mellon spirals

coat of arms

2011-01-18T22:52:00.004-02:00

water boy, you swim

the heights, the tallest

rocks and blades, traces

of you drop, transform

into my late, worn

trance you

take a dive, swallow

into the unfamiliar

body, my safe: your hands and

wings as rivers,

eyes in crests

my coat of arms removed: this yellow

plume of you

hammering a deaf ocean

beat against my drums, shields of

silvering drizzle and sweet

spit, soft now, my wants of

trembling do prevail,

the one,

the single gush, and i was

you: we were beautiful

once,

we were beautiful once.

sun

2010-09-30T21:48:00.003-03:00

there is this lean

potence in the blinking, blinding

chorus of a day,

it drives me mad

how in the same unifying impulse

the chamber of commerce can explode

and this caterpillar keep dancing on my lap

the sun may turn to red death

and a heart may see its dawn, its last

winter, and i will be here holding this

moment, still

intake

2010-08-10T13:24:00.003-03:00

this diverted series of breaths phased out

the occasional red and yellow all that's left of fire

flame's out, yearning's memory's delicate pain

there's nothing to beg for anymore

i could bite my lips to originate some new beginning

ingest brand new worms and drag slowly

this fog, this bird song from stratocaster youths

i could raise this infection and seize the fever

but my guts are cold and there might be nothing left

in love and other follies

for me to cling to

girl with half an eye

2010-07-29T18:06:00.003-03:00

scribbling here and there

lame death hour, wrong continent

my uncle said

baby girl, this right here is my war and you ain't seen it

nothing did i say, i thought though, i thought sir

honorable mister, grey-headed icon

this is my desert and my soldier hung, a leafless tree

was tired from all the waves keep getting worse in my eyes, lids, throat

broken teeth scratch my tongue, i beg them not to notice, they notice but keep sensible

and they offer water and their own beds

they think i can rest it off

drink it off

fuck it off

this mess

not premeditated

howling by day, by late night

melting ears, shaving all the hair

you couldn't possibly

get into my head if you wanted to

i'm done is it doom is it love misplaced it is weeds growing to seed

she's a lucky pup i hear do i hear it backwards

girl with half an eye taste invisibility

try, fail, get up

girl with half an eye

put on a fancy dress

you're about to die

song excerpt

2010-02-26T11:21:00.001-03:00

you're so wrong

looking at the framed shore

and what you cannot see is thru your camera lens

your eyes just melt into forgetfulness (...)

garden weed with a rose mask

2009-11-04T15:01:00.002-02:00

are these thorns and scars the reason

you're so drawn to me?

don't bother, little brother.

for the thorns are plastic fakeness

and the scars, though with the lights out

may feel like hills to your fingers,

all come to a dead end

of skin and hair

and turn touch into a mockery of senses.

hiatus

2009-10-20T15:48:00.003-02:00

i have been writing lately. it's just that some of the texts i just cannot post.

stay tuned for more ''i'm coming home'', though.

i'm coming home- pt. V

2009-08-22T03:26:00.014-03:00

so i said, crashing for the third consecutive week at bella's (i had never done this before): love is what you may or may not find in that deep and black hole-ish gap between your head on his chest and the minute the words that come out of your mouth in hope of communication get sucked into large black space.

she euphemismatically told me that i was becoming a boring sentimentalist with no depth or vision. whatever in hell did she mean by vision? i promptly agreed, though. bella, thou art my salvation. she laughed at this ejaculation, but i know she was really just thiking: i've always been, dear. then she gave me some toast, jelly, peach tea, old books, notebooks and torn pages from books and notebooks. her way of saying, i need to go check on my dad at the hospital, you'd better stay here but don't worry for these things will surely entertain you.

---

i need the fuel to make my fire bright

---

i was entertained indeed. there were letters, dozens of them, mostly from old suitors. and yet we were still so young. i felt the urgency of youth swirling in my diluted blood. the more water there was mixed with the red stuff, the easier it would reach the boiling point was my guess. in less than half an hour my whole body was simmering, not at the fiery words written by sweaty palms but at my own reminiscences and feelings of wasting time and getting it back. as if time were such a thing you could get ahold of, my own dad would have said. such a dreary subject i thought damn these ancient poems and photos.

then i had a brilliant idea: if i would just smell and listen to and look at today i wouldn't feel so goddamned sour.

i went over to the window but something prevented me from opening it.

---

and i know that you feel it too

---

can i be sure about all the coincidences? i'm not convinced. whether you can tell: this one was the hand of God, whilst this was more of a premonition, but this one, oh, this one was a mere coincidence, nevermind it. since i could not open the window i decided to just go downstairs and get some fresh air.

---

you'll know that it's warm inside

and you'll come running to me

---

i saw him land. my red feet on the grey pavement. young, necktie, blindfold. or was it the tie looked like a blindfold. a smashed vase of gardenias. yellow checkered pullover. the blooming fabric intact till oh hey, it still looks intact. trees all around in silent judgement. trees know a lot about these things you know. to proctect themselves from a slow death by boredom they have made this their area of fucking expertise since the first sucker drowned himself in porridge. it keeps them amused. so young and fresh. not anyone's suitor yet. peach-looking little boy, landing is a way of saying he did make some awful noise but i had on my headphones and did not dare to remove them. i felt their pressure in my ears. i could have accidentally dropped my cellphone into the sewers from the shock and stuff but this was no melodrama. i sneezed instead, it was chilly and i had no jacket. i usually sneeze under such circumstances. looked down at my feet again, not the red shoes, but the yellow sneakers. which brought me to putting them on before leaving the apartment, which brought me back to bella. i'll carry a gold filling for you through acres of cruel snow. this is what the song said. i said nothing. bella (thank god) was nowhere near. red. blue. sirens sung not so enchanting. they're just bird-women after all. some birds sound really annoying to tell you the truth. but after a while: keys: strings: finger holes on ceramic: the sound became pleasant enough. so i followed, a hallucinating homeless sailor. they almost hit me, i couldn't see their lights. a few steps forward. and there they were.

---

don't fight it anylonger

---

i'm coming home- pt. IV

2009-07-31T18:30:00.003-03:00

so i moved. ok, more like took a dirty bus and feared the risk of infection and death by swineflue and stayed at bella's for a while. she was away visiting her folks, and left me keys under the mat and CDs in a cookie jar.

made me feel respect no more

her creepy argentinian roomate had cleared the map a month prior to my arrival, so i was all alone and tranquil. bella thought of everything, she really did. all i had to do was wake up and open the window and feel the ''awful suicidal breeze'' as she calls it. makes me giggle every time i open the window to her bedroom.

---

i can smell bella's shampoo all over the bathroom still. she left the bottle on the sink, green and a bit sticky with no label on it. she always peels the labels off every shampoo bottle. it started when she moved to a new apartment for the fifth time. the floor is still a bit wet from her taking a shower just before leaving. a long, red string of hair: hi, bella.

---

so it was a castle or a monastery in portugal or the netherlands or bahia or any of the fifty states. a tall creature staring at me, ambling closer, she's got the longest hair, some ancient kind of blinding bright eyeshadow and shot silk around her slight figure which i can distinguish quite clearly through the gown and all is emerald green and those long purple flowers the liberal shepherds give a grosser name and my black hair and her yelllow hair and braids of arms and fingers and at last black and yellow hair and emerald green eyelashes entangled growing thicker and tearful teeth and suddenly nothing.

---

bella's alarm clock. her mirror next to the bed. bella's black eiderdown. my hair is red again. like hers. my hair is red? what day is it? my throat feels like duck feathers and rain. the sun coughs and i hear the light, her CD playing all night repeatedly cause i forgot to turn the damn thing off. i need to call richard about this. i could have never woken u- richard's dead. richard is dead, i remember now. and this is why i came here, and this is why i'm going out for some fruit and water and not thinking about him, not thinking about him, not thinking about him.

---

i come along, but i don't know where you're taking me

---

holy heavens, it is still that time of year. that time of month. that cursed time of day when the cars all start, the engines all grin, the trees all bend. they bend in curtsy for you to walk by, my dear. it would be almost unbearable if it weren't delightful. i know you well. you're coming back, if not from the dead, from the halted hourglass of was, which is really just a profound sleepiness. but no, not until another week. for now i should only wait, and walk to the bakery with a friendly smile and say: g'day, sir, may i have, sir, an excuse to stay outdoors, sir? and not going inside will be a kind of triumph, and sitting at a park will be a kind of allegiance not to some flag sewn in a whorehouse but to the sweet scent of shampoo, and bread, and woodfire smoke.

---

i'm coming home- pt. III

2009-07-03T13:15:00.005-03:00

one word: funeral. never liked it, it's not only the meaning, it's something else- the way it sounds, the way you can say it over soup, over coffee, and it's alright, it's not like it's your goddamned funeral.

let me rephrase it: richard's funeral. dear rich, dead as the next fellow. flowers, bells, pounds of tissue, black attire, last words (but not really), children with their hands in their mouths not knowing exactly what, why, how, i see a duckling, mom where's the gum, is there any gum, how does gum taste when you're dead etc.

richie. dead. gone. a memory, a (there's another word i really hate) corpse. i could start from the cliché: this is like a dream, i might wake up at any second all sweaty and confused and it will be fine, i'll go downstairs again, i'll check the clocks, he's alive at last- alive and well! i could go from here to another part of the world: jenny gives me a call, we pack and casually leave for the Cayman Islands. we get so drunk on the plane we believe we can see giant birds in the clouds, but not regular birds, more like flying dinosaurs. a beautiful, blonde friend of ours meets us at the airport and takes us for a swim with the pirañas, the friendliest pirañas in the whole planet. i mean, their teeth are made of something- what's it called- it's sweet, it's sticky... it's cotton candy! yes, and the water is actually gooseberry sauce. and you could not by any means be anymore pathetic, dear. he's dead, that's all there is to it, go whisper your last insults at the (i shiver, i shiver a lot these days, but mostly i shiver when i hear the word inside my head:) corpse.

i leave. it's five p.m. again. the widow(they weren't really married or anything) has stopped crying. the duckling rests, he never heard the news. ever wondered which one of us is dying first? well he never got to know the answer. sometimes you see it coming, and you might wanna try grasping someone's sleeve, a piece of furniture. i think that's actually worse. it's better this way, he doesn't know he's dead. quite comforting.

i sneeze, i give the sign of the cross a chance: and fail miserably. was it left to right? my chest aches anyways. i'm fine without the cross, i can just yell at the gods from the roof of my house, it's more direct. works faster. i need a drink.

deary, i made you this plastic-holding-guzzler-idiosyncratic-drinking-disposable-material-top-quality-tool. that's so sweet. this kid i'm always having, he's a sweetheart. dreamt of him twice this week. he's a pain in the arse at times. but he's my baby. and a friend of mine told me that when you dream of babies-

gooseberry. it won't grow everywhere. it's very particular about where to cast its fruits. i once had a conversation under a gooseberry bush. you can tell, can't you? that i was quite small when it happened. i might have been eight. i might have been under the influence. of the zodiac? of my grandma's fifth of distill whatever? of my evil cousin, murderer of small creatures? of the neighbor's kid, the dumb one with the freckles?

i was actually planning my death. not my death, like, real death. i was just going to stage it. get some people worried, laugh afterwards, lemon-grass tea, nanna's cake, a good beating.

the apartment. and i had promised myself: not this city, not again, people treat you like litter in the bus, they scream on the dirty streets, they kill you with bullets just by pointing their empty hands and fingers at you. they listen to awfully bad music. they have nervous ticks. they eat raw meat with their very hands. yes, rich. it was one eventful year. i'm closing the door to the bathroom, i'm writing a poem in your honor. you'll see how silly i can be, silly to the extreme, when someone i know just dies. just like that. you were too proud, too blind. i liked your paintings, your cavities and most of all, i liked-

at the sight of death we all become our parents, their parents, other people's parents; jenny said.

i had an idea today. i'm leaving new york. did i tell you that already? i have been leaving new york for a few years now. it takes time, it is such a large city.

limegreen birds touch you lightly

2009-06-21T13:29:00.003-03:00

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

a masterpiece

2009-06-15T19:47:00.003-03:00

you know what?

you.

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.

photo

2009-05-20T18:07:00.009-03:00

the image looks a bit shaky. it's my hands. i'll work on it.

faraway bird trilling, a technician groans

i cough, run my fingers down an invisible skirt. a glass of water would be fine, yes, please.

---

the legs are spread wide. they are long, enclosing the ride every so tightly. the breath is soundless. she is lean, inactive and red on the lips. they are always red on the lips, such a sly pattern. the eyes are smoky, not as in eye shadow but as in actual smoke.

---

the shimmering plastic acquires pale colors in the light, it seems fleeting. slightly dirty hands wave in the scentless air, they're hers, they're no one's. every hue is perfect in its contrast with the others, even the soiled ones. every string of hair aches from straightening, and hangs down motionless, inorganically alive.

---

it's time. make sure nothing else looks as crimson as her mouth not quite shut. it must look like it's galloping, like there's a music box playing as she rides. it must look like a disgusting, obscene fantasy suspended by a pink thread of silk. juvenile enough to cause a sense of outrage. unpretentious enough to make it seem sinless.

---

the shrubbery around the park quivers. i should hope it's only the breeze.

names

2009-05-20T16:36:00.007-03:00

I have recently noticed something quite universal: people are obsessed with names. Now, why is that? To tell you the truth I couldn't care less. Besides their grammatical function, names can have additional or pure honorary and memorial values. Names have meanings, you might say. They have purposes, ideas behind them. Names are unanimous, you find them just about everywhere. They're not too hard to grasp. A name can do so much, and only so much. There are kinds of names: anthroponym, toponym, hydronym, ethnonym, pseudonym. First name, last name, middle name, nickname, pen name. There are names that a large amount of people tend to remember for a long long while: Ghandi, Winston Churchill, Rimbaud, Napoleon, Mozart, Greta Garbo, Socrates, Stalin, Degas, Anna Karenina, Billy the Kid, Alexander the Great.

I'll make a longer list right now. I'm afraid it'll be a bit on the useful side.

What sorts of things can you do with a name?

You can assign it, you can call it, you can make it up. You can look it up, you can like it, dislike it, you can simply not mind it. You can choose it, write it, spell it, print it, if you're a dolphin you can even whistle it. You can tattoo it on you, or on somebody else. You can etch it in skin or wood with a penknife and brand yourself with it. You can know it, hear it, whisper it, read it, scream it, make acronyms, call it out in vain. Abbreviate it, count the letters in it, cast out demons just by saying it. You can learn its meaning and its origin.You can describe how your tongue feels against your palate when you say it out loud, you can translate it, you can find all of its anagrams and put them in alphabetical order. You can sell a name, you can buy a name. It's true. I've heard you can moan a name. I've also heard about people who cuss names, praise names, and even repeat them as a form of religious procedure. You can remember a name, you can try not to remember a name. Sometimes, not too rarely, you can forget a name as well.

That's not all I hope. Writing about names makes it easier not to obsessively think about them as much. It removes the mystery, turns them into ordinary labels. it soothes the aching mind. You should try.

5 p.m.

2009-05-06T17:04:00.007-03:00

so it's 5 p.m. again, and you greet the hour with despair. it creeped up on you, the sly, untouchable... thing. where was I at 5 p.m. fifteen years ago? standing in sunny grass? fidgeting? was it midwinter? how healthy were my bones? the family photo doesn't show. what was I thinking? fifteen years ago's when they started to give up on the whole family photo thing. the best thing they ever did if you ask me.

i'm still not sure about my bones.

6 p.m. Just a laughing proof of your failure. for if you know it's 6 p.m. and you suffer the fact, you're a goddamned loser. you're worth as much as the time you toss out the window. mark my words. winter is hell except the air moves and things get a bit chilly. oh yeah, and the billboards write drooping poems on themselves. i'm pretty sure that's how we get rain.

i can't rely on time anymore. my watch committed suicide, a perfect little human being only clockwork. i feel guilty because my first thought about it was ''phew, coulda been me''. but i guess i'm faking the guilt a little. it's not that i don't feel for it. i just think it was bound to break sooner or later.

5 p.m. i'm not really glad I can choose what to do with the hour. It seems to me that someone else could have chosen more wisely. but there's no someone else at 5 p.m., so here we are, chap. i'm all yours.

now show me the right way.

might be the continuation of --i'm coming home-- (http://mellonspirals.blogspot.com/2008_06_01_archive.html)

2009-04-10T17:54:00.004-03:00

a clash between rosebud and dead cat soaking with salt water, dragged by waves to dry on the shore. i get these photos every Monday in my mailbox. i haven't really subscribed to any bizarre art project of sorts, yet i have to say i've kept all the photographs: 75 so far, 76 if you count the stiff black cat and the obviously plastic yellow rose. i'm afraid to put them up. my friends will think they're so cool and interesting, but they're actually quite terrifying. i can't seem to get rid of them.

---

rich was here, of course i thought am i dreaming or is this a miracle or am i dead maybe. he knocked. ignoring the doorbell is so typical of rich. when i got the door however, he just looked at my feet and said he didn't want anything. he had to go, no he couldn't stay for coffee, meeting someone important, going somewhere doing something. i told him ''make haste then, mylord'' and smiled playfully. i don't think he heard me at all.

----

well screw it i said i have laundry to do anyway, so as i was pouring detergent into the washer i heard the phone. walt groaned on the other side, and with almost unintelligible guttural sounds he announced we had to meet as soon as possible. a couple of hours later there we were, me in my pajamas and walt in a Devil suit; hayfork, bifurcated tail and everything. i bit my lip not to say ''lose the beard walt, you look like Santa''. we drank milkless tasteless coffee and discussed the book he was planning to get published. the title was leaves of grass- the story of getting high. i told him it was long overdue, people wouldn't read it, he had taken too long. as he didn't believe me i mentioned several musicians who had previously made the mistake of waiting years and years to release a much promised record. ''look what it's done to them, walt.''

leaving the coffee shop it occurred to me how much i hated being in New York.

-----

oracle in shreds

2009-03-14T18:20:00.007-03:00

all my life i have walked looking down at the sidewalk, at the street, at the hardwood floor in the old house. i look down so i can find shreds of memories and pick them up, put them in my pockets and glue them onto blank paper afterwards. i also pin them to the walls but mostly i think i write them down, on my body in ink that lasts forever. when i am gone, these particles of days will be gone as well. i am in all my extension just an excuse for documenting small symbols, i mean i am made of ashen, fragile canvas.

i am a song written for the unclean lips of a priestess on some black and white photograph wearing a bathing suit and a hat in a shrine of rocks and sand. i am a faint shriek of bliss soaked with a storm of stolen fingers touching razorblades of sin. microscopic, imperceptible razorblades.

caterpillar emergency

2009-03-09T15:22:00.009-03:00

your heart at 60 bpm

heard

you

shoot yourself

i opened my eyes countless times

and i had every reason

to get to the page 100

and rip it and scream it:

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and

flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

now at 120 bpm and increasing

i'm here

dead cattle only ghost

i warn you i warn everyone

about destiny and

portuguese guitars on drunken piers

where forever i've lingered

is no place to be

there be no sound in my eiderdown

i'm at every word's root

stepping on broken shells

waiting

most certainly waiting

the next one shall have his fate

and his pine

in lisbon i'll bait him and draw out his heart

in algarve i'll spread him all over the shore

in port i'll ship him to hell where he's due

god and the devil assured i've paid mine

in one breath i blow the ocean dry

breathe in the water and spit ancient sherry

red flaming as drowning suns

devouring age

and bits of space

profile of man

2009-02-28T02:38:00.013-03:00

me. i guess i take women one at a time. in my life that is. no ravishing passions, no disturbing phone calls or screaming late at night. not in front of others anyways. i appreciate peace, stepping on real grass sometimes, letting fresh air in and out, in and out. i don't allow people to take me into dangerous territory, emotionally that is. i don't tread on hostile ground, i couldn't allow myself to slip and fall pleasantly into the dirt. especially hostile dirt. i come from parents that seem long gone, and yet they're so alive i wake up at times breathing like it's their lungs and not mine. that doesn't mean i believe in some symbolic crap about them being alive inside me, they really are. alive in the world i mean, going insane somewhere, making sterilized cash to spend on nothing in particular, making up worlds staring at the walls looking like the lunatics they've turned into. i myself feel i could easily become one of them, either one or the other, i could never be like both no matter what you say about parents and DNA and whatever. but i won't, i have a system. i rely on that system as if it was the only resort and i never needed another. so with that system i am completely safe from becoming either one of my parents, from dealing with more than one woman at the same time, from losing my cool. i am a very calm human being, a monk you could say. i would laugh at you for saying it, and feel pleased just the same. me. i am so aware of how ridiculous i seem to myself it tickles. i am so sure this is going to work out if i just stick to the plan. no diversions. no setbacks. no figment of the imagination. just me and me, this mirror i have within, few objects and my clearest plan. my life is clean, spotless, sparkling. i'm pretty sure what i'm going to do next. and i can leave people out of it. people soil things. they fill ideas up with mud to the top. i can't take that. i can't take more than one idea at a time. so i can't really think of you right now. it would mess up my directions. i can show them to you in a few years when we meet again, they're all traced, mapped out. they'll make you so proud. then i'll have to put you back in the drawer. you dirty my plans. you are such a nice girl.

History repeats itself

2009-02-09T00:25:00.011-02:00

I can't even begin to tell you how I don't have time for this to happen again. again means one more time. again means it has happened before. more than once.

.
love me
or leave me
.

last time I checked I was nobody's bitch.

rasura #3

2009-02-04T16:26:00.008-02:00

tocava um fado português na vitrola de um urubu na fronteira do deserto, uma placa grande e vermelha ''SAÍDA''
Marion, agora presa a um nome, se sentia incomodada como filha de frança, espanha e mais umas tantas, misturava centavos de dólar e de euro, e nos bolsos meia narrativa linear tinha que durar até o fim da viagem e principalmente:
uns pregos também
os pregos tinham quatro folhas, contabilizadas leste-oeste
de dia: o guia: planeta anão ao sul, maré, relógio de pulso em volta do pescoço
adornos, Marion, besteira, joga fora, deixa na areia, suas pegadas que já foram ninguém viu, é só você você você você você você você. (até o fado já morreu.)

about photographs

2009-02-03T14:24:00.003-02:00

With time I have grown less and less fond of photographs. They freeze lost yesterdays, they represent laughter but they are not laughter, they represent a moment when the moment is gone. They remind you of how time touches everything and how it's impossible to recover even a bit of past. They create the false hope of a world in which you think you can live if you look at them long enough, the world of a moment past, silent, still. They create in you a vivid memory and at the same time a forgetting that comes from relying too much on that image you wanted to preserve. They remind you of pieces of time you wish you could tightly grasp, the same way an empty room or a familiar smell might. You cannot live inside a photograph. And that's the issue.

rascunho #2

2009-01-19T03:29:00.003-02:00

.como é que eu sabia que você ia quebrar? meu grande amigo, feito de vento.
1- espelho espelho dissolva as nuvens
2,5- o soldado nunca voltou: espelho de areia, dunas de espuma. sem ele é claro.
3 a 4- pisei firme, afundou minha bandeira branca e azul, me furou os pés um crânio de boi.
possivelmente 5- intercepto lagartos no caminho, sou um estranho, expulso da terra, da língua. conto pedras:
um, dois, um, dois, solene deixo cair a boina
e derreterem as botas
6, 6, 3,9- a lua estoura na distância, claro que é dia ainda, morra um pouco
7.1- truques no crepúsculo: produzir água por milagre, engolir rifles, cuspir fitas de cetim
oito- termina a jornada de 15 minutos, todos aplaudem, enfim cactos
10. a última certeza: retinas queimadas, pano desbotado, calos nas mãos

R&M

2009-01-18T04:06:00.003-02:00

M: numbness, desires asleep, awaken... im a pile of lies
R: the untold can touch even a dead man
R: how could secrets lies or fears be any different to the ones who are always dead or alive
M: i cant decide whether i know what i feel or i prefer to pretend i dont
M: i play board games with life and let my vile dreams win
R: don't let her get the queen
M: the queen was i before i fell
M: now it's just an unwoven flower pinned to squares
R: some call it a crown
M: some think it has some value
M: but i know once it falls it's as heavy as a pebble
M: i watch from the last white square in the corner and i give up little by little
M: getting lighter and dying as all is the same
i believe nothing yet i want everything
all that's wrong and unreal
theres much sin in my words if you pay enough attention
M: i'm leaving
R: checkmate
M: i die
M has just signed off.

-
m-> http://mellonspirals.blogspot.com
r-> http://deadflagwhite.blogspot.com

perfect circle

2009-01-13T05:07:00.002-02:00

late night

black steamy coffee

spilled over red covers

hands with rings, still

symbols that never will

sleep

one morning

worn down, cracked

graffiti wall of such colors

what is a photograph

but another stubborn refusal of time

one afternoon

like the salt

that took (an evil) care

of the snow

beneath the sleepy eyes

of the sun,

i, too, felt uninspired

one evening

liquid limbs all over the streets

red clouds crown buildings

rough water from a tap

reflects my boots, dripping

warm is the painting on the wall

dissolving into mist

and touching my hair

slightly

ithaca, 1 a.m.

