Los Torpes

Cramped in their cars, souls dead from hunger,
They seek bread for their lust with Yankee whiskey in their veins.

They drink from what’s prescribed in the particular kronen,
Looking for dead women, dead from thirst, already dead.

From being still in the lost bars of any dive.
The night shivers, in the cars it’s just getting started.

It’s just getting started.

The luckiest ones soon manage to save their lives,
Before the hour of the clumsy, before the cursed hour.

And they cling to a waist or a lost hand,
That met their hand before the cursed hour.

Meanwhile, the clumsy wait, patient collectors
Of glances and poses that they wisely archive,

For when the executioner sun finally hits the rooftops
And the clubs close down, when the last clumsy ones

Have left the scene.

But, as unbelievable as it seems, the story isn’t over yet.
After the hour of the clumsy, maybe some lucky one

Will stumble upon, in the wreckage of a shipwreck,
The final analgesic, another abandoned clumsy,

To cling to without desire, fleeing from the fucked-up sun
Of the dawn that the clumsy have as our enemy,

As our enemy.