Guadalajara
This city is sinking. Born dead, it is spreading eating itself from the inside spilling half digested food and crimson everywhere over the farms the country the mountains. The few honest places left are melting, stone and all crumbling into the carrion, a sad copper bench, a sign depicting a man slipping to his death, a tree grown out of a severed limb. The bark is getting thicker, sap slowly oozing and crushing inside out. The shouts of punks playing soccer twigs and rocks goals grass cut rose bushes cut trees cut all echoing against a thousand cars belching broken surf noises this is no beach.
a patch of oil sticks to the hell of a young boy. five or six. hands held high to the clouds that only magnify the sun he is asking something from the sky what is he saying can you hear it? tar between his toes, up his leg, spurting from his ears his eyes his mouth screaming at the sky a mound of asphault sits on a sidewalk in the barrio antiguo. the walls can be seen through spectral trees.
Red house, brown house, green house try to fight back an army of grey "We´re running out of color sir!!" orders come from above. They look to the sidewalks, the gum has been stepped on and turned black. They ask the parks but they are greedy jealous old ghouls and hide behind fences topped with broken glass, Coca-Cola, cervezas jaws to the lazy off-white clouds. rebar sticks out from half finished half inhabitable homes.
The garage door of an American factory yawns in the Mexican afternoon. Copper benches branches fall down into the carnage cut cut cut from the city that was once a town.
a patch of oil sticks to the hell of a young boy. five or six. hands held high to the clouds that only magnify the sun he is asking something from the sky what is he saying can you hear it? tar between his toes, up his leg, spurting from his ears his eyes his mouth screaming at the sky a mound of asphault sits on a sidewalk in the barrio antiguo. the walls can be seen through spectral trees.
Red house, brown house, green house try to fight back an army of grey "We´re running out of color sir!!" orders come from above. They look to the sidewalks, the gum has been stepped on and turned black. They ask the parks but they are greedy jealous old ghouls and hide behind fences topped with broken glass, Coca-Cola, cervezas jaws to the lazy off-white clouds. rebar sticks out from half finished half inhabitable homes.
The garage door of an American factory yawns in the Mexican afternoon. Copper benches branches fall down into the carnage cut cut cut from the city that was once a town.