Launderette I want to make the best of what I have. I want to stay here with you, minus the phone. Here, take it. I don't need technology reminding me of where or what I'm not currently. You know what? I want to drink water from the tab until I become a tory, Ignore all the climate change signs and deny the science. (Pause) Take me to the launderette. Where all the walls are white. I can read a magazine and travel back in time. Cold I'm no little grasshopper. I learn, but I'm not learning. Houston smells like pine floor cleaner. Spain smells like dry leaves, and England is a mix between musk and dust. 'She is so little,' some say. Most say at some point. I hear them. Venezuelan houses smell like food and wood cleaner. Sometimes granite cleaner or simply like granite floor. I sniff my boyfriend when he comes home. He smells like… *sniff* 'Your nose is cold,' he interrupts.

Pancakes and wine Pancakes and wine. Germany was so nice. Pancakes and wine. It was all we needed at the time. My friends always feed me dinner, They love a feast and enjoy a drink. After five years without seeing them, I arrived in Mannheim to the famous pancakes and the addition of wine. This poem is an oath to simple things like pancakes and wine. You may think it is because it rhymes or that this is an excuse to have dessert after nine. I implore you not to think much about it, It is just pancakes and wine. The Bath Two water bottles, a reflection remains. On a white wall, they overlap, but their contents don't meet just yet. My bath is drawn, my body meets liquid form. How can I feel warm and untouched at the same time? There is a gap on the drain, now less water remains. I can see my skin uncovered, but I know that it doesn't matter, A couple of minutes and it's over, the bath won't last much longer. I leave the solid empty tub. On the wall, the bottles remain. They sat under the light; they travelled and met. Who would dare to change that?

The Immigrant's Journey There is a blind spot in every eye, There is an immigrant walking by. There is a past unseen by every human passing. When you are crossing the streets, do you hear different languages? Can you make out conversations? Or are we all just passing by? In Greek mythology, Orpheus couldn't look back. Myths always have clear rules and clear consequences. But just like the underworld, the mind is one foggy place. Reality doesn't obey such clear rules. Reality can be a hell of a place. Blind spots still gather information around us. The sixth sense is capable of looking back without having to turn around. I see trees, I see cafes, I see roads, I see people. But I'm not looking because I know they are not there. A reconstruction of the world from miles away follows me every step of the way. That tree isn't grey, it isn't tropical, it has nothing to do here. I will turn around and see an English tree, an English scenery and hear the cold wind blowing me off. And I'm at peace, walking back home. I don't look back anymore.

Launderette I want to make the best of what I have. I want to stay here with you, minus the phone. Here, take it. I don't need technology reminding me of where or what I'm not currently. You know what? I want to drink water from the tab until I become a tory, Ignore all the climate change signs and deny the science. (Pause) Take me to the launderette. Where all the walls are white. I can read a magazine and travel back in time. Cold I'm no little grasshopper. I learn, but I'm not learning. Houston smells like pine floor cleaner. Spain smells like dry leaves, and England is a mix between musk and dust. 'She is so little,' some say. Most say at some point. I hear them. Venezuelan houses smell like food and wood cleaner. Sometimes granite cleaner or simply like granite floor. I sniff my boyfriend when he comes home. He smells like… *sniff* 'Your nose is cold,' he interrupts. Pancakes and wine Pancakes and wine. Germany was so nice. Pancakes and wine. It was all we needed at the time. My friends always feed me dinner, They love a feast and enjoy a drink. After five years without seeing them, I arrived in Mannheim to the famous pancakes and the addition of wine. This poem is an oath to simple things like pancakes and wine. You may think it is because it rhymes or that this is an excuse to have dessert after nine. I implore you not to think much about it, It is just pancakes and wine. The Bath Two water bottles, a reflection remains. On a white wall, they overlap, but their contents don't meet just yet. My bath is drawn, my body meets liquid form. How can I feel warm and untouched at the same time? There is a gap on the drain, now less water remains. I can see my skin uncovered, but I know that it doesn't matter, A couple of minutes and it's over, the bath won't last much longer. I leave the solid empty tub. On the wall, the bottles remain. They sat under the light; they travelled and met. Who would dare to change that? The Immigrant's Journey There is a blind spot in every eye, There is an immigrant walking by. There is a past unseen by every human passing. When you are crossing the streets, do you hear different languages? Can you make out conversations? Or are we all just passing by? In Greek mythology, Orpheus couldn't look back. Myths always have clear rules and clear consequences. But just like the underworld, the mind is one foggy place. Reality doesn't obey such clear rules. Reality can be a hell of a place. Blind spots still gather information around us. The sixth sense is capable of looking back without having to turn around. I see trees, I see cafes, I see roads, I see people. But I'm not looking because I know they are not there. A reconstruction of the world from miles away follows me every step of the way. That tree isn't grey, it isn't tropical, it has nothing to do here. I will turn around and see an English tree, an English scenery and hear the cold wind blowing me off. And I'm at peace, walking back home. I don't look back anymore.