Urban Landscape ( this city full of love)

Emo’s are dead,
Hipster’s too,
Goths and punks in the
Metalheads vomiting the
Fashion people
stinking the streets with their
Colorful clothes and
their trendy poses,
Some homeless that nobody cares
With half a leg and
covered with leprosy,
The old lady with her tiny dogs
That looks like rats
Only that rats are more honest,
The omnibus that pass by the street
Full of teenagers making noise
Trying to get to their schools
While the bus driver
Thinks about that blonde 16 years old
with the miniskirt
Sitting in the back,
Mothers with children
Some of the mothers looking good
Their husbands working their asses off
The woman thinking about the gardener’s cock,
The children playing free,
running, having fun
And the weirdo in the dark
having a hard-on watching
Those innocent bodies
The cats snooping in the trash
Seeking for some rotten fish head,
There a robbery at the store
While the police is looking
to the other side,
Some illegal immigrant pass by my side
His eyes full of fear,
And in the corner
The whores selling their bodies
Some of them for a dose of crack
Some of them ’cause
they are unemployed.
The bold fat boss with
his gold rings driving
his Mercedes
And the blonde with big tits giving him
a blowjob,
While I think :
Damn, 5 years without a fuck
and this fat motherfucker
Making these piece of ass.
And I laugh and think
A poem
This city full of love.

Sleepy thoughts

Another 8 hours sitting in the chair
That goes down every 5 minutes
Today I decided not to drink
I want to get away of the bottle
When I’m drunk I act like a stupid
It’s not that I’m not a stupid but
When I’m sober I somehow can hide it
I need a girl
I’m too shy to search for one
I’m afraid of the NO
Of doing the clown
That’s one of the reasons why I drink
To free myself
I like to live
But I’m walking close to the lady in black.


What kind of future is there for me ?

I can’t even take a girl

My soul is broken

My brain

My heart.


What kind of life is there for me ?

I can’t even rent a house in a poor neighborhood

Don’t talk about buying a ground

Don’t talk about living

Don’t talk about studying.


Everything is expensive

and, while I’m starving to death

most of the people




(I wish I could be dead)

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.


He came, playing the pose of  rich boy, telling me that he will fly to Germany, to a gothic festival, and to another place, but he don’t know where yet. He came, and he go. I still remember him. I remember him some years ago, he had nothing, he was a total waste. We were equal. Now he have a good job, a girlfriend, he fly. Me, I’m still playing the poor. What can I say ? In a place I envy him, but he don’t know what is to pay the rent, and to work 7 days a week, and that the money that you made is just not nearly enough. But he knew, he was like me. Now we are in different places, we live different worlds. But we are still friends. I’m proud of him, that he found the exit door off the shit. Yeah, I’m proud of him. Yeah … what ?

Potatoes chips will not fall from the sky

Waiting, to be interviewed for a job. My eyes are fighting not to close, my feets are in war with my body, my nerves are against my will. I worked all night. I work, what else can I do ? I work and play cards with the ticks. I wait and ask myself : What are we all waiting for ? The future will be the same as today, the past is burned and will not come back, what we did accuses us, what we didn’t is lost. I ever think why I have the need to write dark things, depressive things, suicide letters. I don’t know. It just go out by itself. I wait, all my life I’ve been waiting, but, for what ? Like my grandmother used to say : potatoes chips will not fall from the sky. But I wait. I wait for the rain to fall, I wait for kind words, I wait the bus at the 7:00 AM when I finish to work. I think when we born, the second thing that the nurse need to do, is give us a tutorial for living. I try not to fall asleep, while I wait, for an interview that probably will end like : ” we will call you, thank you for coming “. Fuck, I hate being poor. I need money. Fuck. I need to fuck too, yes, too many years of abstinence. I think about everything and everything reminds me of you. It’s sad that potatoes chips not fall from the sky.

Second night at job

Why is there allways a first price to pay ?

Not matter if it’s a shitty job

or if you are new in a group

or even if you go to buy potatoes in the new town

there is ever a first price to pay

when you are new


Today I get at work

“Hi” I said

“what is wrong with you ?” He told to me

“what is wrong ? Nothing is wrong, why ?”

“You didn’t did your work last night, why ?”

“Maybe because that was my first day

and I’m alone at the building

and there is nobody to ask ?

And … I did my job”

“No, you don’t”

“Well, fucking faggot, go eat your own shit and drink your own vomit, you fucking fuck”

I wanted to tell him

but instead of that I smiled


Maybe what was wrong was my smile

and that I wanted to work in that place.

Do you know ?

Do you know that feeling the morning after ?

Do you know the taste of whisky filling your mouth ?

Do you know that you want it out, but it just don’t want to fade away ?

Do you know that feeling of lost, stupidity,

that feeling of : what-did-I-do-yesterday

but you can’t remember anything except that you were a total idiot ?

Do you know what is to stay outside all night, searching for a corner to vomit and finding yourself choking with your own phlegm ?

Do you know the guilt ?

Do you know what is to be alive and forget for a moment of all the entire fuking world

just to the morning after wake up in your bed without even knowing

how you get there ?

Do you know the open-up-earth-and-eat-me ?

Do you know the dryness of unemployment and a desertic future ?

Do you know do you know ?

Do you know

me ?