Educating Rachel

Now, let us try this again to write a document
With one letter marching nicely in front of the other
Like adding instead of using numbers to give the written
words prettiness, even if the theme is about unnatural ***.
The fact is that there is a diesel smell at the bus terminal
At six in the morning, when the cleaning lady starts her
low-paid work has nothing to do with anything, had they
They're going to university, they could sit in fine offices
and go to the hairdresser at nine, a woman who can just
read and write, luckily for the ladies, she skipped school.
The driver of the bus enters farts loudly, and that is ok
But I could have shown some respect. It is odd to think
If all women had higher education and looked up to the blue
sky, who should make my dinner?

The last puzzle

When the last piece of your life's puzzle
finally fits, and you have outgrown the old man
who still crave recognition
He spends his, what might be his last summer
in his den editing and editing 
not to leave alone work done when young
He cannot be what he once was
A new life walking on soft sand and a smile
at hungry sea gulls flying low in the forever
hunt for food, not likely 
He knows he will, read about the politics of our
time to form an opinion and keep it to himself
He has resigned to his shortcoming smile and
Forgive the old man

I look at my old hands
Blotches of liver spots, slow-running blood vessels
Delivering old blood so I can fold my hands
Once they caressed a woman's body, who moaned
And my hands were firm
Women used to see me and smile, but now I walk
The earth unobserved and words become a long silence.
If I tell you how much I miss making love
to sit in the park with a girl and see the moon while
smoking cigarettes, inhaling its promise of love to come
The aroma of her hair, the smoothness of her thighs
to kiss her libido and drink her sweet water, her legs
Apart, she has given herself to me.
Asleep, enfolded we are, tomorrow is far away.
My old hands remember so much, I bow my head and try
to inhale from my hands what once was
It is all so hopeless, and soon enough I will be dead.

Restless Summer heat

It is odd how we forget we live on a restless planet
the talk of the melting ice cap is true enough; it melted
before when Greenland was a hot house for plants
In Spain and Portugal, the impression is two lands
are burning tragedy we blame people for
but we overlook that there was a serious fire in 1823
so nothing is new on the planet
Flooding in Pakistan has happened for a long time
where people work on land, that is the path of
flooding and avalanches, not every inch of land
is suitable for mankind; we are on borrowed time
Earth will shake us off like a louse on a dog's fur

Cold is the wind in Europe.

It is a stormy evening, brown leaves flying in the storm
dank and dry, torn from the mother tree with hatred 
I'm thinking of Macron, the president of France,
extolling globalization. I'm a nationalist, from
a country that has naturally evolved, has its own culture,
and an unspoken agreement on how people should perform.
We don't want a global nation with one culture, one language, one thought as dictated by newspapers owned
by the globalists.
It has been tried before under the dictatorship of Stalin.
Macron is, in the words of Oscar Wilde,” Deep down he is
a shallow thinker.”
Migrants are welcomed in my country if they are willing
to accept our culture and not demand changes 
But have accepted the system as it is.
Mass migration is a manufactured phenomenon; it could
be avoided by investing in the countries they hail from and
It is political to sow discord in Europe.
We see how the USA, a beacon of democracy, has been turned
into a semi-tyranny helped by the opaque forces of Zionism
They want globalization to serve their end, that is, to enslave
and bend us to their will.
The working class in Britain gets it, and the ditto Germans
to see the way their countries are going, and the protests
because of this, know a new war will come, a war that can
benefit the Zionists.

Shoes shopping

I dislike wasting my time shopping for shoes
The man who wrote Wasteland, a famous poem
He is known for this; he did like boots too for walking
He did indeed, and many other things too
I, when I had a bike, cycled through the Wasteland
a domestic landscape growing beautifully wild
I don't see it now, there is a distance between
me and the dream I had, the touch, the aroma of
Nature is also a memory of horse manure in
a field verdant as the sea around Greenland.
I need a wasteland, a place where I can lose myself
Without it, life is an endless, trivial repetition.
Tomorrow I will buy a pair of walking boots.

The Italian language

I would like to immigrate from Portugal to Italy
After ten o'clock at night, I switch on the TV 
and watch an Italian soap opera 
I don't understand a word of what the actors
say, but it is the way they say it, no hard 
Consonant, no one is asked to stand to attention
For a comma, a full stop is a mere bagatelle 
Not understanding what actors say is not 
important, it is about ****** expression and screams
So many pleasant surprises, last night's program
about a man who looked scruffy, he looked like 
an evil character, but as it turned out, he is a police
inspector and arrested the man who looked like 
matinee idol for the ****** of the girl 
All this happened in a modulated language where
crass consonants, dare not enter