I LIVE ALONE WITHOUT A MASTER
Watching,
waiting…
To the 90th minute,
zero – zero,
no goals,
bad luck wearing number 10,
tried again and again
but nothing…
A thought of you,
the one who fills my dreams,
especially when I’m with another,
so that when I’m with you
I dream of all those others…
A house is just a labyrinth
constructed caresses and decorated with kisses,
not for me, I’m a cat that loves the rooftops
the city’s home and I live alone,
without a master.
And come the weekend:
bars and clubs filled with gals and fellows
that look like they belong in a wax museum.
Intoxicated by the kisses that I get
from those who share with me
their precious souls filled with bitterness,
I offer one a gladiolus
for solace.
Another I offer a yellow rose,
and urge her to grab it by the thorns,
so that her fingers bleed,
I need fresh blood to penetrate this suburban purgatory
where I’ve made a place for weekends.
It’s a dungeon, but who wants to roam free
when one could be wrapped in these chains of misery…
But come Monday,
we again begin the story
of the daily litany,
the cold war over coffee,
the insipid fall from grace,
forty eight hours of heaven,
and now a phone,
a desk,
this place
where fluorescence tortures my retina,
and blue ink drains my brain.
And when I’m with another I think of you,
and when I’m with you,
with all the others…
C.2025, Francisco Bravo Cabrera – 06 SEP 2025 – Izmir, Türkiye
JaZzArt en València 
Awesome!
Me gustaLe gusta a 1 persona
Thank you!
Me gustaLe gusta a 1 persona
This is a raw and evocative piece — a poem that feels like both a confession and a performance. 🌌
The imagery is striking: from the football match without goals that mirrors futility, to the labyrinth house versus the freedom of rooftops, you’ve created a tension between longing and rebellion, belonging and isolation. The speaker feels both deeply human and feral, “a cat that loves the rooftops,” resisting domestication while aching for connection.
I especially admire how you weave mundane cycles (weekend intoxication, Monday drudgery) with surreal, almost gothic touches — gladiolus and yellow roses as offerings of beauty and pain, blood as a necessity to pierce through suburban emptiness. It transforms routine into something hauntingly symbolic.
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Thank you so much Sir for that very precise and well aimed description/analysis! I am glad this poem has resonated with you!
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You really tapped your inner cat for this poem, Francisco.🙀😹😼
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Every poem is like a prophesy, it may be true but it may not…
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Some to mews about.
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💜
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🙏
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