2009-01-13T04:28:00.002-02:00

"what time is it

over here?"

i asked

and was brought back

to a land where it's still

summer in January

and green, and lush, and noisy

(with birds mostly)

and then i just felt so

dirty, like i was stealing hours

from innocent clocks.

i wrote this just to say;

you were in that question

and in that land

a rock song and a heart failure

2009-01-11T01:12:00.002-02:00

swallowed

the

promontory

climbed

the

bird

grabbed

tightly

the string

heard

the

flies

singing

a buzz

a sediment falling

a wire

through a red

pump

20 absolute hours of consciousness

2008-12-18T04:39:00.021-02:00

20 absolute hours of consciousness
lights still on in the horizon a sick pallete repeating blue, yellow, red
a car went by at four
a bell rang at five
a key turned at six
birds pecking eyes in the wind with blue, yellow red lights reflected
curtains refuse the wind gets in despite the window
the same familiar movement in a pretty frame
glasses blind passers-by so many people are about to wake up
i will certainly not wake up
it's been 20 hours
it's been 20 years
we are all dying of something
sleeping just numbs it

---------------------------
find a reason for the next 4

let us then smoke flowers
lighting the stem
burn beautifully at our noses
if i could be anything
the last time i saw anyone?
the day before i realized the night was a tiny baby rat
with yellow eyes and a drive
to survive? let us then pick earth up
and chew it and swallow it
streets are disgustingly organic metaphors like veins
shoot anything i like up the tar
they don't curl up, they don't dance
they don't move, not an inch:
let us then dig holes in the lake
and the artificial lake at the park will shoot up more flowers
the kind you can't smoke
and fish, the kind you can't really catch or eat
and poisonous weed to feed the aching sun
let us then raise our hands to catch some
of that substance comes from the clouds
which is supposed to make us see the light
through the lenses of our cameras
let us then scratch out our fingertips
so the slimy mass of seaweed that waits in the corner
with a smiling dirty look
can't get us I.D.d
it is dawn now
i can taste the dawn
it is blue
with red hot sprinkles
and everything inside it
hovers in flames of five different
colors soaking through and through with everything
that i couldn't tell

the glass

2008-11-30T20:39:00.004-02:00

a hand rests on a wooden surface.
this image was the cheapest to be found
and i bought it for that particular reason.
getting home i sweeped the obstacles
out of my way and i opened it and it read:
the hand has a decrepit knowledge etched upon yellow
skin, violet veins. the hand with unreal fingernails
taps the wood lightly, redundantly
and in perfect, inviolable conformity with death.

i close it, fold it, caress it, lay it carefully in a drawer.
the image is safe in my forgetful drawer.

a glowing hand (young legs crossed, summer dress) restless
on the same wooden surface surprises me in an evening walk.
i had only gone out to watch the trees
but this hand leaves an imprint so warm on the glass--
the glass i had missed before but now i can distinguish,
tall, reaching the limp legs of half-eaten stars,
thick, hearing nothing, sparing nothing from its
inexorable isolation and silence-- i am bound to listen.
and yet nothing, not a sound from either side
can reach the other--
the glass so tall and so perpetual
suffocates all intentions and allows nothing
but a (hazy now, hopeless now) view

a homesick regard that invents the past but doesn't quite reach it.

sea

2008-11-24T13:29:00.000-02:00

.

.

.

the sky is an apology written backwards.

the carnival

2008-11-20T14:09:00.004-02:00

a face pinned to a stem
occured to me yesterday

am i excused to exhale
inebriated roses
behind the mistletoe

when no one is looking
you whirl and hum

i take lush notes i get beaten up

i walk along wide sidewalks
my feet are slaves to the straight line still

i see their faces smell the pink-colored fog
every building each lamp post
covered and misted

merrily going around
the faces are not misted
ghosts have always had such
clear faces

down here after the casualties
have been counted
(one ladybird, one grasshopper,
a couple of stray dogs, a starfish
a blue plastic unicorn
and a chicken)
we count the visible spots of sky

i do not leave you
i'm bound to stay here and die in a day
stealing lines from an authorless history
i do not leave you
down here every eye
is a small ferris wheel

free auction madness

2008-11-11T12:03:00.002-02:00

take my i.d.
my college degree
take my right to vote
my books my lighter
take my hair my clothes my guts
my nails my voice my
teeth take my mind
my eyes my hearing
take my thoughts my fingers
my rings my shoes
my bagpack my eyelashes
my arms don't forget my
fists my hands my
pencil my paper take
my stomach my lungs
my liver my socks
take my keys my phone
(all my gadgets) take my
dumb mouth my tongue
my throat take it all
for fifteen years in this bus stop
I have no name

unremarkable machine

2008-11-02T21:01:00.001-02:00

Needles to say I have
seen solid bridges and archways (in photographs)
Needles to say I have been
everywhere but where I intended (in frantic thoughts)
Needles to say I have been wild
and lived on a tree (in a dream)
Needles to say my reality has been
a book (in a book)
Needles to say a piercing pun don't make
a true poem (am I earnest?)
Needles to say a hole in the wall
could provide a better view (outside I live)
Needles to say I have said more
than anyone should (my mouth tingles)
Needles to say the obvious is sometimes beautiful
sometimes not (whether it's framed or on a card)
Needles to say I have written pages that now
rest (in a drawer in your room, far from me)
Needles to say I have known for years
what I know now (I know nothing)
Needless to say I write now what needles
hinted over to me (someplace I've never traveled, gladly beyond)

and yet we recall the senses

2008-10-26T13:41:00.000-02:00

lips sown shut
by life

running along
roaring rivers
scattering rice
like confetti
into a sea of dumb newlyweds

your eyes shed a muddy light
and breathe out your last pair of words

vagueness in your fingers
your tongue touches incoherences
i see a certain nervous root
the stuff that holds you together

enclosed by a valley you pick out a scent
unmisted by tulip bulbs you could rise
as a full bottle of tiny gems
darling blind amulets in your aging hands

breath

2008-10-17T21:31:00.000-03:00

truth is rare
it's in a silent crab
some foam and
dry seaweed

words are not true
they're made of air
to air return

don't trust a sound
two for a pound

they dry so sweet
stick to the glass
wind strucks too cold
so long
they pass

some light verse

2008-08-26T09:54:00.003-03:00

he dug the arm of his guitar
into your trembling heart
he packed and left for Sweden,
said: I'm sorry, we must part.

you followed him into the cold
so far from all you knew,
he said he loved you through and through
he'd cast a spell on you.

and in that place of ancient race
entranced in prussian blue
you thought yourself mislead
but found him writing songs in bed.

I'm coming home

2008-06-21T15:17:00.001-03:00

Incandescences, doubtful glances. I stare. They dismantle themselves, tear out their gleaming gowns, and sizzle with teeth. I am light. The surroundings disappear with a bang.

I halt. Blood is coming out of the drains, the sinks, the cracks in the tiles again. He says it will take a while until his apartment looks presentable. I should take a walk, get some coffee. It’s freezing out here; I would prefer to be buzzed in. I flew all the way here and I’m underdressed for the hemisphere. I’m jet-lagged, dressed in purple, looking ridiculous as I stand on my toes to reach the intercom speaker. I haven’t left the plane. It’s all in your head, says the flight attendant. I don’t remember telling her anything. Unless I’ve been whispering in my sleep. Once more. What if I did disappear in the ocean? What’s the shame in being a victim once in a while? The flight attendant must be a believer. You have to be a believer when you don’t work on solid ground.

Dear ms. pop tart, I have missed your guts since last September. We should meet. We shall. Shan’t we? How are Billy and the dogs? This message sounds like a telegram. Hope you’re alive. xoxoxo

This is probably a transcript or a letter in her leather bag (I get chills all over my arms at the thought of it, a leather bag). There is no reception here, I think to myself those kids in the back should be silent, praying that the plane doesn’t crash. A muscular, nearly bald pugilist walks out of the pilot’s chamber: this is a plane, not a party. I struggle against involuntary smiling.

His eyes. My eyes. He mirrors my trembling, my uncertainty. I’m never really sure. Our snowglobe eyes. The brown of trees back home a hundred thousand something years old. Don’t eye his nightstand; curiosity about reading material is not welcome in the realm of demons. This beautiful, incestuous country. This goddamned mousetrap. I rigidly stand. He rigidly waits. Is it possible that we don’t know each other anymore? And yet we used to be the best couple of idiots you could ever sweep off a burning meadow. Friends, if you will. At Molly’s for breakfast, in our respective parents’ houses for dinner. As if eating had always been better than speaking. When we spoke we tried to fill our mouths, but they ended up empty every time. And occasionally dry.

Most of the time his room smelled like cigarettes when I wasn’t around. Until that day. And it was as easy as choking on apple-flavored candy, coughing it out then laughing about it. It was like life was supposed to be, and yet it never really happened. We conceived of moments way better than we ever knew how to actually live them. It was funny, having to write a 1500-word-essay about my past. I sure did lie about a bunch of things. But I meant every lie, that’s for certain.

~Where am I?

~ In a cage, in heaven.

~ And what am I doing here?

~ You’re sitting, from what I can devise.

“Care for a smoke, young lady?” I didn’t smoke. I suffered from what they called inflammation of the air passages in the lungs, causing difficulty in breathing. I didn’t want a lime green cigarette that smelled like pine. I didn’t want a guy with a German accent making a move on me. I just wanted to leave. That’s for certain.

“And yet another ghost.... on this evening, of all evenings.” I suppose my father wasn’t speaking of a real ghost (all semantic implications considered). But what if he was?

I flew back to the States that night.

Celeste called, said she was floating around, asked me if I was still in New York. I nodded, absent from the fact that we were talking over the telephone. I had a rag in one hand and a bar of soap in the other. I wanted to finish cleaning Rich’s bathroom before he woke up, lest he should think all that blood was my doing.

Sweet Richard, with warm palms and curly hair, we shall never meet again. Realization is truth’s kick in the teeth.

Bob Dylan was playing on the radio in a diner when the war started. Is that a bad sign?

Read my palms. Suck my truth. I am dry, I am light. A feather a cracking stem: I wither only to flourish. They should flourish when I’m gone. I leave town on tiptoe, leaving behind my name, my luggage, and the bloody apartment. The tree’s trilling chalices look quite green, in the sun.

[_________________________]

2008-06-15T12:51:00.004-03:00

1. a casa grená era bem visível, bem real diria, tinha até sinais de pertencer a estilo arquitetônico tal com detalhes pertencentes a tal outro.
(interessa?)
2. a casa fitava a praça, na cidade morta à beira-mar. simone e bárbara rijas ao lado das árvores e:
um segundo
mais outro
brisa marítima nas copas como é de costume mas principalmente na grama

esclarecimentos de terceira grandeza
simone: moça de roxo
bárbara: o espírito de seu animal de estimação

3. continua-se fitando a casa, desejando-se entrar.
um joão-de-barro escarrava frutinhas no ninho, frutinhas por coincidência:
-grená
-arredondadas
-tóxicas para os gatos, lagartos e peixes

4. deve-se fazer conta de tudo
caixa (e seus conteúdos)
cartas (dentro da caixa)
coleira esverdeada
envelopes abertos e endereçados
se interessar a alguém, ali não tinha correio.

5. lá dentro: álcool paredes abaixo
dizia-se que moravam ali, sim
lá fora: a areia não era exatamente visível, era bom caminhar um pouco

e paralelamente
simone foi dormir aquela noite (ônibus, duas poltronas na frente, uma para bárbara)
viagem curta e sonhos dentro da casa, diria-se: finalmente! (eu diria: pelo menos...)
o motorista só percebeu o buraco depois de:
furado o teto solar
morta bárbara (2X)

simone e a caixinha de cartas, seguidas por bárbara, descem do ônibus na cidade errada
e assim segue a noite daquele dia

P.S.: se eu quisesse escrever outro disparate desses era melhor tê-lo enviado a alguém enquanto era possível. não sei se já comentei mas aqui não tem correio.

snapped wings of the parachute flower

2008-06-08T17:18:00.003-03:00

and then i suddenly felt really calm
i was drowning

his letter started as i transcribe:
dead radioweb catch the light. why don't you join your soul in heaven mother
thorns fingerdeep in the gardenpath adjectives prohibited
(inches
remembrance
your dear son's murdered)

typewritten over my picture
you are sucking icy rainbows
to be one you must first be two

to stop and watch as in a screen
screened me i returned
because there's time accidentally
all the bushes look lush this evening

cover
your
eyeballs

(yours truly, sullied bird)
sit and watch
sit and watch me go
repeat after me:

the redness is an understatement
the readyness is all.

the past is called the past 'cause that's what makes it so
dreaming trains in the underground confess to me

thus his letter went on: i'm sure you do,
i know you are,
i'm out of things to tell unless i unfold
last week's horrible tediousness as you do
expect i miss you but i think i died and so did you.

and then i suddenly felt really calm
i was drowning

in His mansion by the seawall

2008-05-06T14:17:00.004-03:00

I sat in His richly upholstered chair
inside the gigantic room
the dusty room
the grandiloquent room
long postponed fate of the day
-a single obsessive thought -
that ever i was born to wait for it to come.

the waiting felt like eating an apple
in the pouring rain, like drowning
in the turkish bath,
like keeping my feet in a bucket of ice
marinating with doubt,

no more.

children's manuscripts: further adventures of t. and i.

