The Wildflowers Burn in the Night by Roberto Roja

Roberto Roja is the author of Filth & Romance and the ongoing blog, “Filth & Romance: Reflections of a Beautiful Madness”


I try to write about the state of humanity, depraved as ever with the good fight never over. I try to write status updates of my blog on Facebook for “friends” to read and admire when they are caught up in their own news feeds, LIKES, and profile pictures. The eyes have strayed from the magic of life and attached themselves to the material world like an anti-spiritual virus eating away at the flesh, digging in deep, right to the core and devouring our souls.

I try to write about not being able to write. The blank page. Lovers coming and going. The music. The filth. The madness. The 9 till 5. The government. The whistle-blowers. The wine. The booze. The bars. The little old crazy woman living downstairs who always knocks on my door at around 11pm to fix her broken mobile phone, then invites herself inside and talks about her days working in the taxi ranks with her fellow comrades wanting to fuck her during each shift in the alleyways inside her cab, in the back streets of nowhere and everywhere.

While the dark red sea continues to flow, I try to write about all this shit, filth, and more, but the words and magic always come back to old flames that have left their mark on my being, never being able to step away, like the bluebird flying towards the horizon, never being able to reach the end of the day’s dying light, yet still continuing to fly on into the night, forever circling around its own dreams and desires.

I call it a beautiful madness. The greats all had it. They knew what it was. Mozart. Da Vinci. Bukowski. Artaud. Rimbaud. Just to name a few. All of them, all walked through life with their own special kind of madness. A beat. A rhythm. Paving the way for all future artists to catch onto their abstract fire. And like the greats, the women, wine, music, and love have grabbed onto my soul and beat the shit out of the holy, holy divine trance they try to instil in you from a young age, and now the filth has taken over and I walk, dance, and fuck to the cosmic fire that is forever burning.

Burning inside small bars with strange women coming up to me who have read some of my work and say . . .

“Why don’t you write about something other than the filth and women you always seem to be stuck upon in your words.”

She keeps banging away with the question . . . Questions after questions . . . She does not seem to mind my silence. The questions keep coming. And all I can think about is walking out on her, but she has great legs, and I’m too drunk to give a shit.


We’re both pissed

She more than I

Her auburn hair rests upon my shoulders

Like wild flowers

Blowing in the wind

Of an isolated field of darkness

Never admired

Never touched

Never written about

She has finally had enough of my silence

And walks away

I turn to have one last glance at those great legs

And wild flower hair

I order another drink

And she is gone

Off to another poor fucker

Loaded with more questions

The filth never ends

And so the days keep rolling into night

While another glass of the dark red sea is poured

Over my soul

Yet never drowning in that red liquid magic

There is always just enough oxygen

To keep fighting the good fight

And just enough madness

To keep the words flowing

Across the page

So be careful

Next time you walk

Through a field of wild flowers . . .

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