Buenos Aires and the Origins of Sausse

By Mel Vil

Buenos Aires and the Origins of Sausse is a captivating collection of poetry that will take readers on a journey through the vibrant, yet gritty, streets of Buenos Aires during the early 2000s. This collection offers a unique perspective on the city, capturing both the wave of euphoria and the economic crisis that engulfed the country during that time.

The poems are written by a disoriented and jaded young man who embarked on a path of personal discovery, only to find that the real struggle begins at the end of the path. Through his words, readers will feel as though they are standing alongside low-ranking drug dealers, witnessing the ever-dwindling middle class porteños and the ever-burgeoning European backpacking tourists.

Buenos Aires and the Origins of Sausse explores themes of disillusionment, self-discovery, and the struggle to find meaning in a world that seems to be falling apart. The poems are beautifully written and will appeal to anyone with an interest in modern poetry, Latin American culture, or the human experience.

Whether you have visited Buenos Aires or have only dreamt of doing so, this collection of poetry will transport you to the heart of the city and leave you with a deep appreciation for its complexity and beauty. So come along for the ride and experience the captivating world of Buenos Aires and the Origins of Sausse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Villemel
• Release date: Apr 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9782954512594

Mel Vil

Meet the captivating Mel Vil - a poet, free-thinker, and novelist with a passion for exploring the depths of the human experience. Born in 1979, Mel's journey has taken them from the rolling hills of the UK to the colorful streets of Latin America, and ultimately to the cultured corners of Western Europe.Despite their varied travels, Mel's belief system is firmly rooted in Eastern ideas, infusing their writing with a powerful spiritual essence that will leave you breathless. With a voice that echoes with raw emotion and an unflinching honesty, Mel's work speaks to the very heart of what it means to be human.Through their latest novel, Mel invites you to join them on a journey of self-discovery, where the only limits are those you set for yourself. With each turn of the page, you'll find yourself drawn deeper into a world of vivid characters, intense emotions, and transformative insights.So come, step into the world of Mel Vil and experience the power of their writing for yourself. Order your copy today and discover why they are quickly becoming one of the most exciting voices in contemporary literature.

Book preview

Part I: Buenos Aires

The city has me (The beginning)

The city has me,

I can’t let go.

I want all its sins. Now.

Joda, droga, fiesta. All of it.

La que sea.

Noise, gossip, drugs,

Bright lights and brighter lies.

The city of whatever,

La cuidad de cualquiera.

I don’t want it, but I can’t leave.

If I leave I’ll want it.

Its availability is indirectly

proportionate to my desire for it.

I like the idea of charging up,

Take you by the arm

Hit the street, talk a lot of shit.

Maybe dance, set some city parts alight.

Red. Some wine and love.

Together again.

The city calling

Speak to me with strange sounds.

I don’t understand really

Is the city communicating?

Crunch of stones underfoot

Jingled keys

Fumes being emitted

Engines revolving

Horns,

Brakes.

Are these the sounds of the city

Or do I have to decipher from the silences.

Silence’s absence means nothing

The silent silence speaks

Doesn’t care much for small talk

Worse, hates to be interrupted

Has left

Left the cats in charge

Too noisy, replace silence with cats,

Litter the park with kittens,

Come back when the noise has gone.

Let the cats sort it out, if they can.

What kind of cat doesn’t boast.

What kind of park doesn’t boast silence?

Café characters

What makes a man

Use napkins to eat croissants?

I can’t change this, I can only wait.

Watch from inside the window.

Wax my board, look for signs.

The threat of having sat

At some viejo’s table,

Is biting away

At the back of my mind.

They always cause a fuss,

Then refuse their table.

Get here earlier!

I have people to watch.

Here comes the rain again.

Falling on my head like a memory.

Here comes a black and gold

With its nose sagging.

Here comes a group of kids

Running for no reason.

Here comes a woman

Hugging a ¼ litre of clear liquor.

Now a undercover cop

Having a conversation

From a slow moving 70’s Ford,

Pulling a pedestrian

Around the corner by a handshake,

They split,

The cop has to use his free hand

To help the window’s mechanism.

A waiter returns a tray of dirty cups,

From some antique dealer,

No doubt.

A bus full of soldiers,

Eyes wide open.

Provincial youngsters

Treated to the corners of San Telmo.

Tourists stand out, different skin,

Different clothes.

Looks of bewilderment,

Perhaps.

Maps, bottled water,

Cameras and hats.

All the clues are there

If you have to look closely.

I see a lot of cheap clothing

Not the older generation,

Still wearing the same clothes

Bought twenty years ago,

Back when there were decent clothes.

Today’s generation forty

Can’t get out of denim and plastic.

How well do these people know each other,

It seems like café face recognition.

What of their real lives?

Do they talk about them?

It seems so unlikely,

You would expect gossip in a café.

An educated population,

This is utopia.

If only it wasn’t a drug store.

A quick fix of espresso.

Not quite a fashion any more

Seasonal colour blindness,

The big give away.

So, coffee is the new black.

Where is that side of me today?

I need strength and confidence.

Which is my drug of need?

Which of these insipid vices is it,

That isn't working?

Where is the decisive vocal combination?

It’ll come if it comes out.

There is a voice to accompany it,

A strong voice.

It tells people what I am going to do,

Or rather it lets them know,

For all I care.

The old guy leaves,

A writer by my estimate.

The black and golds get so close

At the crossroads.

To the point of nearly touching,

As the other rolls slowly by.

No one complaining,

Just the way it is,

No pasa nada.

The rules are your own,

The world is just overlap.

Here comes a change in the fabric.

Why is it possible to spot a man

Who lives a very basic existence?

Perhaps in the back of a van

Or some deserted warehouse.

Or even in the street.

You won’t see him much,

But he’ll be cleaned up when you do.

He has thin legs and a voluminous torso.

Swabby black, grey locks.

Scissor trimmed beard.

Today, a clean leather jacket.

He is in his street disguise.

Shape shifting for whatever necessity

Having brought him to our world.

A soaking-wet girl gives up

And stops a black and gold.

She throws herself against the seat

Almost violently.

Then lifts her head

And delivers the address.

A place, no doubt, warm and dry

I wonder if Roxanne had a roman nose

Or such black hair.

Not a blonde in a red dress, then?

Two uniform cops finish their break,

And get up to leave

As they reach the bar,

The owner reaches into the kitchen,

And passes them their jackets.

Multiple telephones start ringing

Eliciting varied response times.

All precalculated of course

Appearances really are that important

Interested in nothing except quien hinchas?

Café politics I suppose.

For me it’s a second home.

My area of ‘populated solitude’.

Where there are people,

Life and events.

Things I can pluck

From the air to play with.

But what are the chances

Of concentrating in such an environment?

It seems to be animate,

Always changing.

I need to be in solid situations.

I am emotionally diurnal.

But Today’s a lazy Thursday,

Busy digesting last night’s beef.

You can’t pay to eat in a place like that,

But nothing beats your company, sweet thing.

The