mort mot juste

junho 21, 2009

limegreen birds touch you lightly

i wish to write to you
a poem of little weight.
or a letter, one that could rest
upon your left shoulder
without your noticing.
a small, slender
black-winged sparrow
clothed in green.
i'd love to hand you
the unspeakable
not a promise but
a touch of gain and destination,
not a stir in the atmosphere
but rather the west wind himself
adorned with emphatically no,
and with lace, and fish scales.
instead i trade these few words
for a moment of regard, a fine
cord of tenderness
a score of zero,
taking hold of fingers
in a summer storm

maria 1:29 PM 1 vociferando estavam

junho 15, 2009

a masterpiece

you know what?

yes you, come closer. i'll write you down. why write about myself? that would be old-fashioned to say the very least. it would be old, worn, stupid-eyed, redundant, yellow-looking-photograph-like. i'll take a bit of skin if you will. pin it down, look at it, then i'll wonder: what word does this look like? or is it more like a single letter? whatever i decide it's supposed to be, it will still serve some purpose, wouldn't dare waste it, not ever. going back a bit, just not to lose the sound. sound's crucial. well, of course this is a song. could you be any slower? stay with me. (by that i mean do not fall asleep, no matter what.)even though you have that sleeping condition i'm taking you to a blank space in the middle of any desert, you name it, we'll be on our way. only there could never ever be any sightseeing, by that i mean no mirages allowed, for what i have in mind is far more interesting. a string of hair, please. never knew you had red hair! here, and a word blossoms from the startling white. beautiful! stay with me. you can cover that later, no one will ask you what's happened to your arm, i swear over my mother's life. the stuffed canaries are just for pleasing the eye. they'll frame the picture, the rosemaries will please half the remaining senses. tell me about the last time you met your father. did you see your own dead face in his eyes 40 years from now, and if so, were they blue? were you sure about the way your family members, one by one, toppled onto the graves carefully dug for the purpose? who's dying first? does your younger sister smell of daisies, yes or no, and why? another bit of skin, longer now, way longer. give me inches, miles of stretched skin. that's perfect, that's a whole novel. what kinds of geometric forms do you see repeatedly before you after looking directly at the sun for ten seconds or more? are they smooth? everything matters, a bit of blood please, the fluids matter, all matter matters. that's why we touch. as touching can never fulfill our curiosity, we taste. and in tasting we spend time, so long, limitless years unlike the years with only so many days. a fingernail or two would tell the impeccable story we all want to read. the ending would be fifteen times as sore as the damage done. stay with me. so it started a while ago? and you thought you could kill ants in your sleep, even though you were nine? that's cheap. that's disposable, that's not literature, give me more hair, how about pubic this time? that's better, nearer perfection. we are not settling for any less. lick this (i'm sorry for asking). it's crucial, like the sound in the background, a strangled piano, a few accidental bangs on dumb drums. stay with me, you haven't lost that much blood as to make you collapse into my arms which are becoming (if you look closely) quite skinny. why yes that lady does sing like a crippled angel. therefore i could never ever keep you from hitting your head hard on the paved sand of this and there. i'm almost too shy to ask for the stuff which your eyes are made of. but it's only necessary that i do. so here, 1% of your left eye is enough and i'm sure you won't miss that part. so you're lefthanded? that's interesting, tell me more. i'm almost done. your imaginary cat spanked you when you were four, see, that's just the kind of information we don't need on our official books. do you hate it every time you step on moist dirt and muddy grass? thought so. we all do. so your dog eats geranium petals? interesting. an eyelash would be great. why thank you, three's a lucky number everywhere. where'd you get this tattoo? can i have it? you had a nervous breakdown because you thought your mouth was an imploding 102-story building? that's a way to put it. another would be, i've gone nuts, lock me up. i'm done. it's a masterpiece. i knew you wouldn't feel a thing. let's all avoid mirrors for a while now and take this to the press immediatly. the bandages are not too tight, thanks for asking.

maria 7:47 PM 3 vociferando estavam

ao rés da fala