Truth of My Youth

ODE TO OJOS

She said she likes being around me too,

              that we could get together if the weather gets better

              that it’s too bad it rained again, and again

              that we couldn’t make it to the cemetery at the end of the night, in the early morning.

Earlier, while biking through the countryside

I started singing The Smiths’ Cemetery gates at the top of my lungs

when I saw the tombs rise behind the rural bushes.

Victor borrowed some flowers from them.

I said : “No sweat, these tombs won’t moss or fade away

at least not before the Final Decay…”

            This girl’s pretty, my sexual appetite’s dead.

“… and these people are here to stay.”

With love and hate and passions just like mine,

They were born and then they lived and then they died

and I am sick of scattering bits of me and my heart

here and there like these spring time flowers scatter seeds

on the stern, sterile tombs I can barely see from here.

                sick of recalling to whom I’ve left ‘em.

but I’m still looking for a black hole as deep as the eyes of a Spanish girl

who looked sad, sola, leaning against the wall,

yes, a black hole to drop another bit, another end, another one

to be broken, left for dead, never to be fixed or found again.

Is this world that cynical or I have really lost track

like I lost my sunglasses, my earplugs, my reason behind each day

like I broke my phone…in an anger burst?

There’s no way I’m gonna hear her voice again,

it’s lost in a deaf, poisoned well.

            Drowned brains, sober sickness.

But this world’s cynical, it’s been proved by research

and the rain has fallen down on us for only 15 minutes

like it had a purpose, something to show or prove,

something to waste while the hostile clouds moved.

I thought I should thank her for setting fire to my heart,

at least for one night. Gracias.

She also said she’s sad that life is different from the books she reads

so I said “Write yourself a fuckin’ life then.”

I bike home, look at a perfect house and the sun hits my eyes,

i look down at the gravel and see a rat’s carrion.

            My book’s called : No hope kids we are.