From My Blood-Red Orange: “New York City”

“2008” acrylic on canvas, 54 x 107 cm
In private collection
Where I live there are no ice cream parlours,
no snack bars on the beach,
no fast food on the harbours.
Where I live the food is nasty, hard to eat,
the water tastes like piss,
the fruits smell like sewer rats
that before you bear their teeth.

Where I sleep the air is not conditioned cool,
or warmer during frozen days.
My mattress is a cardboard box,
I'm up as soon as I feel the first of that yellow ball's rays.
My breakfast, in the dumpster on Eighth Avenue and Fifty Seventh Street,
If I can find anything after all my neighbours eat,
'cause they're bigger and they're meaner and they never let me pass,
I guess when I turn ten or twelve I'll get something at last.

Yes, I'm from right here, Manhattan, Midtown,
but I was born in the Bronx,
and when I was just a baby my mother crossed the river
and New York's been my home.
My mom?
Lying in an alley, just west of Ninth and Forty Second Street.
She's been there for a whole day,
can't rouse her from that sleep.
But I don't care, I never knew her well,
she brought me to this island city
where the devil seems to dwell.

I was remembering a song by the Beatles, that Paul wrote and sang that started like this: “Ah, look at all the lonely people, where do they all come from? Where do they all belong?” The song, “Eleanor Rigby”, was released as a double A-side single with “Yellow Submarine,” in August of 1966. Both are from the album Revolver.

The song is about two lonely people, Eleanor, an old woman who exists in a world of her own, population one. Her main purpose in life is nothingness. She “picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been.” The other is the priest, Father McKenzie, who preaches in an empty church and whose sermons “no one will hear.” Eleanor dies and he buries the old woman. To her funeral, nobody came, just him, seemingly caring little for the lonely people, “he walks from the grave.”

“No one was saved, all the lonely people, where do they all come from, all the lonely people, where do they all belong.” The cycle of life and death among the “lonely people” simply begins again…

What do you think? As an artist, I encourage all others engaged in the creative arts, or not, to get involved. This is our world, this is our problem. I have been focusing on two very serious conditions found in the world today, mainly poverty and the plight of immigrants. I think that if we all do our part, we can begin to change things, even if we have to do it helping only one person at a time. That is one less. It’s worth the effort.

If you agree, please share, comment and hit that like button. Let’s discuss these topics. Whoever said that topics such as politics and religion…or others also considered polemic…should not be discussed was lying. Such topics should be the source of discussions and conversations perpetually on everyone’s agenda. Of course, only through civilised discussions, no fights, no argumentum ad hominem, let us argue only the facts.

You can see my artwork…like the one above…drawings and paintings, on my Instagram, @Francisco_Bravo_Cabrera and my online galleries, featuring my 2019 collection, “JaZzArt en Valencia” at (you can browse, you need not purchase anything)


From My Blood-Red Orange: “Systems Analysis”

Where do your words of hatred go 
when they leave your hateful mouth?
Do they just linger
about About ABOUT!

And where does the energy you use
to strengthen your anger, hatred and your fury
Does it join the air you breathe?
Does it force you to relive such dark emotions?

Where does the theory of your life meet
life of skin and bones? Where is the mirror
where your image grows? Where is the voice that
firmly commands your irregular emotions?

Your mirror is a vacant field with ruins in the sun.
Forgotten truths, mistaken paths, a child that longs to run
among the ghosts of long lost years...
Perhaps you hide and fear
the voice,
that growing near,
will whisper a command into your tiny ear,
the word you never thought you'd hear...

"Love is the only theory child,
it fulfills every demand.
It's the land where castles stand,
replacing ruins in the sand."

And you lie within the ruins of your ancient thoughts
and suffer,
for you know and understand,
You're far too low, you're far too deep
In nothingness,
to ever creep
and crawl and reach,
with sunshine in your hands.
You'll never reach that promised land.

(This is not a poem of despair or negativity. It is a poem that seeks to analyse the motivation of those who live life simply because they breathe. Of those who live life hating others. Of those who never really live.)

I am an artist. If you would like to see my visual art, please visit my Instagram @Francisco_Bravo_Cabrera and you can visit my online galleries at


Where do hateful words go when they leave your hateful mouth?