You're surrounded
by centuries-old walls.
Embraced by fear
and fundamentalism;
un erosionado legado
de la madre patria...
Docile and white,
tender and fluffy;
thus is your caricature.
Fetichistic,
obsessed with martyrs,
and drowned in alcohol.
An obscene defecation,
that rushed from Santini's
epistemic asshole,
is splattered and smeared
all over your face.
¡Se cagaron en los adoquines!
Nevertheless,
las canas se respetan.
You're old as fuck.
Piss and sea-salt;
always archived
in my mnemonic registry.
Asians everywhere.
Hundreds of cats.
Still, your bums are worthy
of Kerouac's admiration.
They're the shit.
La Perla is blood covered,
caspa e' gorila spinkled...
She's fucking beautiful.
Albizu's bones
are caressed and curated
by a marble lady.
Her weeping is crafted,
beautifully affected,
and reminiscent of novelas.
I see ships,
big ass cruises. A ride,
¿for un pela'o de la Perla?
Never.
Now, hundreds of thousands fly.
Some even dare to say flee...
Either way, fleeing or flying,
I'm still seduced
by the ever flowing queue
of aluminum galleons.
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