The inner-song of John the Buffalo

{See my inside

and then you’ll find

a strange house across the bleeding river

waiting you to percieve her.


In that suburban hurricane

birds fly towards the horrendous phrase

the screams in the silenceless shadows,

“Please release me or they will hunt us…

…my prision, my form

can’t be eternity without lust.”


Conscious of the crying complement

that surround your body and your face,

rocks and cats are print in the system’s paviment,

take my guilty hand and fly inside our inner space.


Then my happy house will open it and show,

“you”, “me” and the blurry “us”,

but don’t worry they’re just reflexes in the words.

So please,

I ask you on my knees,

open your eyes so you can percieve

the city above my language and dreams.


Cos’ inside this invisible gates

there will be no (Starbucks) lifeless bees,

just broken mirrors and our portrait tears.}

(The dead of :I: represented by “i”)

That was the way my buffalo tree sang to me

when “i” was dead

but now my friends i have no arms

and no head.


But what to do if your head-less

well, i’ll say cry,

and move your legs,


from anyone else

to finally comprehend the reason why

we fear death.


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