The Turkey has tangoed its course.
I never had that much to say,
save Don’t call me before nine
in the morning,
ten in the evening
Time here is a utility,
In between I roam the streets,
making a virtue
of our necessities, and preaching
the Gospel of Lorca
with no one waiting for me, but many
still expecting – your days will pass
well without my help
I never have fun, I’m never bored
but I still got some hunger in me
It’s 4:20 and I’m home getting high
on Rivera paintings, my little notes,
the bare wallpaper and waiting
I cry for the love I meet
not the ceremonies that surround us
This is my little kingdom
of morphine and matter and maybe
memories
In memoriam. Dennis Hopper löysi valokuvansa, palaneet kaksoisolennot tähdeltä Hämeenkadulla, perusti baarin Eiraan – on hiljaista, asiakkaat varisseet metallipölyksi, feromoneiksi ja mullaksi.
Öisin hän muistaa kolme onnellista vuorokauttaan Kaliforniassa.
There’s only one thing I know of
that can hurt you
I love girls with lipstick
and matching fingernail polish
and black hair with green eyes and the New Yorker,
on a fake café table
with slice of foreboding,
pecan pie and a cup of espresso
and endless stream of airships
from Coalbrookdale
This longing fills my much needed void,
the room I never knew existed
Pesen kuluneen yön iholtani,
samalla hetkellä emme tiedä
missä olemme,
mihin olemme menossa,
meillä ei ole muuta
kuin tämä ihmisen epävarmuus
The proverbial butterflies.
The desire to have her think well of me.
The desire to lay myself out beside her.
The desire for the world to see her next to me.
The flittering conviction that she in fact is the whole world.
Tell me about your high heels
traveling through time.
Tell me how to stay in touch,
how to become a shadow, or a light spot.
I doubt our book selves
would’ve been compatible,
the boredom of your topless nights
on my bed in your red panties
reading Sartre
The bottomless nights of my girls of ill repute,
the improbable dreams
Our lives lack formative events,
our bodies were so thin
we got bruised making love
Näistä olennoista tosia ovat vain ääriviivat,
suorat katseet jotka kertovat etten voi
toistaa mennyttä
Tuon varastin Bob Dylanilta,
Leonard Cohenilta varastin
naismaun, Lou Reediltä
Nicon puhelinnumeron
Ehkä hänen ja kahden portain
maalatun seinän välissä
voin vihdoin hengittää
Onkohan
Lou Reedillä
koskaan hikka?