2008-05-05T15:08:00.009-03:00

so tristan and isobel
were having a fight
because he was leaving her
on another paper ship
he said was going to save the people
who lived in the ocean
from the salt-stealing plancton-eating
waistcoat-wearing flies

but isobel in all her wisdom
had a much better plan
to cut the irises in the garden
one by one at the stem
and watch them wither all together
then leave handprints all over the flowerbed
and finally so blame the dog

tristan my sweetheart
whither you go?
his mind was made up
and his suitcase with marbles
all packed up to go

tristan tried to tell her
that the lights would go off
and the house was blue again
it was that time of the year

but isobel knew quite well
how sad it was to give in
to words spoken by someone
who's less then fifteen

so as the tale is often wiser than the spring
she went on on collecting petals
she could sow to her dress
and as the night came near
she felt a strange bit of fear
and on the back of her neck
she felt a breath from the sea

as the winter grew colder
she began to wonder
about tristan and his quest
and about his stubborness
had he understood
after a long childhood
that there was nothing in the ocean
worth dying for

it was tempestous weather
it was bread and salt water
an old picture of his father
and a long distance home
tristan was somewhat surprised
when he fell asleep one night
and got steered right back
to his hometown Belfast

it was a saturday herring
told him where he should go
and on the monday afternoon
the fish was nowhere to be seen

the other part of his dream
was a little less wry
a papier mâché-made captain
sang him irish lullabies

and if this story was silly
wait till you hear the end
isa's weary flower business
was left there awaiting
because she couldn't do anything
until the return of her friend

and yes, she felt quite stupid
still crying for someone
who hadn't learned yet to count
from thirty-four to one

one day her pet pine marten
went to pick her some berries
try to see if she'd cheer up
but he didn't succeed for another month

for her hope was almost over
their names on the bedcloth unwoven
when at last came tristan humming
through the trees
with a bag of reasons to cry

isobel looked broken
sitting on the porch floor
staring fixedly at something on the wall

she found him hard to believe
like a steam or a vision
he found her hard to recognize
the wall still looked blue
as did her fingers
and the flowers she had cut a year before

when tristan drew nearer it was hard to see her
but i believe what i saw was one true smiling tear
how it ended's a secret for no soul to hear.

song of you

2008-04-20T16:41:00.004-03:00

Hopeful tunes and blue carnations
in the pockets of my old shirts
Notes on resurrection by my window
Styrofoam and radio waves
I'm picking out a sign
a melody that's yours and mine

Back in your living days
I had known the sun would burst
And the warmth would become
as cold as snow

I want to be a heron
and take your soul away
then let it go
in a cloudy day

The ocean is waiting for
My body and the sand
is tasting the soles of my shoes

When I forget your kindness
When I forget your face
I'll let you go
in a rainy day

When I forget how you sounded
When I forget your name
I'll let you go in a rainy day

And you're a cloud
in the inmost heaven
You're the gleaming nose
on an angel's face

When I forget I loved you
When I forget your grace
I'll let it go in a cloudy day.

onze anos

2008-03-27T11:23:00.001-03:00

passava uns onze anos mastigando um pedaço de nuvem, duro e grudento como caramelo, antes de eu crescer; bobagem por bobagem eu fico mesmo aqui, olhando sem espanto o céu nascer.

goodbye lil' angel.

2008-03-23T11:10:00.003-03:00

QUEEN: (...) Thou know'st 'tis common, all that lives must die,
Passing through nature, to eternity.
HAMLET: Ay, Madam, it is common.
QUEEN: If it be,
why seems it so particular with thee?
HAMLET: Seems, Madam? nay, it is: i know not seems:
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Not costumary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration os forc'd breath.
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly.These indeed seem,
for they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within, which passeth show,
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.

(RAINHA: (...) é lei comum, tu o sabes, quantos vivem,
passam da natureza para a vida da eternidade.

HAMLET: É lei comum, realmente, minha senhora.

RAINHA: Então, se é assim com todos, porque te parece tão particular?

HAMLET: Não parece, senhora; é. Não conheço "pareces'', boa mãe. Nem esta capa sombria, nem as vestes costumeiras de solene cor negra, os tempestuosos suspiros arrancados do imo peito, as torrentes fecundas que me descem dos olhos, o semblante acabrunhado, nem todas as demais modalidades da mágoa poderão nunca, em verdade, definir-me.
Parecem, tão-somente, pois são gestos de fácil fingimento. Mas há algo dentro em mim que não parece. Tudo isso é roupa e enfeite do infortúnio.)

-------------------------------------
Goodbye, sweet B.
I loved you every minute.
I'll see you in heaven, wait for me.

the sea beyond us

2008-03-13T15:06:00.002-03:00

there are no fishermen, no battle ships,
no English sails, no eventful times
coming our way, which is the way
of the seaside.

(we are ready and armed cap-à-pie
in case those times decide to come,
and to assure they will not dare,
we kill some time over here and there)

the wide and navy-hued forgiveness
ripples in front of us with letters and symbols
filling pages with many a word
that we could never distinguish.

and we,
the paperweights of the sandy coast,
we leave our footprints in the shoremud
at this very moment with no history in it,
no truth nor lyric,
no poetry nor turmoil;
and then we rehearse
the following steps.

the wind and our distemper
troubles the tide, puncutually
at this dead hour
day after day
we come together as a part of
the same wonderful aquatic stillness,
feeding thoughts to fish and watching
those get swallowed by bigger
fish.

we- the sum of each other's parts,
even the ones gone missing-
stand and melt
beneath the flame thrower
of the tropic.

blessed by the dropping eyes
of heaven, that never allow
the ocean to dry,
we bear the duty of pacing
daily along the shore

and now our feet are touching the
water,
and we are receiving its bountiful
substance,
and the immaterial stream
is flowing from within ourselves
into the endless extension of the
sea beyond us.

movie theme

2008-02-21T19:38:00.003-03:00

the few lines on his forehead
the eyes he never shows
the things he sees he hands me
in well disposed rows

i sow a sunflower seed
and it perishes so fast
i wonder who could i blame
and i know my love won't last

i seek a place in quietness
where people used to rest
the alcatraz is empty and
then i'm alone at last

i switch on the machinery
and careful press the keys
wherever his mind wanders
he takes me in his breeze

I am Winter, that do keep

2008-02-11T00:47:00.000-02:00

1.
the child knows
that ghosts
are bulletproof, she shuts
the panes and does not sleep.

2.
"I am the rosy peach of winter-time,
to carry sweetness is my crime"
the father recited
this rhyme
uninvited

3.
taken by the hand
by her grand frère
child, kiss my lips
and say your prayer

4.
child rests in silky beams
of autumn that has come in dreams
the ghost still waiting by the wall
on his book of nightmares he does scrawl

stay

2008-02-11T00:43:00.000-02:00

every winter you have hated
all the times you left your body
and when a white ghost broke your bones

i was standing in the mowed lawn
looking at the piece of sky
that i am sure you would have bought me
as a birthday present...
and everytime i blew my candles
i was wishing you would stay.

[mais um poema antigo. agosto de 2006. não estava no arquivo ainda.]

disease in athens

2008-02-11T00:42:00.000-02:00

something grows
inside of me-
a son i did not wish-

deprived of eyes
it has no hair
it looks so red
and demonic
it holds my veins
and chews my bones
it is nature's calamity

it cannot think for itself
but it kills me tenderly
it is trying to exist
inside me -but separately

the undesired child
claims i am its father
and it wants me
for a mother, too-
it wants the air i breathe

above the pines the stars
above them, the unknown
we will soon move
beyond the cloud
there we will reside
my child, i, my great misfortune
and all we leave behind.

[outro poema que não havia postado, também de 29 de agosto de 2007]

the bath

2008-02-11T00:37:00.000-02:00

the lady
is ready
for her bath

her toes
are curling
she's hungry,
she's getting
the feeling
she's healing

she wanted
the bathers
to stay
for much longer

but now
the garden
the front porch
the bathhouse
are empty
and white

her body
so softly
becoming
so wide

she turns into
buildings
and bushes
and tide

the lady
does not want to
get her hair wet
she has it
well hidden-
the back of her neck

her eyes
her insides
are mending
and bending

and she cannot
breathe cause
the water
is deep
and in it
she has gotten
both of her feet

she's locked in
the bathhouse
with the
slimy ghost forms

she's fading
she's fainting
the voices of men
of women
of lovers
of ghostly omens

the lady
is ready
to get away from
the body
the dirt
the slippery foam

she walks out
on quiet steps
she crosses
the door

she now is
an image
of stillness
of grace

she's an unfinished
painting
can never
be framed

she lives in
a memory
of quieter times

the lady
who got wet
both of her feet

the lady
who's drowning
alone in her sleep

[texto que ainda não tinha postado no blog, de 29 de agosto de 2007]

presas

2008-02-09T12:07:00.000-02:00

braços movendo
suas armas
o som é uma desculpa

sobre as luzes
das ruas
o último andar
suas armas
se movem, seus braços
acenam

seu corpo
-escamas contra
luzes-
dança
meus olhos
dançam
na desculpa
de um som

tragic faces

2008-02-01T15:22:00.000-02:00

it was morning and there was sun, silence and suffering. like any other town, in Sawol all streets were black, houses were yellow with locked doors and gates, and the people were walking and working and wearing worn out looks on their blank faces that day. the horses pulling the carriages of litter along the streets did not look pleased. the neighbourhood's parrots and parakeets were shedding human tears inside their cages. there was quietness on the streets, and all you could hear were steps of human feet and engines of the few cars that roamed about the borough. on the porches, driveways and gardens there were cats pulling out their hair with their teeth and meowing in pain and dejection. the spiders, the ants, the bees, the flies, the fireflies and the mosquitos were nowhere to be seen, and the snails carried broken shells up the walls and gates slower than usual. the water had blackened in every fish tank in every living room or waiting room or fish store in town. wild birds of yellow, black, green and blue fell from the sky and from their nests on trees, filling the streets and sidewalks with the stench of death. the butterflies lost their wings all at the same time and the caterpillars dried out and shrunk to the size of the dying potato beetles and ladybirds. people's dogs had tragic faces as their chicks, roosters and hens choked and tumbled down all over the warm grass of the backyards.
the rats, the mice and even the town's hamsters were vanquished mysteriously without the help of traps or poisoned bait. an awful display could be seen on the only lake there was in the area; the swans floated tumbled with their throats tied in knots as the ducks bled into the once crystalline water, and the coy fish drifted shattered around the other bodies.
the termites that were eating the town from the inside managed to survive for a while, but soon lost their tiny minds. insanity also took over the pigs that used to share the backyards to the houses with the egg laying birds, and eventually their heads came to convulse and explode.
reasons were just reasons, and, as usual, remained undisclosed. the people accepted the unexplained torment promptly, never assuming it to be some variety of heavenly punishment. that month during which all life in Sawl slowly withered was never spoken of ever again, and the inhabitants kept on living their lives as if nothing had happened.

a solidão grená e o doce concreto

2008-01-24T23:35:00.000-02:00

eram dois, e cada um cantava em um de seus ouvidos. a tristeza só existiria se cortassem novamente as flores de rua. aquelas sem jardim, que eram só flores mesmo, sem planos ou objetivos. aquela noite estava longa, talvez de manhã ela acabasse não conseguindo acordar. quando a noite era longa ela fingia que o relógio na parede estava quebrado ou que não existia.
a sua própria existência, por outro lado, talvez se resumisse a comer doce de abóbora e inventar. tinha aprendido também que imaginar era uma palavra útil, mas nem por isso menos feia, e pequena. inventar era mais verdadeiro, e maior.
ela estava sozinha. o doce também estava, afinal. e morreria antes dela. sentiu um pouco de culpa, logo dissipada com o gosto da abóbora com açúcar na língua. lembrou de seu aniversário. lembrou também de uns dias antes, quando sonhara que um gato arranhava a janela do apartamento (era o quinto andar). o gato gritava e se contorcia de medo, afinal tinha um vulcão lá embaixo, em erupção. ela não podia abrir a janela e salvar o gato por mais que gostasse dele.
poderia muito bem ser novembro. mas ela usava um gorro azul e era dezembro. por esse mesmo motivo é que não era novembro, pensou. as coisas podiam ser fáceis demais às vezes, no mundo e no seu quarto.
desenhou um vulcão numa folha sulfite branca com um amassado na ponta direita(o amassado era embaixo e atrapalhou a grama, de cor verde-água). o monte era azul, a lava amarela, a fumaça não tinha cor, e o céu era de um vermelho esquisito, apenas usado porque o vermelho de verdade tinha sumido. ouviu as vozes novamente, cada uma em um ouvido. uma feminina, outra masculina. não eram familiares. os dois cantavam leve e longo e faziam bem mal calmo. o céu do desenho parecia suco de pitanga, característica que ela desaprovava em qualquer céu, real, de desenho, ou de foto.
estar sozinha no quarto de móveis brancos e janela com arranhões de gato será que era isso? a solidão. os lápis de cor mudos e diminuindo muito rápido. o gato prestes a morrer, no sonho.
porém, ela sabia que a solidão era exatamente como a tristeza. e só incomodava se. dependia da coisa e do dia. também da estação. por exemplo, era dezembro, estava frio, logo era inverno: a noite longa poderia se tornar horrível se alguém entrasse sem bater e falasse alto sobre algo importante. se a pessoa dissesse que o assunto era importante, tanto pior.
mas até isso era mentira se ela quisesse. ela gostava de mentir mas só em silêncio. mentir para os outros, isso era um problema (a não ser se a mentira fosse absolutamente necessária para o bem estar de alguém).
no final ela sempre sabia que era pequena, pequena, ridiculamente pequena e provavelmente burra. não, burra não. mas pequena. olhou para o desenho do vulcão e escreveu num palito de sorvete que a terra era azul, o doce laranja e a solidão, grená.

poeminha caipira em Tomar

2008-01-23T12:21:00.000-02:00

meu pai dizia
que era caipira
que a escola
na aldeia
era cheia
de canários
que entravam
nas salas de aula,

que piavam álgebra,
história
e piavam também o francês

ele jura que viu
-fim do período
crianças socando
os livros
e alfarrábios
nas sacolas-

o passarinho
indo embora
se despediu
piando pomposo

''arrevoá!''

a travessia

2008-01-22T13:05:00.004-02:00

viajava pelas ruas
fofas e pela
grama compacta
seca
e moribunda

não queria ler
as letras pesadas
das placas,
inalou-as pela boca
mesmo assim
com o perfume
enjoativo
de árvores sem nome
e tudo era
uma coisa só.

os cães
eram velozes
sob o sol
ela não prestava
atenção
aos carros
que poderiam
atropelá-la

não enxergava mais
que a música pálida
dos aparelhos eletrônicos
desligados
e exaustos

do chão surgiam
estátuas, que não
se importavam
com a paisagem
nem com a chuva
do dia seguinte

a tempestade
que desejava
era pra encher
todos os rios
ligados entre si
em um raio
de três horas
a nado

com seu pai
na sacola plástica
cheia d'água
entre os dedos
amanda e suas
pernas tremiam
e as ruas sumiam
na distância dos olhos

ajoelhou-se
porque parecia
solene se ajoelhar,
beijou o plástico
por não poder
beijar o pai,

libertou finalmente
o peixe-
antes da hora-
nas águas,
sem tempo
de dizer
adeus
atrapalhada
só pôde
dizer
pai, nade
te encontro
depois

(postando umas coisas do ano passado novamente. perdedoras de concurso. a escritorinha de blog se resigna.)

irmã

2008-01-22T13:05:00.003-02:00

amanda segura os dedos longos
da irmã

o tempo se tornou
um girassol
estrangulado pelos dias
que giram
(ou uma margarida
doente na lapela
da jaqueta)

a grama e o asfalto
no escuro são
muito parecidos,
irmãzinha:

acho que abri a noite
na página errada

(postando novamente poemas perdedores de concurso literário e me conformando em ser uma escritorinha de blog.)

amanda e a fonte

2008-01-22T13:04:00.001-02:00

os dias têm sido
leves, cansados
amortecidos

com céu sonolento
e um sol
que não aquece

--

amanda era um poema
curto, de pernas grossas
e a fonte áspera

a água corria
queria correr
amanda esperava
segurou um pouco de água, que escorreu
das mãos
a pequena poça
no chão
secou

"morta, acabada

virou outra coisa."

e os olhos de amanda
cheios da água da fonte
e as mãos de amanda
cobertas de feridas abertas

que ninguém via

(postando novamente textos e poemas perdedores de concurso.)

Vem com tuas Pedras (Cidade dos Cães)

2008-01-22T13:02:00.000-02:00

Pt. I

Seu corpo se encaixava no sulco da terra, o peito oscilava num ritmo confortável. O vento, em outro.
Nos encarávamos, ele dormia, meus olhos coçavam. A cidade inteira estava de acordo com a suspensão da chuva, com a música das aves nos parques suntuosos e com os assaltos diários.
Só porque eu havia perdido o trem para a serra.
Suas narinas expeliam o mesmo ar suado da tarde. Hoje já era passado há vários anos de verão; respirávamos juntos.

Pt. II

Havia se machucado -e ainda estava claro, o cão ainda repousava na terra, ainda era de tarde e eu ainda acreditava que conseguiria embarcar no próximo trem- e não havia nada que eu pudesse fazer. Por não poder tocá-lo, pelo receio que encobria meu nojo. Procurou meu olhar pela primeira vez, quem me feriu?, retribuí sua súplica encarando os trilhos e também o rosto tombado na janela do próximo trem.
Insistiu ainda, mas eu desconhecia seus códigos nobres, e andava sobre duas pernas de um lugar ao outro me ocupando da tarefa elevadíssima de atribuir sentidos a acontecimentos coincidentes sem porcaria de relação nenhuma entre si. Éramos estranhos um ao outro novamente, e ele, que ainda não havia se levantado, aproximou o nariz do acúmulo de sangue sobre o pêlo marrom. Seguimos- os viajantes- em direção a destinos paralelos, eu com os olhos e ele mancando de uma pata traseira.
A hora entrou morna e sem anúncios, falas arrastadas de homens começaram a se fazer ouvir, primeiro de longe.

Anoiteceu: há marcas no asfalto, mas não as vi.
Os cães da cidade trotam certeiros, eu os sigo; me conduzem em círculos que não compreendo unicamente por não ser um cão. As luzes da estação foram acesas, o trem não passou. Levanto-me do chão e perco a rua principal na minha certeza de encontrá-la.
Dormem todos.

Minha Mãe e o Sonho

2008-01-22T13:00:00.002-02:00

"Meus pés congelam", tua voz me provoca dores agudas na fronte, boa mãe. Estás para mim como a última árvore após o incêndio, e o mundo tosse seus últimos momentos, me explica o sorriso minha velha, como é possível? Empurro seu ombro um pouco, esperava que me dissesse se está louca, ou morta; o que há de tão majestoso no horizonte fora a montanha com a última árvore? Se é deus que ela vê, nada me relata, e começo a fechar os pulsos e os olhos numa agonia de morte.

De olhos cerrados posso constatar que ela respira, mínguas de fogo ainda crepitam ao longe, o vento desloca a fumaça. Acabou, abandonada ao nada mais que se fazer ao lado de minha mãe enlouquecida, os corpos de meus amigos mais queridos tão silentes e despedaçados à nossa volta como um tapete de rendição. A guerra de armas intactas e disparos divinos ainda estoura em meus órgãos vitais. Chuva, grito em mente, a última de todas. A tempestade aumenta rapidamente e imagino toda a terra inundada e inválida como se fosse um recomeço, uma segunda chance de um criador supremo infinito e toda a ficção reconfortante. As nuvens se chocam e detonam clarões sobre o solo devastado, um dos raios ilumina o rosto de minha mãe.
A última vez que a vi, e estava tranqüila, e havia na sua boca uma expressão de prazer. Ela realmente havia perdido a sanidade. Os trovões aumentavam em número e volume, eu tinha certeza de que ficaríamos surdas para o resto do tempo que nos restasse.

Junto de meu corpo eletrocutado, minha mãe inclinou as feições num sorriso terno do olhar, como se me oferecesse um último beijo na testa. Caminhou vagarosamente para longe de mim como se soubesse exatamente para onde deveria ir, e mais uma vez lançou ao meu cadáver o olhar materno e doce, boa noite minha filha, boa noite.

(postando novamente uns textos perdedores de concurso)

Meu Irmão e a Carta

2008-01-22T13:00:00.001-02:00

Começo esta exposição do momento em que eu estava como que dentro de um sonho, e me cabia a tarefa auto prescrita de impedir que meu irmão terminasse de quebrar o selo do envelope com seu nome e a minha caligrafia gravados na face anterior. Eu corria em sua direção há horas, cega pelo suor a escorrer olhos adentro e certa de que poderia transpor a falta de voz própria dos sonhos e repreendê-lo a tempo de deixá-lo suficientemente confuso para que eu pudesse arrancar-lhe a carta das mãos. Aquelas horas duravam exatamente os gestos trêmulos de meu velho irmão-quem me escuta reconhece, a história é vera- que já antecipava um acontecimento horroroso do qual não tivera tempo ou meios de me salvar. O leitor nunca poderá precisar de forma digna a necessidade monstruosa que meu irmão tinha de resgatar as almas de quem quer que fosse, por bem ou por enfadonha insistência.
Quando ele finalmente tinha o documento esticado sobre a escrivaninha foi que senti um solavanco digno de acidente ferroviário e pude então parar de correr. As imagens à minha volta retornavam aos movimentos normais de R.E.M. e assim senti que poderia estar numa motion picture moderníssima cheia de efeitos recém-inventados como chuviscos de interferência e mosquitos pousados na tela de projeção. Não foi difícil reconhecer minha mãe, vestindo os trapos usuais e debochando elegantemente de histórias antigas e inválidas sobre a desonestidade de banqueiros no interior do estado.

Meu pai, a seu lado, franzia a testa e estava de pé como um retrato, e me pareceu que ele era de fato um retrato engravatado de relógio de bolso e não mais meu pai.
Meu irmão, agora representado em uma escala enorme que fazia de mim um miserável rato, balia comigo por entre nuvens de fumaça grossa, que coisa terrível, terrível de se dizer, Maria, certamente odiosa! E eu nã-não, sabia que ia entender mal, deixe-me explicar, e ele não atentava para a minha presença talvez pelo tamanho que havia eu adquirido ou porque a minha garganta não vibrava às tentativas de gritar.
Chorei fundo, dolorido, senti brônquios se partirem em meus pulmões e chorei mais ainda. E como havia acontecido três segundos antes, meus olhos nada prestavam com toda aquela água; meu pai se afastava de costas (uma figura de terno escuro se afastava, aparentemente de costas) e o resto da cena era uma fotografia borrada.
Resignada, desisti do que tentava fazer -a ação exata me foge à memória- e estanquei as lágrimas na camiseta. Agora eu ditava da campa meus desejos finais. Lembrei-me de que nada poderia ter sido evitado se não tivesse me arrastado pelo corredor até aquele pobre homem e zumbido em seu ouvido; tens carta, vá ler, antes que a chuva deste pequeno inverno ensope as palavras e as torne ilegíveis.
Meu irmão soluçava e guinchava sentado à sua escrivaninha.

(postando novamente uns textos perdedores de concurso)

Aniversário

2007-12-23T13:06:00.000-02:00

Queria outro par de olhos, mas não para si. Pensava em pedir que deixassem a morte em paz na grama e nas eventuais rachaduras na calçada, que secasse cada pedaço em silêncio sem as mãos armadas de tesouras e os olhos de admiração banal. Conseguia apenas alcançar seus joelhos e esses não resolveriam nada, sentiu vontade de silêncio e então esmagou os cacos de louça encharcados com os pés. Certamente, também era inútil tentar conversar com os sapatos deles, mas a visão era limitada: era isso, ou então os joelhos.
Entre as florezinhas que colhia como todos os outros (fechava os olhos neste exato momento e afirmava, os olhos fechados com força e dizia que tinha um motivo melhor e por isso não era em vão) e os fios que arrancava às vezes, corajosa, aquelas eram sempre as primeiras a mudar, deveria ser o escuro do armário branco mas descobriu que o sol fazia o mesmo e da cor ela lembrava só à noite.
Era culpa do vento ou do sonho que havia se quebrado o branco e azul com flor, não sabia ou talvez estivesse mentindo; mas o chão molhado indicava que ninguém havia descoberto, ainda. Mentia, sempre perdia os fios e nunca conseguia concluir a experiência. Esperava sentir no outro dia a dor no ponto de onde saíam os cabelos, e de como era igual olhar o relógio limpo se mexendo com os bracinhos esticados de uma mancha à outra. Mas depois era só igual ao corte no pé com a louça que atravessou a sandália. Observava a ferida vermelha e preferia o vermelho do céu, virava a cabeça para algum inseto morto na parede e logo perdia o interesse. Curiosamente, os bracinhos estavam alinhados verticalmente sempre que precisava ligar a luz do teto.
Esquecera-se da grama.
No dia seguinte a qualquer um voltava a esperar, em parte atenta e o resto procurando outra coisa para fazer. Enquanto enxergavam apenas o topo amarelo e brilhante da sua cabeça, estava em segurança e os dois olhos que planejava obter poderiam esperar até de manhã, dormia muito porque assim tudo acontecia mesmo que negassem depois.
A manhã vagarosa não existia; ser de manhã ou fingir que é deviam ser estados muito parecidos.
Exigiria, mesmo com a boca doce e as cobrinhas coloridas que morriam na água em volta e os barulhos, com quais palavras inventaria mais tarde e era possível que se gesticulasse muito, ou se até mesmo fizesse algumas lágrimas, entenderiam.
Esquecia com os olhos. A poça de água diminuía, haveria alguém descoberto e começado a secá-la? Não adiantava contar os dias em rabiscos nem sempre confiáveis; mordeu as unhas, sentou-se no chão. Se resolvia por um lago, mantido obviamente em segredo. Descartava elementos, escolhia outros, abandonava os cisnes já batizados à sua própria sorte por uma idéia melhor. Prometia visitar sempre, mentia porque não sabia o caminho.
Engolia para preencher o tempo e entre os goles secos teria a opção de inclinar a cabeça e avançar uns passos, para ver os diamantes de sol na calçada e depois não ver mais. Passou uma folha marrom depois de um carro, mas não conseguiu mais rolar e ficou ali mesmo. Descansando.

[julho 2006. terceiro lugar concurso literário categoria conto UFPR em 2007. não sei porque não postei antes. P.S. o blogger comeu os parágrafos.]

The Child in the Shell

2007-12-22T14:46:00.000-02:00

The child in the shell
is a tiny piece
of nail,
a string
of hair,

is a
shard
of scattered
looking-glass
a face
you can't
efface

it is the summer
in the desert
the flesh you lost
in flight

The child in the shell
is the scarlet fever
the blue-skinned baby
that won't stay
down

The scorched cheek of
a mistake,
life and breath
drawn with sin
shaped like suns

The child in the shell
an image floods
the times you left
yourself
to drown
in blood

a subtle body

2007-12-05T20:37:00.000-02:00

reaching out
for a hand
amidst the steam of
visions
and of countless
misunderstandings
i was the lady
baring all but her
insides,
holding a rigid
baby in her lead
arms,
begging you to
look away,
to look elsewhere
to leave the child
to be
and to be careful,
careful
with the things that
i held

i lost it,
your glowing
lightbody
everlasting, gone
like a season
or a memory

a search for eyes,
a disappointment-
my skin
stripped and fervent
the child once more
misplaced and beaten
a feeling scorching
a mother
torn

fire breathes the earth in and nothing can be saved

2007-11-20T13:10:00.000-02:00

Steps on grass,
my own true star
hanging from above like a
necklace to the night.

Grasshopper i am,
they are
Souls in cages made of clouds
a hundred thousand souls
pumping rain out of their cages
and onto our heads.

The prison camp
was
a mirror for the earth
i prayed aloud with
trembling words i wanted
to save the world
i wanted to save
myself.
high officials all reduced
to nothing, voiceless
and deaf
the lives they led
made no difference
no difference when the stars
began to fall

a myriad of deeds done
on solid ground
swallowed by the dirt
a hundred thousand prayers
of prisoners unheard

i try to save a friend
from a falling star
it hits her
and the sparks hit me
i'm blinded and my friend
can no longer cry for help.

i search for her
my hands cannot feel
so i cry over her
only a few dry tears
"my friend is dead,
everybody else's friends
are dead."

my mother passed away
of fear,
my father felt defeated
then closed his eyes for good
my brother was the drop
of life the heat of stars dried out,
along with my tears
and the ocean
and the rivers.

all there is and all there ever was
burns and the fire is blue and
three hundred and thirty three
miles tall
the Ear that used to hear us
sleeps

the angels topple
like birds
in hunting season, mangled
they try to bury
each body in a grave of oblivion
and holiness,
from my own grave i warn
their sacred hands

if you touch my father
the gods will punish you
you cannot bury my father
he is made of gold metal,
he is made of gold metal,
he is made of gold.

hold on

2007-11-19T17:51:00.000-02:00

blue eyes sadder than the ocean, god knows i'll miss
every word of hate that never meant a thing
how long until the strap gives?
you're dying and away from home
your poor attempt to repair the damage is me
human bodies are temporary, i know you'll be fine
wherever

trapped inside the coil the drops i cry are made of sea
did i bring you back to life? now you're a fish and you're free
anything that happens after you swim away
will just be breeze and i promise
i'll take the summer in.

[21/12/2005]

rabiscos para não esquecer

2007-11-13T10:57:00.000-02:00

passei por uma porta no deserto e lá estava o meu soldado ferido.
1- sonhos bons pra mim são feitos de:
era meu porque afinal de contas fui eu que o achei, com um tiro na barriga.
2- capacetes não protegem o abdômen. principalmente aqueles camuflados de verde.
os acontecimentos que se seguiram eram água azul, cheia de luzes vindas de baixo.
3- o meu soldado deve ter morrido sem nunca mais ver uma gota d'água, sobre seu elefante.
4- estranho ele ter arrumado um elefante rapidamente, com os meus rabiscos já pelo corpo todo e a maior parte do sangue do lado de fora.
->hino do soldado ferido. era um poema bonito, que ele aprovou sorrindo.
quando eu passei a amar o soldado tive que ir embora e deixá-lo morrer sozinho com o elefante.
5- jovens gostam de histórias.
6- soldados gostam de epitáfios.
como eu me meti no deserto.
?
7- procurar coisas e encontrar soldados.
8- os soldados de chumbo do meu irmão pequeno saltando histérico do sofá.
aquele filho que eu ia ter se pudesse.
9- 10- areia às vezes é colorida de vermelho, verde, azul. às vezes se parece com o muro de berlin.
onze. estou sozinha no aeroporto e esqueci de devolver o seu casaco.
-> um casaco é uma farda de outra cor.
12.13. usar botas no deserto não sei pra quê serve.
esquece.
²¹³¹ me apaixonei quinze vezes mas na hora da morte esqueço os nomes.
(consideração) tartarugas são capacetes ambulantes. sinto falta de um amigo. enterrei-o na areia.
14.5- o vento desenterrou o meu amigo.

iguais

2007-10-22T20:22:00.000-02:00

erro pequenino
pequeno pássaro
cão como eu
que também não sabe
para onde vamos
quando somos
esquecidos

andanças

2007-10-22T19:52:00.000-02:00

amanda naquele parque
vadio e pobre
com água patos lama
infitito mais bonito que a rua
que as lojas
que as fotos
nas lojas
de porta-retratos
(talvez por estar mais perto
que nova york paris viena)

amanda naquele parque
e algo parecia errado

talvez se um poema
desse conta
se alguém contasse
se valesse um conto

mas ninguém achou
que faria diferença
o sol partido em três
as árvores-cópias
uma da outra
amanda sentada
na ciclovia
querendo que um
dos rostos (eram vários)
durasse mais
que só passar
e abrisse a boca
mesmo que
bem
pouco

mulher gorda
da pele escura
do barro do lago
pediu dinheiro
ou qualquer coisa
amanda
já tinha esgotado
as maneiras
de dizer não

alguém achou bom
e fotografou
amanda nos jornais
sem saber dizer não
os três sóis do parque
esquecidos

snowed-in

2007-10-13T12:27:00.000-03:00

child
stick
child
snow
do i even know you?

well humor me a little since you're here
i'll show you how,

just tell me:
-that i'll grow hands
-that i'll grow legs
-that i'll grow skin
-that i'll feel cold

oh don't you drop the list on the ground,
i beg of you.
the effort of writing lists
when you have no fingers.

you wouldn't understand.

the moon replaces the children
who am i talking to?
to myself
again
damn winter. i say
either you melt me or
you help me
no use for moonlight
where i'm standing.

i'm a freaking snowball
and oddly,
an emotional one.

my tile eyes
despite the fact that they're tiles
do long for a certain snowboy
they even glow.

even though i'm a snowball i can assure you
i qualify for being in love.
i could be a human just like you.

it just turns out

i'm not.

humor me i'll glow
oh what's the point?
i'll never move
i'll never talk
you'll never know

there's some tragedy
in the fact that
i'd be buried in snow up to
my neck
if i had a neck,

snowed-in,
and thinking of you.

dia do julgamento final- um 'exercício de relax' sem pretensões literárias.

2007-10-09T16:41:00.000-03:00

o dia do Ajuste de Contas chegou, e mandaram lá dos estratos mais altos da República- ou do céu- um cavaleiro para tratar das execuções.
o seu trabalho era matar todos mesmo, sem perdões. porque todos haviam sido mentirosos, beberrões, impiedosos, adúlteros, traidores, arrogantes, ambiciosos, amantes dos prazeres, amantes do dinheiro, fumantes, injustos, fornicadores, preguiçosos, espertalhões, curiosos, indecentes, gulosos, iracundos, vaidosos, mesquinhos, castos, generosos, comedidos, diligentes, pacientes, caridosos, humildes, engraçados, austeros, altos, baixos, feios, boa-pinta.
como eu dizia não se salvava um. momento propício para o narrador oniciente resolver começar uma história: pude assistir a tudo de camarote.
o cavaleiro ia de garganta em garganta, primeiro com uma certa cerimônia, depois quase descuidado, mal olhando para as vítimas, estava começando a se enfadar e ainda não havia chego a um bilhão.
alguns tinham tempo de implorar, choravam com os olhos no céu ou no chão, a mãe pelos filhinhos, o rapaz por sua mocidade... esses levavam a espada atravessada entre as costelas, que o cavaleiro andava impaciente.
quando já restavam apenas os seres sem pecado e sem razão e eu, o tipo veio querer me cortar a garganta. não que eu fosse especial, que eu fosse imune, que eu fosse muito esperta. mas encarei o sujeito nos olhos, pela primeira vez no dia do Ajuste de Contas ele encarava por mais de dois segundos alguém que estava prestes a matar. acho que ele se confundiu com isso, ou lembrou de ter esquecido o forno ligado. seja o que for, adiou a minha morte até o momento presente. eu diria uns 32 dias de encarar o cavaleiro do Apocalipse, sentir seu hálito sobrenatural, enganar a morte. não tive mais acesso a calendários ou relógios, mas 32 dias soa razoável.
acho que o truque é ficar imóvel e insistente, pois ele tem me levantado a espada ameaçadoramente mas fora isso ainda conservo meu pulso. para falar a verdade depois de tanto tédio já começo a desejar a morte, mas isso passa, então eu não desgrudo os olhos do sujeito. ele realmente deve ter se sentido confuso. ou vai ver que parou pra pensar no que andou fazendo com as pessoas só agora.

o que importa é que estou enganando a morte por mais tempo. e que continuo enganando, e continuo vivendo. só pelo desafio já valeu a pena, penso seriamente em baixar os olhos e ir ter com meus amigos do outro lado, que deve estar em festa.

conceive me- your loving guest.

2007-10-08T19:13:00.000-03:00

i stare at your peacefully vain
movements
and your uninspired eyes,
my dull binoculars- all mine
for most of the day.

given that you are
laying
on your bed of hardwood
wrapped in red blankets
drinking
your sacred milk

you have the seeming of a speechless
chess piece
painted plaster
with a hundred eyes hungrily
following me-
yet seeing nothing
bud a bedstand
and a glass of water half-effaced.

i yield myself
to your quiet lazyness, mirror
a sugary dormant
way of killing time.

you, a climbing bittersweet
taking me
down
the unannounced
limbs and branches
reach for the back
of my neck
you whisper to me
your own sordid name.

i let you pretend
you do not remember
my touching your shoulder
the day before.

then i hide in the room
and stare
and stare
and stare.

you see your dresser,
the flowers on it
-how they moan in
their wintering-
but you can never
realize
i am standing
there, beside it.

when i get tired of looking at you, i go out for a swim
or step into the nearest church
to smell the sanctity
of praying candles.

