Horses in en Möenchengladbach

Among telephone listenings, and hidden cameras,
on a terrace in Germany, and infiltrators
(as waiters, at noon and at three,
and at nine o’clock and at six,
a delivery man,
and customers of every creed:
two lesbians, a Bateman and a mystical marriage).
“When I give you the order,” in a racecourse,
and infiltrators:
white slave traffic in the next table.
I pretend to be betting,
among topics of conversation of poor quality:
these are concerns that you do not you take to a desert island.
And they serve us a couple of Martinis (the man at noon),
and a couple of misfortunes (the televisión),
and mixed messages: Interpol´s background noise.
“Not yet,” I ordered them,
and floods in Australia and droughts,
and indebted states,
and the resurgence of the Fascists,
and “Not yet!”
And while At last!, It was time!, they play the cards
(passports, lives: girls in exchange for euros) those of the next table,
the Stock Market is red or green,
earthquakes, typhoons, tsunamis,
and black men losing a war,
and I’m still working on this for the rest of the afternoon,
although disasters queuing to eliminate us,
all of these are coming to my Now!
And while the world falls apart,
tell me what the hell I do,
forced voyeur,
on a day like this,
speaking of horses in Möenchengladbach.

 

 

Sayonara

The main problem in Spain is that it has become a poor country.
There’s not a penny anywhere
(another factor worth mentioning is the wind).
The credibility of a fucking televangelists’ program.
And no one has a solvent political project
to bring the country out of impoverishment.
There’s no money.
Therefore, there’s nothing.
The only aspiration of The Left
is the private survival of their politicians
(and, even more leftmost,
the goal is surreal sharing of misery).
The only Right’s aspiration?
Swiss banks!
(whilst luxury watch
it reinvents itself to technological advances).
There’s nothing.
Get out of here
(if you can).

 

 

A Rolls is a rolls is a rolls

In Spain,
everybody belong to a leftist party
(the kind of Left that inmediatly sends their children
to study in the United States,
or London).
No one wants to study in Spain,
except the Darn poor:
they are the only ones genuine-Spanish-Left:
Darn poor.
Then Spain welcomes a new patriotic meaning:
a hospital for mangy,
a hospital for the poor.

 

 

Rising tide

At night, the cliffs are watches.
All time looking for locations, until I found this sixthfloor.
“Where is this place, geographically speaking?” they ask me
(plumbing and Prometheus).
Nth plane sequence, from overhead shot.
A simple and cruel goodbye,
primadonna.
I wished you anonymously.

 

Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo

Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo

Tomas Sanchez holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), an MBA (IE Business School), a Master in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines in USA, Canada, UK, Germany, Spain, South Africa, India and Australia. He has been the winner of prizes like Criaturas feroces (Editorial Destino) and a finalist at Festival Eñe in novel.

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