when times
turn to lines,
and we deform
through indigenous
degeneration-

we, as the ones
that had time stand
perfectly still
at midnight,
between the past
and the
upcoming,

gave in to the
sloth, the
gluttony, the
pride, the
wrath, the
lust, the
greed, the
envy,
and chose to
thrive
eternally,

on the
absurd.

on the absurd,
with the
cheeks and foreheads,
on the absurd
with the
black dresses, shirts
and smiles,
on the absurd,
with all its wobbling,
wishes
and hungover
mourning
in the
morning.

we gave ourselves up
to be groped by the force of time,
and time ended up
making love to us,
*******
majestically.

the table fills
with empty cups,
and we
dance
until
the cups topple,
lay a new,
crackling
plastic
carpet

underneath
our restless hearts
and
beating feet.

a king
spends
a month’s worth
of rent
in four days
to get high
and drunk,
and then
even more
drunk
and a tiny bit
more high
to fit in
yet another
drink
until he’s
just fine.

imagine-
you became poor,
but were a king;

tired boots
collecting
dust,
and coins,
cigarette buds,
on your way.

the only ******
I care for
is your
**** soul-

the quirks,
the pains,
the habits,

the ways
you’d **** yourself
if you
really had the
chance to.

the only ******
I care for
is drinking alone
at four in the morning,

wishing for
something
to take it all
and make it
better;

to
put some
clothes
on it.

artists suffer
for their art,
but poets
live in hell;

they rule
the fire
that others
merely
tried
adapting
to.

blowing smoke out of
my window
and talking
to the cats
that roam around
my backyard
all night;

I want to quit
smoking
and I hate
******* cats,
but

this moment

is a tiny piece
of heaven-
stationary,

as the absurd
spins,
and keeps
spinning.

she always
eats her pastry
first,
and then
her yogurt-
the one with the
mushy apricots
inside.

I take away her
empty plate,
and leave
her
to her cappuccino;
at the same table,
at the same time of day,
every day.

people come
and go,
then come
and go
some more,

but among the
ashtrays
and all the
spilled drinks
there’s beauty
in her
consistency.

at the same table,
at the same time of day,
like that
one ******* tree
you can always see
in your head,
but don’t know
the age nor origin;

just a
tree
that you will
always
*******
remember.

at the same table,
at the same time of day;

every day.

drink until your
stomach bleeds
and *******
bleeds
and only then
can you truly
say
that alcohol
is your
best friend.

drink until your
insides bleed
and life
just kinda
wanes
between periods of
blood, *****
and ****** *****;

only then
can you truly call
alcohol
your
best friend,
your savior.

drink to
the others-
all of them.