The drunkard

There he goes

walking in zig zag

bubbling bubbles through his mouth

and his eyes

totally lost

a bottle in his hand

and the passers by

laughing at him

he don’t give a fuck

for this world or the other

all his world refers

to the bottle in his hand

and while he walk through the park

his mind is empty

intoxicated

for the ghosts of the past

life was unjust to him

making of him

the clown of the town

but he don’t give a fuck

he is happy

with his bourbon smile

Boulevard of broken dreams (my first short story)

They had nothing, only their love and the needles in their veins. They did not have anything, and neither would they. Let’s refer to them simply as He and She. He had run away from home when he was 8, his last memory in the house was his father totally drunk hitting his mother with the belt. She, had run away from home at age 10, her last memory was her father chasing her trying to rape her. They were gone, they had no dreams, they died young. One day they met, he was drunk, she was doing the street, you need to eat, right? He was pissing in the corner, she was going down from a car, wiping her mouth, her ass sore. She was crying. He approached her, offered her some wine, she accepted. After that they met their dealer and bought their drug. They went into a public bathroom. Dug the needle in their arms, she first, he after. They awoke to the noise on the door, it was the police that came to take them, to disturb their dream. She dreamed of a big family, a house with a pool, a husband. He dreamed of a Mercedes benz, castles, harley davidson. The police walked into, handcuffed them, put them in the car, not before they touched her everywhere. Damned pigs … After a while they set them free, they wanted information, they did not know anything, they were innocents. From jail they went tumbling down the street. They needed money. They stole a couple of bags. They needed more drug. They stole a pack of cigarettes that finished in two hours. They went to a kiosk, stole a bottle of wine. The manager chased them several blocks away screaming, they gave back the insults. This was their life. They had nothing, neither would they have. Sleeping under bridges, reeked of sperm, wine, dirt. They were in love. At the end she was killed by a client, a bullet in the head, poom, he throw her in the river. The pigs imprisoned her boy accused of armed robbery, there he was abused in every way possible. He always dreamed of her. He woke up crying, behind bars. One day He thought about suicide. The next day He tried. This story ends like this, without a happy ending. Reality does not always have happy endings. Nobody cried. No one knew of their death. They died with nothing, as they lived. But, the years they were together they could dream of true love.

(note : my apologies for the harsh narrative, I didn’t knew how to translate it so I take some help from google translate … it is my first short story. I hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading)

Callejon de los sueños rotos (mi primer cuento)

No tenian nada, solo el amor que los unia y las agujas en sus venas. No tenian nada, y tampoco lo iban a tener. Vamos a referirnos a ellos simplemente como El y Ella. El se habia fugado de su casa a los 8 años, su ultimo recuerdo en la casa era su padre totalmente borracho pegandole a su madre con el cinturon. Ella, se habia fugado de su casa a los 10 años, su ultimo recuerdo era su padre persiguiendola queriendo violarla. Se habian ido, no tenian sueños, envejecian joven. Un dia se encontraron, el estaba borracho, ella estaba haciendo la calle, de algo hay que vivir, no ? El estaba meando en la esquina, ella estaba bajando de un coche, limpiandose la boca, con el culo dolorido. Ella estaba llorando. El se le acerco, le ofrecio un poco de vino, ella lo acepto. Despues de eso se encontraron con su dealer y compraron su droga. Se internaron en un baño publico. Se clavaron la aguja en sus brazos, primero ella, despues el. Despertaron al oir el golpe en la puerta, era la policia. Venian a llevarlos. Venian a molestar su sueño. Ella soñaba con una gran familia, una casa con pileta, un marido. El soñaba con un mercedes benz, castillos, harley davidson. La policia entro a golpe y porrazo, los esposaron, los metieron en el coche, no sin antes meterle a ella mano por todos lados. Malditos cerdos … Al rato los dejaron libres, querian sacarles informacion, no pudieron, ellos no sabian nada, eran inocentes de todo acto, eran almas en pena. De la carcel se fueron dando tumbos por la calle. Necesitaban dinero. Robaron un par de carteras. Necesitaban inyectarse. Robaron un paquete de cigarrillos que acabaron en dos horas. Siguieron caminando mientras la gente los miraba pasar, con miedo, asustados, a ellos no les importaba. Entraron a un kiosco, robaron una botella de vino. El encargado los persiguio algunas cuadras a gritos, ellos le devolvieron los insultos. Esta era su vida. No tenian nada, tampoco lo iban a tener. Dormian abajo de puentes, apestaban a esperma, vino, suciedad. Estaban enamorados. Al final a ella la mataron, un cliente, un balazo en la cabeza, poom, la tiro en el rio. A el lo encarcelaron acusado de robo a mano armada, ahi lo abusaron de todas las maneras posibles. El siempre soñaba con ella. Se despertaba llorando, atras de las rejas. Un dia penso en suicidarse. Al dia siguiente lo intento. Asi termina esta historia, sin final feliz. La realidad no siempre presenta finales felices. Nadie los lloro. Nadie supo de su muerte. Murieron sin nada, como vivieron. Pero, los años que estuvieron juntos pudieron soñar con amor verdadero.

The Invisibles

They pass through life without being seen

Nobody cares if they live or die,

they  eat at the best restaurants

what the customers leave in the trash

 

Their life is a flower withering

turning to dust,

the dust of the street

where the tourists are passing by

 

They beg for a penny

so they can buy wine, 

that’s what you think

 

when you see them wrapped in the newspaper

sleeping in the park.