Himself a machine,
Like a cool train
Like a moving rollercoaster
Like a ravaging mechanical animal

Iron oil and rust,
Pulsating boiling blood
Bursting brilliantly.

I see all the colours and the
                     Shapes  leaves can turn into

I feel the rough wood of a gentle tree
                          Scratch the moss around its trunk
                                               Getting it under my nails

I touch your skin your hair your lips
                                Look at you in the eyes to gaze your joyful expression.

But all this in thought as I
              Lay down in bed my hair dying on sorrow pillows

The jazz man,
Beaten up in his own bar
Needing rescue yet the bass won't be playin' fo' him tonite.

Dragged down,
Into the street raging
Unable to move from the pain the wound,
                                                     Grinding his teeth
                                                           ­           twistin' turnin'.

Looks as if dancin',
Speaks a language only he knows
Grunting spitting blood and at certain time laughing his own misery down.

They make up for you the human condition
They create the world, how it came up,
And put matters simple
They oppress and suppress thought
Rendering it brittle
They constantly tie you to the ground
To the rotten roots grown in hatred.

Saints appear all over the place
                        Yet GOD is the only idol
                        And humans equally special...they say;
They propagate and infect children with their diseased minds
                             Yet 'belief is liberating'
                             And never CORRUPT and pure.

Oh father, sweet sweet 'padre',
I almost forgot:
                            How many infants have you devoured lately?

Love will not save you
It won't save anyone,
Ask any cardiologist.

It is a bitter thing, love
And every feeling that traps you
In ecstasy tying you to another soul.

Never more blissful than the effort  it takes
To handle,
The gut screams, the heart fails.

The spirit laughs.

Woman at home,
Woman at home is different from woman at work.

At work,
At work she's vicious, tenacious, irresistably precise and cold.

At home,
At home she's lovely, tender creature speaking verses in each simple word.

Not just women,
Not just women, as men can be as vicious but never as tender.

Never as tender,
Never as tender, for he has yet to understand the meaning of love.

Although, women don´t bother understand,
They only love and are marvelous at it.

Run, roam, go
And get doped on scent
Of jazz and midnight flow,
The afternoon creep was never heard
And the nauseating sun yet to be seen...

Sense the night, the million souls within,
Become the endless body and soul,
Gleam.

You are the only
The holy
The great,
A dazzling star in a fearful night.