A Cherry Brandy story

I

The roar of noise of a car engine,
a yellow streetlight, a red-light, a cyan led,
a chubby and tired body walking around a gas station.
The silence is the jingling of the turn signal, the dreamcatcher’s there,
hung on the door, the entrance of a too illuminated bar.
The Pacific Ocean is a beast that bites and roars,
the baritone voice of an old opera singer,
so much voice from that diaphragm bent
by the solemnity of those steel notes.
Turn on the radio,
Los Angeles still doesn’t know this song.
Moon is a muse to one thousand ladies
with their hearts warmed
by love memories.

II

Cherry brandy, iced red,
red like May roses,
I sing you Osip’s May,
I sing you Margaret Walker
in all language but those you can speak,
the neon light above our heads, a funky song
everybody sing through their teeth, no one knows its title,
the lyrics is just fragmented words sang by an unruly voice.
Dancing is for soft, sinuous and delicate bodies.
I’m fragile, I’m made of glass and flesh,
I may break, but I can listen to song
and write poems for souls lost in the night.

III

Don’t ask me about Dante on a carousel,
circle of hell for those who don’t believe
in the art of language, don’t ask me.
Don’t ask me to say words in a foreign language,
music for angels. Loyal angels.
And singing ancient songs not
to know the right melodies
in Venice Pier, watch how the guitarist of that
decayed band dances on roller skates.
The moon is a pale face, it’s my pale face,
red lipstick and black eye-liner.

IV

At cinema festival to forget
the world’s falling down,
falling down is the world with us,
a cradle made of sea and earth, cradle us it cannot anymore.
Night is the real essence of reality,
light is the humanity that wants to possess,
to know, to belong. We’re not part of the cosmos,
we’re not a star, but just a mere particular
crying, laughing, doing the revolution.
A cherry brandy, cherry-coloured polish on my nails,
the fragrance of belladonna and the night dying.
The night dies in a glass full of cherry brandy.