mumbling prophets of hillside avenues,
what is the question because I forget.
wild haired and gloomy eyed, strange
following suits with a side to side walk
and hands cupped as if around a secret.
pregnant and broke and without vision. homeless women of San Francisco, do you see a city of lights or monsters of corners, downtown skeletons,
the bad blood in the valleys.
let’s get drunk and ignore all the calls. just you and I hanging around bars, smiling coyly because we share secrets nobody else knows. no lies. I can tell everything from the expressions dancing around your face, the subtleties and psychological defences. the thick night drags us across town and we stumble before the cyborgs of the Old street roundabout, laughing in affinity. laughing at death as he stands in the doorway, clipping his nails.
we take our time choosing the right wine. perhaps we cry a little, floating far away into a celestial universe, peering down at the sea of trees. moments when you realise anything’s possible before it sinks back into the depths, fading away in the morning haze.
After a walk
Cut down by the sky.
Between shapes moving toward the serpent
and crystal-craving shapes
I’ll let my hair grow.
With the amputated tree that doesn’t sing
and the child with the blank face of an egg.
With the little animals whose skulls are cracked
and the water, dressed in rags, but with dry feet.
With all the bone-tired, deaf-and-dumb things
and a butterfly drowned in the inkwell
Bumping into my own face, different each day.
Cut down by the sky!
– Federico Garcìa Lorca