He’s by the fight scared bar slouching loosely on a stool
Wearing suede burgundy creepers and exuberating cool
He owns a pack of cigarettes, a matchbook and a beer
And he smells a lot like he’s been doing time – only here
His shoes are the colour of an abattoir floor
His face the texture of a cheap church candle
He exhales, a lugubrious halo of violet smoke
And he whispers;
He whispers “Andan” and looks at me so I guess it's his handle
I say “What? ”
So he says it again just a little louder
“Andan” - Just like that, but with a crooked half smile
“Los meurtos andan”
Didn’t even stay for a shot
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem