lips and falling through your chin, and in your tongue, and you still engulf my sex for the last time, and I don’t see where it’s gushing forth right now, inside of you I guess, somewhere, and then you remove it again from your mouth and your hand has never stopped moving all the time, and now your hand is white stained and the white stain is dripping slowly between your fingers, and you smile, baby, you smile; and you keep on looking at me and you keep on -199-

kissing it and licking it for another ten seconds, so naturally, and you are as big as the room now, as big as all I can see, and I feel you are a goddess; and the sadness post-orgasm starts building up within, and it is really devastating, you can’t imagine, and I say nothing as I know it will come and go, as always, sadness will come and go, and will be replaced by peace. you seem not to care about my sperm in your face and in your mouth, you just lie face down next to me and you say something I can’t remember -you know I am no longer in this world for some minutes, baby-, and then you suddenly get up and crawl over me to reach my bedtable where there’s a beer, one of the ‘belzebuth’ beers I bought thinking of you, and you take a gulp, and then another, and you look at me with your mouth closed and a smile crossing your lips, such a naughty and playful smile, and you approach my face and you let the beer flow from your mouth to my mouth. and you realise I need some silence for a minute and you just walk the distance from my bedside to the balcony on your bedside, completely naked, and you bend over the railing, your right foot with your tattoo outside the bars under the sun, and maybe someone is watching but who fucking cares, and the camera’s still filming -200-

and sadness’ still inside me and my breath’s still agitated and I close my eyes and I know I am fucked; how many times will I dream you? how many times will I remember the legend of us? as the world has a beautiful soul doom & madness casting a spell on me and I love you


61 “find what you love and let it kill you” charles bukowski

love-the-greatest-motherfucker-ofall-times there’s a loneliness in this world so unbearable/so guilty/so twisted it needs to hide behind all gardens of eden but oh boy it pumps its venom 25 y/o female ‘girl next door attitude you wished your girlfriend had’, outcalls, I don’t offer anal, €300/one hour love for sale and we don’t see loneliness the same way we don’t see death this world so full of people tired either of love or no-love it’s so sad and I drift alone; all that I write in this book already happened or will happen someday to me, and yesterday I offered what I had and you offered what was left from you, and it felt enough; but you left again and tonight I will drink as a form of suicide, -202-

as drinking will kill who I am for a while, and most of the times I don’t like who I am so it feels good to drink, but tomorrow I will wake up and be me again; you just left my place baby, and peace was here again for some days, and it felt so overwhelming; she does not belong here though, she left, as always. you said I was cold while watching ‘dreamers’ and you covered me with a blanket and you used your two feet to warm one of mine and we watched the movie carlota you’re a TOY if you were a doll you would be missing a leg or something that’s true but what a wonderful broken toy you are, baby and we made love amidst the sadness of everything else, as bukowski would have said only unfulfilled love can be romantic, love-the-event-horizon, love-theemotional-black-hole, once you get there you get engulfed by it, and it crushes you; and I guess there should be a sign at the entrance of love reading ‘abandon all hope’ -as in dante’s inferno-, because the guy is a dangerous motherfucker, he promises things while crossing his fingers. what people call love is disgusting, I always laugh to myself imagining saint -203-

peter at the heaven gates reading the love CV of the regular human being, ‘aha, been with these partners, done that, felt this way...’, and finally raising his eyebrows and asking ‘is that all?’, and what a sad look in his face. there’s nothing worse than ‘too late’, baby, it’s like us putting a gun in happiness’ mouth and pulling the fucking trigger until we hear ‘click click click’ and she won’t beg for her life, I know that, happiness never begs for anything.


