racing the limping bulls

1.rain drops shatter on the palm leaves. i look through the window at a street lit by dying fireflies. the rain i think i am alive but not quite so sure anymore.no, there is no pretending, it is truth. once i came home lonely, alone after a long day of walking the dry streets of the city. holding music in my right hand i felt dead. but somehow a part of me had come back or stayed behind to satisfy its never ending carnal desires... food and sex had held it around here in the hell we make for each other and skillfully justify it....i stopped thinking. my fridge was practically empty, no food, no beer or champagne.in the closed i found a shirt and jeans, covered my nakedness in preparation for the corner store where i get my beer along with homeless non-bums, teenagers, witches, and tamale ladies. the store owner and his wife gave me the beer cheap. they knew that i was reaching the end of my rope.the rain poured on me just like it did on all the others. soaking wet back home i lit a cigarette, open a beer, gulp, dry my body, shat,pissed spat and thought that life is a cycle of eating and drinking and pissing and shiting. even the most delicious food turns into shit...alchemistry of the body. what can one expect from a place like this, i mean really?i looked for an illusion, played the conga drum, the next wall neighbour played the wall, i stop and go take a fucking a shower, drank more beer.if i can't be content, i can be drunk and listen to the radio. the truth is a whore, no this ain't so, for she gives herself not to all but to a few.i looked at the empty bottle, rolled it away from the bed, looked at my solitude and found it more better... but there was no one to share it with. oh well, fuck it at least the roof is not leaking anymore. i used to have interesting dreams before, now i dream only of trivial thinngs. is it old age or no interesting stimulus during the day, i stare at the seeling most of the time. it never says anything to me, th