The map is painted
red dust, blue dust and dusty imagination,
over borders that are closed
we cross boundaries erected for the folk
going around the shitty bistro by the side of the square
we find pleasure in a convent struck by the truth,
breathing in deep the elevator takes you high in the sky
it wasn’t green tea in that cup of wine
and under the sword of the King of whites
you take a step to freshen your calves…

Restage a photo on the tower of stone
with pillars of truth to wash out the lies
my hair has grown long so I am feeling no cold
the eyes are sad and that’s just too bad,
for we sail on a trail of perversion
down from the castle to the turn of the whore
her music enthralls with thirst like a goal
and chasing on dreams doesn’t stop the fall
it’s like a drug from The Book of Kerouac
another story to sell on the brink of a war…

We owned a dog and a cat with no name
in a suburb house that collapsed from the shame
and it took some time to bury its heart
deep in my chest where it always belonged,
with my last ticket I booked on a feeling
the tram 28 took me far in the wild
to battle resistance from the unknown
in Lisbon I am a giant of stone
and on the backside of my left arm I tattooed the sun
to remember the light where there is none…