last “de sobra sabes que eres la primera” joaquin sabina

and I smile while I talk to you and my backpack is full of nothing, baby, and freedom is just letting things happen out-of-nothing, expecting nothing, and we are nothing more than our experiences, and I realise that I’ve been with many women in my life, I’ve been with women that never loved me, not even a little, I’ve been with crazy poetic impredictable women that smoked life as marihuana and wrote poems for me, I’ve been with a woman that once whispered to my ear - ‘make me cry’, I’ve been with cinderella-like-women, women that seemed like just popped out from a fairytale story, women that lost a shoe at midnight and lost their panties at 00:15h and we had to look for the panties all over my place early next morning, and it was fun, -205-

I’ve been with a woman that once wrote on the mirror in my bathroom I was a son of a bitch -with her lipstick-, and she left, and I never saw her again, I’ve been with women from the streets, broken as antique dolls missing one leg, with whom I got drunk while painting her bodies, I’ve been with women that were looking for hugs rather than sex, women that were just trying to escape from their inner demons, I’ve been with very religious women that were not daring to look at my naked body at first but ended on their knees swallowing my cum while I was pulling their pigtails, as they were human and they had instincts, and they could not fight their instincts, bless them, I’ve been with women with whom I wasn’t able to have an orgasm, women with whom I couldn’t have a hard-on, and women that wanted more and I couldn’t, I’ve been with sad women that knew how to cut sadness as cocaine and snort it with rolled poems, I’ve been with two women that I’ve loved so much that even the impossible bowed its head, I’ve been with women with whom I invented new ways to fuck up our lives together, I’ve been with women that had boobs I really didn’t deserve, I really mean it, -206-

I’ve been with women that are the most beautiful things I’ve ever destroyed, and I’ve been with women that were muses, are muses, and will be muses forever, because muses are forever. . . I’ve been with many women today all of them are you all of them always knew somehow that today I will touch myself and come while thinking of you, baby and that’s it that’s all it matters I think of you.

* * *




three more things

this is a song I wrote for carlota, I’m including it in the book as it is, no translation, we bought a couple of guitars as we wanted to learn something new together

LA PUTA DE LA TRISTEZA (2013) te tomaste 12 y no supe que decir y estaba tan enfadado tan vencido pero no era momento para gritarte te tomaste 12 y no supe que decir algo andaba tan jodido y fue como un medio abrazo y quise follarte joder pero un medio abrazo es imposible, amor y la bella durmiente dentro de ti sonreia y la bella durmiente nunca te diria la puntita nada mas que soy doncella pq sabe que es imposible, amor la puta de la tristeza es un borracho violento de 120kg no puedes calentar a un borracho violento de 120kg luego no lo sabras parar te tomaste 12 y no supe que decir y estaba tan enfadado tan perdido pero no era momento para gritarte y me dijiste no lo hare mas te tomaste 12 y fue como un medio te quiero un medio poema pero un medio poema es imposible, amor y si crees que se puede saludar a la puta muerte y pasar de largo eso es imposible, amor eso es imposible imposible (x4)

a poem I was high w/o changing anything fast fast fast, on the spur of the moment

this is to the underdog who read baudelaire and walked away from god who thinks the heart is nothing but a bag of shit who loved and was destroyed by love and chose freedom who never asks life to apologize for what she's done to us who will die one day by his own hand who is sodomized by sadness w/o lubricant who judges nothing as there is no right or wrong but a collection of empty atoms who is unafraid of the judgement of others not needing the aproval of anyone who relentlessly drops Utopia over reality as A-bombs U UU U U U U U U U U U Utopia wiping peace of mind for U nothing will ever be enough then U who sleeps with everything till it comes no more who can't be calmed down who writes the roaring truth and vomits who touches the clit of all women at once when he jerks off who has an ego the size of the universe he owns who is able to inject magic in others w/o elastic bands or needles but others become addict to the shit he provides and he knows who travels with an empty backpack and bonds to nothing who is not a train to catch but a rocket or a garbage truck or the air, but not a train who lies no more who is like a god but suffers who writes poems with his dick hanging in the air hin to the underdog wit to him I drink tonight

and this is a poem I wrote for carlota’s skin