..a note from the past: The Heart of Saturday Night.

{ January 24, 2011 @ 3:03 pm } · { English }

The sky is made from old whiskey and the sound of an old man

crying the blues with his deep voice,

that smells of the rainy moist streets and pavements

filled with lonesome bums without a destination.

The windows are pale and dirty…

and all drunken people are warned by bartenders – the last call!,

they hear and the clouds are pink,

a car goes by and its engine is simple,

and groovy like a moaning tenor saxophone,

no one is really content

but they all feel the addictive slaps of life as

they constantly pump blood

to the dead but such, such lovely city… that never sleeps but

waits hopelessly beside the telephone.

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