The meat of my last days in the Zone

(January 2007?)




January:


Afternoon.



The high speed dirt of the city get stuck on my eyelids

15.000.000 stories stroll dumb under a sun, dumb, dumb, all is Buenosdumb



The crestfallen trees accompany a boulevard of austral sleeps 


and the street food's smell


and the black & yellow taxis drive the grand ladies toward the aristocratic northern zone



and an Anglican church's façade aaaAAAAAAAHHHHhhhhh throws screams over old women all dressed in Chantilly suits


and the sun is omnipresence and the sun is you, that saturate my anxiety: 





that smell...what could it be?



Evening.



I'm on the streets picking the litter, would kill anyone, just because.



Sometimes I just would beg for the soft peace of...



the centre of Buenos Aires is an ant-hill of mozzarella & the leather




everything is semen, except the trees:



but, but...but meanwhile, the concrete skin of this oligolopolis is caressed by the oblique light, like a disfigured Michelangelo splashed in salsa tártara: why, fuck why?










At the hour of the scandalous twilight, when everything gets yellow and gets red, and the schizoid urban collapse gets blended with the pouring rain, then






then I look for you where you are not 





Among the crowd I look for you...then! Then! Then! Like a raving demented I look for you, running among yuppies and grey suits

is this fair?








At this stage of the game you must know that ain't no love in the heart of the city, don't you?





Nigh(t).



I'm feeling like a woman who's going to give birth at a crossroads tonight.




Every town has its history, and its story: which is yours? 

Once I demanded the world to hear, with all the rage of an afternoon, in the lungs of HELL







now I am just letting this lettuced town, letting, lettuce, letting, lettuce, letting this lettuced town go...