Reasons to love Buenos Aires.
Because they have a street named Pringles. Avenida Pringles. “I’ve a need o’ Pringles.” Well you should buy some.
Because you’re encouraged to jump onto moving trains.
Because Buddha is a brand of insecticide.
Because they have the kind of women who’ve condensed the dense dark eyes and thighs of centuries of sex, to the point where your pants begin to slowly smoke.
Because every city bus is an adventure ride, and every taxi is a TIE fighter, and you know how many of those got mashed in Star Wars.
Because you are expendable.
Because the words you cannot say are falling, one by one.
Because the movement of the street is in the blood behind your eyes, and your back teeth click together.
Because you realise halfway through you’ve ripped off Simon Cox, but you’re pretty sure Perth doesn’t have the internet.
Because the guy on the subway is selling tape measures, and the kid in the restaurant is selling socks, and you want to ask them “What’s your strike rate?” And “Can I see your business plan?”
Because you can’t buy beers smaller than your forearm.
Because when your bad Spanish meets the bad Spanish of the Chinese grocery clerk, Queen Isabella rotates in her grave like a Sydney Road kebab.
Because your phrasebook is useful, for rolling roaches.
Because your friends are dead and you have burned the ship they sailed in.
Because pornography is sold on the street, where it belongs.
Because there is a shop named Crack Pizza. One supposes it must be moreish. (Not like Morgan Freeman in Robin Hood, that’s a different kind of Moorish. Although he’s not actually Moorish, and doesn’t look Moorish. But he is kind of moreish, because I also liked him in The Shawshank Redemption. And Nurse Betty. And pretty much any movie where he plays God. In the literal, acting role sort of sense, not the transplanting-a-winged-ape-to-the-back-of-a-critically-injured-city-cop-to-create-a-crime-fighting-machine sort of sense.)
Because the funky bus is not afraid to be different.
Because you know you’re hardcore when you’re crossing the street while Argentines won’t.
Because if you get a local girl into bed, for the next few hours you can say whatever you want.
Because every house has a rooftop terrace where you can drink beer while the day fades. The beers are cold and fresh and a dollar a litre. It would take parachuting Nazi stormtroopers to make something wrong with this equation.
Because the roof winds open with a crankhandle, and the crankhandle is not a euphemism.
Because the best way to make a house less lonely is invite the sky in.
Because here, unlike Bolivia, you have some chance of passing solids.
Because to date there have been no winged monkeys fused with city cops.
Because molestar means to annoy, and the train announcer apologises daily.
Because labio means lip, so every kiss is an act of oral pleasure.
Because the dog on the next roof isn’t barking today.
Because the creaking of your chair is a kind of dialogue, in either language.
Because you miss her with a fierce burn, and understand what love is, and understand that distance never meant a thing.
Because this beer is empty.
Because there are four more in the fridge.
Because a bottle of mayonnaise and a jar of olives somehow made a meal.
Because when you go to sleep after this poem, you will have no choice but to be alone.