Thoughts pass through my mind like a cold breeze; Whispered words
from two with unknown soubriquets speaking of choices that I don't yet understand.
Or do not want to.
Their ideas are like turbulent puddles in the darkest of caves or the desolate trails at the very end of the antipodes. The very thought of them is to perceive a near future where there is only weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Perhaps this is the stair which I dare not descend.
But am I to sit and wait and hear the sounds of eternities collapsing into nothing before I step onto the rickety echelons of uncertainty?
I can feel it. For as long as there has been rain mingling with the red earth of my heart, it has always been sunny
in my mind.

The dormant streets breathe weakly through
storm drains and clearways like cancerous lungs
As the humid air clings to bodies like layers of duct tape and people walk
in parks like living corpses in a cemetery, in the aimless melange of heat, exhaustion and sweat.
The grass is withering slowly as the celestial cauldron spills;
its contents red like the ****** daggers that smile in men's mouths and blending into some spun heaven metal; orange-gold. Dying concentric circles of heat sweep across the gilded skyline as lights,
like vivid ichors, flow through the veins of a dying sky.
And the air is now sweet with the smell of dried flowers and starlight and the streets breath easily.

El cielo eterno gira arriba de los edificios
que como centinelas vigilan los caminos
ya pisados por tantas suelas. Los desagües
húmedos y las papeleras desbordantes.
Las murallas añejas, pintadas y ralladas.
Letras y diseños de decenios; rojo como el fuego
y a la vez azul y arcano. '...Estuvo aquí'.
Las lámparas paradas fielmente y derechas;
Han estado ahí por tanto tiempo, sin cambio
y constante. La gente se evapora, como el agua
en un charco de barro. Como sus conversaciones son
como el reclamo de los pájaros. En el parque,
las ramas de los arboles balancean en el viento,
mientras que la gente camina por los retiros verdes
y las fuentes como dedos esbeltos que se abren y enganchan.
La ciudad entera baila detrás del fuego
en el equinoccio, bautizado por la luz de las estrellas

En los caminos ensolerados y luminosos,
Te veo
En las mañanas, frias y blancas,
Te busco
En el aire dulce, que baja de las montañas azulinas,
Te huelo
Como el mar del sur, tempestuoso y frio,
Te siento.
Aquí en mi soledad infinita, como las tardes oscuras,
el cielo color a hierro oxidado y ***** como la tinta de un plumero,
Te espero.

To leave my glassy shell
And wander ‘twixt the verdant hills
Only to gaze at the industrial city as it spills.
Over this once quiet landscape,
Now choked with bitumen black roads and luminous eyes which keep vigils and forebode.
The skies licked by sound and smoke
Staring down at the shuffle of ill-proportioned buildings amidst a sea of compounding unknown things.
To walk down the narrowing alleys and breathe and smell the stagnant vapour;
Watching the walls crumple like old letter paper.
The street lamps like black spears; upright and joyless.
With lights that cast shadows like dancing daemons
Disappearing at the sight of the early mornings;
Dawn. This has always been and always will be.

Conversations linger in the air like water vapour,
As well looked-after manicured fingers sip multicoloured
cocktails out of silly straws,
and grip tightly on hourglass shaped glasses
lipped with sugar and lip-gloss.
Its 5:30 and the incongruous smells of barbecue
from balcony grills, and squid and
grilled haloumi and garlic from the Almond Bar behind me and
sweet gelatos and small cream cakes from the narrow shop called Messina
seem to brush every sense. The whole suburb speaks.
The walls whisper behind
me and the grey concrete slabs speak a language that I can't  interpret. Apathetic
hipsters gaze blankly at the street from the stairs of their apartment block.
What a pleasurable patchwork pastiche that pulsates through my senses.

Como revuelven las hojas
en el suspiro de la penumbra.
Las risas cursan como los ríos
que desaparecen en el mar.  
Las calles se envejecen con
cada minuto infinito. El viento
sopla sombras oscuras y gotas de
rocío cristalinas, a las rejas puntadas
en filas como tantas lanzas. Y el entorno
reverbera con llantos callados mientras
que el mundo revuelve como las mujeres
antiguas que en lotes vacios juntan pábulo.