Sunday Bonfire (to Sylvia)

2007-10-07T11:52:00.000-03:00

I have your pink book in my hands
in a Sunday morning you will never
see. (you're playing dead
or alive with me)
It has your name on it
it is your book.
I wonder if you would approve
of this pink cover. In the
bookstore I called this color
mine.

One of its pages has been licked
by a dog. Did you used to like dogs?
And what about your babies?
I'm almost sure they did.

This morning i ate my breakfast
in bed and prepared to put off life
only for a few days,
so i myself can become
months
and years become
then slit my tongue

I miss you simply because
you existed. as many other
insignificant things (which
i also miss) did, in their
time.

If you were alive I would tell you about how silly life is in the morning and you would smile like this sun that insists on setting my room
burning.

um título pra isso

2007-10-01T11:41:00.000-03:00

falar que preciso de um começo que signifique alguma coisa. isso é um bom começo. de fones propriamente enfiados nos ouvidos tentando ouvir apenas a música. o ônibus passou antes e passaria de novo, na verdade não importava o ônibus. era uma época em que se tinha pernas, e fortes. a panelada, apitos, gritos, faixas, cartazes. eu não estou no brasil. eu não estou no brasil. as pessoas têm nos rostos uma expressão só, que eu ainda não conhecia. um poeta de língua cortada convidava: ''venham ver o sangue''. eu não estou no brasil, anda mais rápido. as janelas do ônibus eram mais altas do que eu. senti alívio apoiei o rosto em alguma coisa fria. a panelada e os apitos no fundo, aumentei o volume. esse homem que canta, delira que estruturas diversas caem em sua cabeça enquanto é tudo tão reto e bem construído. ele já teve a minha idade. por fim e graças a deus eu não ouvia mais nada. até a música calou.

sem título

2007-09-29T13:26:00.000-03:00

Todo prédio cor de caramelo ostentava simetrias limpas e reluzentes nas janelas. Alguém respirava muito perto do vidro, imagivana respirar o ar da rua, a janela ficava opaca. Plac. Pensou que poderia ser uma pequena bomba explodindo. Ou teria esmagado com os pés algum animalzinho urbano que fizesse este som ao morrer. Que culpa horrível. Mas era apenas o pneu de alguma moto.
A garoa ia refrescar o asfalto e a pele dos passantes, portanto se aborreciam olhando para o céu. Amaldiçoavam-no. Era a lógica da cidade: as gotas, aumentando, inutilizavam aos poucos o resto do seu sorvete.
Os olhos das pessoas eram monstruosos, seus rostos macilentos e esverdeados e, seus dentes, todos eles pontudos. Lambeu o sorvete, tinha gosto de chuva. Procurava uma lata de lixo, as pessoas andavam mais rápido. O movimento só tinha duas direções.
Os corpos eram ombros verdes, cotovelos verdes, pés, bolsas e pastas retangulares.
Ela agarrava a alça da bolsa de carteiro e a saia molhada começava a dar calafrios; ou era o estrondo vindo de cima que os provocava. Fazia questão dos olhos monstruosos, que desviavam.
O coração pequeno arremessado ora contra um pulmão, contra outro. Tinha vergonha de sorrir sozinha; não retribuiu o adeus das árvores se desfazendo em folhinhas molhadas. Seguia com os olhos arregalados e a boca fechada, a expressão mais impassível que conhecia, o rosto virado para as vitrines. Colheres guarda-chuvas telefones copos plásticos folhetos e pentes. Algum dia morreriam todos afogados no meio de tudo isso.
As vitrines rareavam e ela tinha febre, os olhos se fechavam contra sua vontade. Tinha sono, mas o caminho era longo. Adormeceu aos poucos, com a grita das buzinas e a cadência dos carros, dos passos, das gotas (da violência das gotas contra as árvores, das árvores contra a fumaça).
Adormecia todo pedestre de olhar verde e compleição monstruosa rangendo os dentes pontudos, no grande berço que embala vazio os sonhos de quem passa.

zero

2007-09-18T14:33:00.000-03:00

um amigo me deu
umas moedas de
chocolate, que eu
pus na boca,
que derreteram

enquanto
eu esperava na fila
do cinema, minha
saliva
era tão ácida

que aos poucos corroeu minha língua inteira
gritei seco
estendi o bilhete
duas horas depois
eu saía da sala três
com mais moedas de chocolate nos bolsos

quis sentar no banco
da praça e olhar a fonte
a fonte me olhou

foi uma sensação engraçada.

the edge

2007-09-03T13:21:00.000-03:00

sílvia
no auge
da noite
descorada
(era a noite que não tinha
cor, e da lua
pingou uma gota
de leite)

brincava
com os dedos
com a barra
da saia
com a omissão
irresponsável
de quem já
nada mais
deve
à vida

rugido

2007-09-03T13:19:00.000-03:00

quando tudo dói bastante
e é ruim continuar
dolorido ir para frente

parece que a poesia
não serve mais pra nada

A Flor no Espelho

2007-08-02T17:58:00.000-03:00

Em oito anos havia aprendido muito. Já sabia que se esconder de nada vale quando se excede em altura em relação ao criado-mudo, e que fabricar lágrimas não é a estratégia mais apropriada para se fazer perceber depois de se ter passado anos chorando. Ela precisaria argumentar, como explicava a professora de língua, se quisesse convencer alguém.
E os olhos novos que guardaria no armário do banheiro entre os gordos chumaços de algodão haviam falhado; ninguém entendera. O espelho novo e sem asas a perscrutava, ela o encarava em retorno, tudo no silêncio de sua respiração dobrado pela respiração do reflexo. Mas o espelho não via nada: o espelho era cego.
As lembranças que a desagradassem ou que por algum motivo não desejasse guardar poderiam ser deixadas no chão para alguém pisar. Pois o dia era uma flor cheirosa, ela sabia, de pétalas novíssimas, cujo único destino era morrer e morrer logo. Morrer ela pensava teria gosto de leite ou chá quente, mas a vida sempre ganhava nessa época então viver tinha gosto de café com pouco açúcar.
Morrer, viver, morrer, viver: no caderno de caligrafia. A professora reclamava e pedia outras palavras, então ela escrevia em letras redondas leite café, leite café. A professora sorria aliviada e elogiava, ela sorria de maldade da ignorância da professora.
Era feita de cegueira, era de fato o reflexo do espelho que nem asas tinha. Até as baratas tinham asas, mas ela não. Era cega, cega, e estava presa aos lugares e às coisas sem poder sair. Então que lhe surgiu um belo argumento, já que era fruto e produto de cegueiras maiores: ora, o espelho é cego. Com seus olhos emprestados ele tinha de ser o mais infeliz dos objetos.
-Mãe, o espelho é cego.
E a mãe emitia uma risada curta e baixa e afagava-lhe a cabeça, ao que ela se sentia um gênio da argumentação e sorria satisfeita.

Dr. Santos Lima e Madame Rita

2007-07-11T20:14:00.000-03:00

Foi na época em que eu tinha por amante uma ruivinha tagarela com um belo par de coxas que se chamava... talvez se chamasse... Marina, devia ser Marina ou algum outro nome desses comuns começados com M.
Da conversa com um velho amigo saí com o endereço do trabalho de Ritinha escrito a tinta azul atrás de um cartão, Godot&Andrade adv. associados, criminalística, telefone fax endereço letras prateadas como esse Luís Carlos continua um baita metido a besta mesmo depois de velho. Não que já não fosse previsível.
Estacionei o carro na frente do prédio, logo identifiquei a placa e adentrei, não sem sentir um leve tremor nas mãos. Eu entrava na sala de espera do escritório de Ritinha, que como eu havia cursado Direito há quinze anos mas que há muito tempo havia abandonado a profissão, segundo relatos. Me sentei numa almofada da cor de carmim no chão de tábuas sem verniz e foi então que me lembrei de ter olhos acima do nariz e de que estes me serviam, se não perfeitamente, ao menos razoavelmente para observar o curioso arredor. As secretárias sentadas atrás de mesas onde jaziam desligados dois computadores magros trajavam compridos robes de seda alaranjada, traziam aos cabelos tiaras feitas de contas douradas e me sorriam, sem que me fizessem qualquer pergunta. Das paredes pintadas de amarelo-claro escorriam imagens de deuses e deusas de todos os tipos, tamanhos e origens. O relógio de parede era um enorme Olho de Hórus negro com ponteiros, de um pequeno tablado de granito me encarava um buda radiante em sua posição de lótus enfadada. Sorri com escárnio, o sorriso me doeu, ou foi o escárnio. No momento me pareceu que o buda me sorriu de volta com a mesma zombaria que eu havia sorrido para ele. Zombaria mística.
Constatei com espanto que os telefones das secretárias não possuíam fios que os ligassem a tomada nenhuma, que o relógio estava parado, que tudo aquilo me parecia uma piada de mau gosto. Mas eu precisava de Ritinha, ou tinha me convencido do mesmo, e agora esperaria até que

A porta do escritório se abriu. Dele saíram os pés de Ritinha metidos em sandálias roxas feitas de uma miríade de tiras de couro de vaca, seu corpo em um robe justo e suntuoso do mesmo tom com estampas de triângulos coloridos, seu pescoço e seu rosto, que envelheciam, ornados por jóias exageradas, seus olhos (sempre foram aqueles os olhos de uma cigana) maquiados, frios, enfunados de poder e de fausto sobrenatural. Convidou-me a entrar com um movimento da mão: suas unhas eram compridas, negras, reluzentes. Ritinha de calça jeans e livros sobraçados, amante das riquezas e dos rapazes, Ritinha universitária: fruto da minha imaginação.
Ela espalhava pétalas secas pelos quatro cantos da salinha. Mandou que eu me sentasse num estreito colchonete, andou ao meu redor meditativa, por fim sentou-se no chão à minha frente.
-Para que tenha vindo inquietar a vitae sagrada do meu escritório com a negatividade cética que só encontrei em você em toda a minha vida... deve ser algo grande, Tiago.
Estava claro que não era um encontro social. Tanto melhor, a pergunta "O que você tem feito nos últimos quinze anos?" parecia se responder sozinha. Desse meu pensamento, ri em silêncio.
-O que você tem feito nos últimos quinze anos?, Ritinha me perguntou. Estremeci.
Contei que tentava conseguir a publicação de um livro, que para ganhar a vida continuava advogado, que tinha um cãozinho novo que havia adquirido como capricho, para me consolar da morte de uma irmã. Mas ela queria saber o motivo da minha vinda, o motivo exato, e queria me ajudar, ela disse, e andava preocupadíssima comigo por causa de um sonho perturbador que vinha tendo a meu respeito. Perguntei como era, Ritinha desconversou. Queria saber da minha aflição.
-Não sei escrever sobre amor, desabafei.
Sua expressão impassível se retorceu nos lábios e queixo, e a mística permaneceu calada por cerca de cinco minutos. Então levantou-se e convidou-me a entrar no cômodo adjacente, onde à pobre luz de velas aromáticas eu pude distinguir uma maca de massagista, um sino de ventos pendurado em um aro circular todo trançado por dentro como uma teia de aranha.
Uma sessão de massagem com direito a declamação de mantras depois, eu já deixava que Ritinha executasse as bruxices que achasse necessário. Não reclamava, mas já não esperava resultado algum além de uma história hilariante para contar a Marina, depois.
Engoli poções com gosto de chá, chás com gosto de poção, estive em posição de arbusto, depois de árvore, depois de arranha-céu, inalei todos os vapores e óleos que me eram empurrados, toquei uma bola de cristal, depois bolas de gude, sentei sob um triângulo enquanto Ritinha observava como se tomasse notas mentais. Por fim me disse que estava curado de meu bloqueio, agradeci, discutimos trivialidades durante os breves minutos em que eu assinava o cheque e recolocava os sapatos e a gravata. Saí do escritório de Ritinha para nunca mais voltar.

