.
Walk...blue street? More
walk more...station to station, the world seemed to be small like a handkerchief, did you know?
Witch of the blue roads, Lucifera of the wine's soul
How are your flat lands, how is their short-green grass?
The heraldic trumpet has been blown in the morning's sun, the streets are a friend again, from the bottom of our alcoholism we're going to set France on fire, completely: the ice of the Poles won't be there.
Europe, you were stupid since all the eternity, who is who in this scrabble of beheaded camels? Fire and compromise for the new rampant juvenilia of 1968: the terror is French.
Moving along my thoughts in whirls like the powder of the Hindoo path, we saw the repugned national roads of the Eurocommunity all rained, the wolves had erections behind the laurel forests and brusquely everything was a bit mediterraneanized in this room: I see brown highways for the queen of Paris and Lyon, who struts her suspender belts, tight like nosegays d'amour.
Specially the winters were gelid in my bedchamber of Rue Le Bua, we had insane excursions at night by the neighborhood, searching for wood for the chimney, and then, to the centre, to obtain some doses of heroin...we needed to inject it 4 times a day, the hell and the heaven were in a needle: you started seeing colored salamanders, I passed away.
Resurrected.
Passed,
resurrected.
Nobody died: all died.
There was a man in the corner during those orange days, he was a changeling, he played violin and ate children: all the ogres went out in the streets to take a sweet stroll: the aïr was full of insults and words of love...1977, secret nights at the balcony of the blue symphonies, the white sabbats.
Excuse me, we're traveled 14.000 kilometres to find, just, this crap?
So I travel 15.000 KM. and I only find churros and yerba mate?
In Europe?
Are you for real?
Europe, as the wise man said, she is scared of every thing that is flashy or different (thanks CH)
The winters of our life were a summary of wood and fire, we knew that we didn't know what we wanted, we were young.
Also there was a Korean man who opened a groceries store. His name was Young, he was young too.
1968
1977
never
years in our life, and the goddess Fortune opening her arms
wide, now, erotic like an apple, shiny like she.
The roads, small Europe, you are small roads, you are beautiful after all, I don't understand you, there we are, in the middle of a cloud of dreams...an what is more necessary than all these false dreams and promises?
What?
