We deserve what we have
now, then, every day: here
some people watched an eagle
raised over a nopal, eating
a snake. It doesn’t matter,
not anymore. We, all of our
sons and childhood, are lonely
here, with God, forgotten
us by the way.
Our women are slaves
our people are slave too.
We lived among trash
made by flesh, by blood,
by injustice, by drugs
and comercial sex,
but we deserve
all that, we deserve it, since
the beginning of times.
has been always destroyed,
their people has always been
slave of others: catholics,
europeans, creoles, americans,
they come and they take everything
leaving nothing —nothingness—.
and bring diseases, they bring
machines, they build their empires
with our strength called people, with
our fertile camps, with all that
we can give to a capitalism
way of History —way of life—.
every year, every sun, our honor,
here, selling our lady, their sex,
selling our country, our beaches
and corn grains
and our genetic legacy.
It used to be different.
A country between rivers is my country
and is the trash camp, blacker than darkest
nigger slavery times: the machinery
is called porno-narcotic capitalism.
An this lyric verse, a rehearsal of
solitude, is an ethnography of
shaped moments, of shaped
garbage all around us. We really
deserve what we have, this punishment
of times, this unfair tale, this
explosion, this explosive way of kill
our equals, of abuse our women,
of destroyed infancy with cola and burgers.
We deserve it, it’s unstoppable the destruction’s
breath that climb over us every day,
torturing what we won’t never reach.
So we are workers of death,
always this death jumping and smiling us.
Our tears are made of ancient violence,
and today violence, that get into our lives,
is a self image concerning the eternal punishment.
Our people lives with a new life’s hope,
always, like a donkey running behind a carrot
attached on his head, unreachable, always,
the happiness. Some others go away of this hell
and they promote interpretations about it,
even if they don’t live it. It’s a hell, always
the hungry beating our appetites of being.
Nothing will be sacred here,
for no one, not for me. We walked
and lived among the historic garbage
of others. The big loan for us
is to live and smile and hug our loved woman.
But is the false time of mirror
what we see, because we are condemned.
Here, where others will be remembered,
we don’t have any change of being someone,
we just pass away, leaving an ashes path:
our memories birth from the shadow
of our hope. We can’t even cry
and we deserve what we have:
this amusement park of injustice,
this exploded society, this portioned
believe that identify us with
all kinds of fanaticism. So we are
always the losers, the salt sculpture
diluted by the water of assassins:
a destiny bloodhood flood
named Mexico, the trash camp
of porn-narcotic faith in this late
capitalism way of living.