Take Me

there's a thin woman sitting on a swing, selling sad stories. she is chain smoking, her eyebrows at an acute angle. poor colors saturation, deep gloom. things have long fallen behind their own gigantic shadows. we want to fly to the outer space and break through the wall, but our city is sinking. our spectacular Venice, desperate fireworks, a great parade, a crowd of people with malformed masks on carries their tiny terrified hearts in their hands. each person hides some heartbreaking secret deep inside them and it is what renders them humans. the only thing.
slow hours measured by the rusted swing. the woman has stopped in mid-air between immense possibilities of childhood and adulthood that ends on this estate forever. you need a lot of bottles everyday to force your calendar through the next quarter. somehow.
in her one-room apartment the woman keeps a lot of tapes with music. she takes them off the spools, stretches them under the ceiling like a washing string and hangs on them photographs of dirty wall plaster and pieces of sun on the pavement. there are also cats' tales, butt-ends and chimneys that pump all the shit from beneath the roofs into the world.
the swing is a perpetual motion machine, the women puts no effort in moving it, in fact she could be dead and the squeaking wouldn't lose its rhythm. yet she's still alive, her knees are bruised after the funny fights she had with her mates. she tells her stories in a monotonous nasal voice, she doesn't care and it's women like her that you want most, because once she starts to care, it's already like eternity to you.

we've grown older, we don't dream about the outer space anymore and we protect the walls against erosion. we go to the woman who sells her stories and we go to women who sell love, and we drink even more than we used to, and it's still the crossbar we hardly manage to touch with the tips of our stretched fingers.
the woman on the swing will get old and she will stretch thyme and lavender under the ceiling, and she will know that our sense of fatal last resort is going to be repeated many times, not only in this city, not only in our lifetime.
but before this comes, I drink as if it was the last time and I make love to you as if it was the first time.
maybe it's the only way, although you'll eventually leave me, too, and I'm gonna lie in my own puke and keep ringing my mother.
a thin woman on a swing, cigarette smoke, rising tide, low tide. red, hot blood. the outer space is no longer among things we believe in. I make love to you as if it was the last time.
squeaking pendulum, deep gloom, there’s no outer space, I make love to you, you'll leave me, too.
chain smoking, there and back, bruised knees, I make love to you.
the outer space is long gone.