Odio

At dusk, sepia color,
type eight in the evening, month of May,
in its still premature crow's feet.
In its bittersweet gaze,
smiling, a mix between laid-back people
and a jaded girl from the outskirts.

I hate the cushions on the floor,
I hate sex as an experiment,
I hate hearing her recite.
I hate while she decorates my house
between multicultural and avant-garde
from the Sunday supplement.
I hate getting up or not going to bed to go to the flea market,
I hate having little wines,
I hate the afterhours,
I hate fucking humanity!,
I hate love, I hate hate,
I hate love-hate,
and the more I hate, the more I hate myself,
more hate for hating.
Chu ru ru, chu ru ru ru ru rup.

She doesn't even turn me on anymore,
her studied madness of an afterhours diva,
dancing through the streets.
Between strokes of luck and hits,
I pass a dreamy bill to the drawer of neglect.
The holes in my shoes are killing me...
Chu ru ru, chu ru ru ru ru ru.
Eyes full of clouds,
boots full of shit.