looking  the speed
searching the inner peace
like flying on a bike, or
getting a *******, by it.

running on the night,
120 to feel alive, my life,
in a way , becomes, the
eternal night ride,

thanks god
for the freeway, and
the eternal look for inner peace,
the zen state,  i'm getting
trow speed

like flying, or surfing
on  the street, every thing
is clear at 120k, like tantric ***,
or those eyes of the past,

  one of two, cool memories
in a past full of pain.

after all the pain,
becomes the good memoir,
in a night of speed, appears,
those strawberry memoirs

in the night ride appears,
sudden and clear,
the state of speed,
looking for the inner peace,
or the state of zen release,

looking,
the one good memoir,
and flying on my bike.
surfing the asphalt,
wishing she could go faster

wishing for the peace,
and wanting the creep to dissapears,
looking for the peace , and hear him
inside of me, a creepy voice,

trying to justify his lies,
asking me to be, after all the harm,
still ask for a hand out,

after all the damage,
dares to ask for something.
during the night, y forget the betrayal,
and become a free man,  and the
burning area feels the wind

looking in the night,
the eyes of the past, or the kimera
that will never appears,
even the one that loves me,
back stab me, love hurts right.

looking the peace, or getting
a kick, on the speed,
looking the  zen state,

getting a *******,with speed.
hearing the claims of me heart to be free,
and getting a *******, in the
process,


all is clear, at full speed.
tight, and clean, no creeps,
just the kick, i'm getting
trow that lovely speed,
like flying on a machine.

looking and wanting
waiting on the coward chick,
that loves and hurts me,
like a kid, on first grade,
hurting what she ******* loves

like a coward, or a slave,
on this creeps trade.
slaves are not ****, or cool,
even with a lion on her back,
afraid, of the hyenas, or this creep

**** and lovely coward,
let go, or say it to my face
time's running out, and i'm
not waiting anymore,

life's
like the night ride,
and i'm going at full speed,
always on the fone, green dress
and **** skin , your heart
belongs to the lion , hows going to eat it,

and grabbing your hair,
screaming my name,
as you take me in,
like in the freeway,
**** and lovely coward
if you love me, set me free,

**** gambas, set me free
i'm on the freeway, need
to touch somebody, and you
need me like the sun, and after all
will you dare to say it to my face.

i'm looking for the rush of love,
and become a *** addict,
of some girls skin, and i'll find
the skin to become addicted.

and looking for the zen state
and the skin of a girl to be a free,
**** and firm, shes going to be,
a free girl, addicted to my,
looking for the lovely lioness

waiting to the one, how well say it
to me face, forgetting the creeps wimps,
and their pathetic harassment,
and take
my hand, and get on
top of me.


a **** lionnes that looks,
the creeps to their faces,
and jump on top of me, looking at them
and be free, next to me.

looking for the brave lionnes,
that will loves me , and deal with it.
and be free right next to me.
on a state, of zen speed...

Caminando hacia el suburbio
con mi rebaño de versos,
para todos invisible,
para mí ruidoso y crespo,
pasó adrede por mi banda
casi afeitándome el cuerpo,
un automóvil cuchillo,
largo, afilado y estrecho,
de cachas negras y azules
y hoja de cristal y acero,
que aventó mi pobre hato
y al rabadán dejó lelo.
Un hermoso animalito
maduro para el cuaderno,
dio contra el tronco sin ramas
de un buzón, y quedó muerto.
Otro fue a parar a lo alto
de un edificio frontero
y en el monte de una cúpula
se quejaba lastimero.
En la ruedita de un trole
oblicuo como un acento,
un tercero me llamaba
entre chispas y aspavientos.
Y unos treinta recentales,
copos de lana y conceptos,
que iban para seguidillas
y décimas y sonetos,
se perdieron por las calles
resbaladizas del centro.
Lo que me costó reunirlos,
amigos, es otro cuento,
entre piernas de chicuelas,
y gambas de caballeros.
A la sombrita de un sauce
me iré con mis cuatro versos.

¡Mirá las gambas de esa mina!  ¡Que boludo que sos!

Everything’s worn out Mijita.
Our sheets threadbare and stained,
your shoes tangled beneath the bed
and my back aches getting ready, again, for us:
our candles, our mirror, all of the roses
you’ve hung by the stems, and tonight
tonight is for manchego, anchoas,
our kitchen buried in snow.

And I’ll be too tired to know why my love,
why it’s so cold; or are we so drunk
on the cava we drink and we drink
that you can’t remember?

Tonight is for sunflower seeds,
your pipas, for gambas al ajillo!
And all of the shells you spit into the ocean,
I sweep from the floor in the morning.