Bamboo Grove

Erect, one's back against the mast, the mast is bamboo. If within us a structural transformation happens, the body explains it with pains and bruises. This one is the tower which doesn't fall, while all the others did — this one is the radio from where the bird of prey fishes and emits. Marabou Storks brush the antenna, I glimpse strange pirates. The cure is suffered: I work full-time in the infrastructure's health. Whilst serving as a guard to works of art, erect with my back against the air, also bamboo, and praying constantly, holding the invisible hand of peace. The service finished, I crossed the bridge back to the river's south, the day twilighted and seagulled, I always got emotional. Then the pain despaired and I hated it for a bit. Hated, suffered, was the martyr of myself. But it didn't proceed: my friend called and I moved towards him to drink from friendship. On the TV, new war in Europe. In the bar, friendship. At the end of it all, the folk act: to catch stray beer left on other tables, share it, toast. My friend read to me what Laurie Anderson wrote after Lou Reed died, and we always got emotional. Because we are romantics, but we do not want to die in the desert or perish from bitterness. We want to live and die honouring the serene ecstasy, profoundly joyful even when sad. We happen to transform. We leave the bar and share a cigarette in Charing Cross Road; there, one day, medieval slums. Between victorian buildings and corporative buildings, some vases with foreign palm trees. We came to be in England, both of us, to, astray like that, build the one's who we know to have always been.