Durante semanas eu persegui rabos-de-saia diversos, tive sonhos eróticos com toda a espécie de criaturas, reais ou míticas, exauri as energias de Marina todas as noites depois do trabalho.
Nunca pude escrever sequer uma frase sobre o amor.

uma memória

2007-07-06T21:06:00.000-03:00

Me acomete de tempos em tempos um fenômeno intrigante: lembro-me de tudo. Todos os detalhes de um determinado acontecimento, de um momento no passado, se descortinam em rendas lavradas com precisão para o tédio dos meus olhos. Às vezes também me ocorre lembrar o futuro, e isso é coisa difícil, também não vem ao caso. Pensei relatar uma memória antes que se junte a outras tantas no ensolarado terreno estúpido das lembranças perdidas. Aqui trato de uns certos quinze minutos.
Ocorreram depois de um passeio longo e dolorido. Teve fim num ancoradouro vazio, as pernas se me dobravam e eu gemia e gritava e era um entardecer tão patético que fui obrigada a rir da minha própria desgraça, depois. Em seguida a volta pra casa, que me foge ao completo da mente, então as escadas, a porta do quarto de dormir, e finalmente os meus quinze minutos.
Eu tinha as pernas balançando sem tocar o chão e os olhos no piso envernizado entre as meias úmidas. Então descobri que esticando a perna esquerda poderia alcançar a gaveta, e abri-la com o pé, e fecha-la,- cheguei a pensar em talvez escrever um lembrete sobre arrumá-la em breve- e abri-la, e fecha-la indefinidamente. Dos pensamentos que me vieram listo aqui o débil entusiasmo a respeito de livros de recente aquisição, uma preocupação passageira com a saúde do animal de estimação (que no momento latia), e a silenciosa e nauseante ponderação acerca de uma crise existencial que me acometia em anos de juventude mais crítica. Porque a juventude é quase que uma condição médica, ouvi hoje mesmo no telejornal; foram as palavras de um desses metempsicólogos que andam em voga desde o começo do ano.
À gaveta. Abri-a e tornei a fechá-la tantas vezes que o som da corrediça e da madeira batendo, tão constante, tão livre de expressão e de variações no tom, teria enlouquecido o leitor em menos de quatorze minutos. Mas eu não ouvia mais o som. E foi assim que fiquei surda.

a day in the life

2007-06-11T14:36:00.000-03:00

Hail! to the heart-thief. Ladies and gentlemen we are landing on solid ground. Meat inside, our skins. Chew on it: bones. Hair on our heads, dreams underneath. Empty, large, endless; the shiny gaze of illusion. Wake up, brush your teeth, let the sun in. No sun, still time for sleeping. Birds don't sleep. They nest. The careless ones electroshocked on the long wires. Good prey for street dogs.
Listen, songs. Do they mean. Hoarse voices hooves of horses. Cars, smoke. Decaying bodies that still move. Walk. Ants kidnapping ants from other anthouses. Crime doesn't pay. Ideas, ideals, sleepless. Turn in your bed. Think of something, write it down, tear the paper. A thunderstorm in the summer. Autumn will come. Leaves in the grass, giant butterflies lost in flight up high lower dead. Without a funeral, mourn the moth. Blueland of red sky, more lies, your feet kick away the blankets. Time to rise, time to die, to live to become flesh. Mindless. Powerful. Capable of this and that. No work today, death is an everlasting sunday. Sundays spent in the park, long gone childhood never knows when it ends. A lake, seemed so big. A muddy puddle now with newspaper ships. Bitter coffee, oh such a long long life. Not enough time though. Day-old bread becomes toast. Expired jelly and hammering nails inside the neighbour's house. The cold kills the bugs. Their spirits wingless, ironic and cradled in dirt. Moving snake-like, dissolving in rain like sugar. Cold coffee throw it out. Now comes noon you haven't left the kitchen table. A coat for lunch, eating because you have to eat. Your mother used to say. Chilly wind. Give the beggar some change. He hasn't shaved his beard for years. The sun blows clouds away, aching eyes, wander around. Downtown, cheap snack selling places, roaches. Step on them they become jelly. And even roaches have wings. You have no wings. See the people passing by the passers-by. The color in their clothing, the animals they wear. Primitive men. Sleep while you're awake. More coffee and then night. Comes down from outerspace; house of nights. Starless but your eyes. Eye the people now, they're shadows. If you hadn't left your house would the world keep spinning. You love the night because it darkens your face. Become no-one. No-one you know. Shaking hands with gloves to protect you from human contact. Clear skin and white from the cold. The way home
i forget.

a turbulence of limbs

2007-04-24T15:05:00.000-03:00

Clamour coming from the baby jars!
(my trembling heart,
shudders of trees under
poor winter lighting)
I rush,
Silence.
(and the constant buzz of the refrigerator)
I must be insane.

Milly, Sally, Lily, Molly:
four you are, three darks
and a blonde
three smiles and a
mean-to-be
(sally often frowns.)

"Tricky children
go to sleep!"
No echoes, no wind:
that comfort which
I seek.
Assonance on assonance,
your heads
-my girls' heads-
sinking deaf in a jar of formaline.

Tomorrow, maybe;
the life that you
have been denied- maybe,
a scent of doubt and
green tea-
you could begin
to grow.

Assuming all of your eyes
closed,
I leave the room on tiptoe.

Oh Dear, Oh
Mighty God,
God of all
Sleeplessness
God of Gods,
God of chemists,
God of
gravediggers and
of nurses,
When will I finally fall asleep?

5:55

2007-03-21T13:24:00.000-03:00

in the morning i wake up with a floating spirit's call. something bites down hard on the flesh between my legs, interrupting my yawning thoughts of love and i can't remember what day it is, nor what city it is so i ask the dragon that hangs from the chandelier by its tail, the only answer i get is fire and loud laughter now my hair is on fire as i calmly feel the floor with bare feet in search for slippers, the stairway to the kitchen is guarded by fat, pink bats that fill out forms everytime someone crosses their territory. i wave at them, they know me so they let me through no questions asked, downstairs i empty a large glass of water the window to the backyard reveals my head, red and burning still. i swallow a sleeping pill and caress a cat in the ear, the house melts down and i can finally pass out.

As Horas

2006-12-31T19:55:00.000-02:00

às onze
mas que transporte é esse
que visível não é,
e carrega a alma vivente
-as outras já sabem sozinhas
se deslocar- de um tempo
ao próximo tempo
e deste outro ao fim de todos

qual é o comboio ou a
carruagem
a conduzir-nos ao amanhã?

às doze
despertam as horas.
e qual delas
há de chorar por ter
seu tempo passado

o sabe o ponteiro
o senhor pontual
de teu ponto final:

a morte
mais não é que um atraso

regarding fairy-lights

2006-12-25T23:36:00.001-02:00

the morning grew on me
like a feeling of mistrust.
it rose fully green
and pear-shaped from the shrubs
lit as if by dying bulbs
it vapoured from the grass
then summited at my chest.

i stepped outside the house and looked
bluntly at the flower pots.
they were still asleep.
so were all the dogs.
faceless
peddlers and steam clouds waved at me,
i waved back
my daughter in a blanket, on my lap;
i underwent the morning as she slept.

the next hour came, and the other
did unfold
so prompt and orderly
all the others rolled:
for they were surely
round
and smooth enough to slip
so down the steps they went
and by the rosebuds they were split.

(captive of the thick,
indestructible stiffness
in a motion of wheels, leaves
and legs
my window-eyed home stared
formal and tall
into the hazel gazed
red haired deity of the busy
street in June.)

i lowered my brow to the fine
vision of my baby's eyelashes.
her faced seemed to be switched
on and off like a lamp.
the cruel evergreens and the passing workers
waved at me,
i waved back
in return for their sympathy towards
the woman with no descendants.

the scent of festivities invaded the yards and
the doors to the houses were carefully locked.
the sky turned night-carmine as it
usually did,
the stars shed some light
over bodies of birds that had toppled.
i left
forlorn
stumbled
into the front door
as i found myself standing with
the blanket in my arms, empty
and my garden, barren.

dad was a drunkard, i am the messiah

2006-11-26T14:29:00.000-02:00

the old man
preserved forever with a
black head of thick
vigor (that grins
still, after the villagers
have buried their dead)
lost sight of you
in another gulp of that distilled
liquor of his.

distinct gentlemen in fautless
cardboard posture
and well ironed linen
clap in metric at the end of your
displays. these are their remaining
verse lines.

you know when to tell your jokes.
your denture the whitest of all,
animal-sharp
your anecdotes come out
blatant
a quartet of loud trombones.
in the taphouse,
at the meetings
you pole the stage
spotlit
by the eager eyes of the idiots.

late night you roll over
for the cars to go
by, life has not payed you back.
and you have done so much.

you fail to recognize the morning.
the working girls service you
in exchange for the content of your
soaking pockets.

the word on your closest friends' lips
passing around like a pipe infected with
spit, a one time bride-they only speak
in cheap proverbs after the fifth glass-
that is our noble joe
like father, like son.

the coming of cherub

2006-11-22T21:08:00.000-02:00

the towers slobber light:
we have our clouds wet.
it is dark and it is late
you almost lost your way.

we have waited for you.
we have loved your arrival
your mirage of a father
spoke quietly to himself
as the deserted land
prays -the season
warmly licks our cheeks,
we give its tongue
a dirty look-
and hopes for a downpour.

your small arms
move around clockwise.
there is no one around.
i hold you and say your name
and your large eyes impart;
born in december,
dead from the start.

you lean your fine nose
on your mother's chest.
the doctor fills my ears
with recommendation.
i watch a butterfly
out the window,
i wish you would chase it
and i would dry your eyes
when it flew away.

a kiss on your newly formed
lips without a tone
without a cry
my unborn son,
i now leave you to die.

the holy capsule

2006-11-20T13:23:00.000-02:00

a delicate snake skin gently slides
through the warmest grassy land
earth bound children greet the day
with sacred laughter and with cries.

i see none of this: none of it
do you realize.
neither am i sleeping,
nor are you alive.

our veins now are goldfish roads
and the lakes are the home
of all that is dignified
passionate symbols there abide.
an effigy of the face of god
sputters deflected in our blood
-and the summer is a beast, and
the day bends embodied
inside me like a summer's ghost-.

o leitor me excuse, mas nossa programação normal retornará dentro de alguns segundos.

2006-11-13T18:46:00.000-02:00

irrompemos
por decorrência do horário de verão
e de nascimento
e de morte
na publicação das exaustivas narrativas
os débeis e
quebradiços versos
de extrema relevância política
e informativa
detecta-se
longas extensões de terra
bombardeadas pelas
chuvas torrenciais
imaginadas e decididamente acontecidas
através
de caprichos inegáveis
das incompletas mulheres
que dos ladrilhos
(brancas,
do material
próprio
dividido
em veias cinzentas, diz
o repórter)
surgem:
não conheces ainda
a capacidade que tens
de me pôr
doente.

gentleman in nightclothes

2006-11-09T14:28:00.000-02:00

In my bed, a falcon of deceit.

retalhos de 184 vidas

2006-11-07T14:38:00.000-02:00

como poderia eu, sem ter visto o que vistes, escrever o livro que tanto quisestes, que tanto amastes?
ao teu lado tens a idade. que tenho eu? palavras ralas, breves anos, um volume fininho sem remate, e a vulgaridade dos mais novos e de nosso tempo.
o cenário de tua história não mais existe, os personagens pereceram. falta-te o vigor, em ocasiões dispersas te falha a memória.

creio que aqui cedo ao natimorto o privilégio de um suspiro: o mais miserável de todos.
acolhe-o no lote de teu peito destinado às ninharias de teus filhos.

bandeira, selo e mapa (três breves curitibanas)

2006-11-06T01:32:00.000-02:00

25.42 S
curitiba, pinheiral: como deixá-la agora?
agora que é bela, que o céu é puro?
que seus telhados trilam ensolarados
agora que é casta manhã tardia
a escarrar à luz santas e vadias?

''a do meio''
abriga as ladras de métrica, os pombos
os insetos de aparência reflexiva
(as antenas tão altivas, é de se empertigar)
sob os tetos remendados de construções inativas
rói as vigas de madeira podre
rasga as roupas, grita, e chia.

49.29 W
as nuvens fugidas de guerra correm logo a outras partes.
janelas brancas emolduram
o desespero alegre das aves
velhas senhoras desconcertam-se em gritos
"o mundo acaba!" e acabou-se a água
pro inferno com a tua democracia!
que se exploda a última manchete.
a cidade nasce, e tal criança
chora com o primeiro ar do dia.

shapeless whirlpool

2006-10-30T20:16:00.000-03:00

back then
youth-struck
i believe-
i used to believe

the earth
it self
(my mother)
she would gather
the divine
(picks her peaches,
withal,
from her tree)
power to
rearrange

in our minds-
and the relief!

every thing
living or
breathing
into
beauty

today, let me
report (to you)
i still take pity
on the faces
of dying dogs
i
(my dear)
drink soda and watch the news.

mort mot juste

2006-10-30T14:18:00.000-03:00

Que tem a morte com os assuntos da vida? Narrando, meus membros acabam.
Incontestável que ontem fui, estive, amanhã só permaneço: a um morto ofereces teus olhares, e com eles, tuas fantasias. Não me é dado rejeitá-las.
O que nos aparta -agora, completos estranhos- é matéria minha e de meus despojos.
Minha condição é eterna. A tua, provisória.

o sonho do homem da poltrona 12

2006-10-26T13:45:00.000-03:00

margem direita
previsão de chegada:
não há placas
fumantes
contorcem os
dedos
e a imperatriz de dois andares jaz enguiçada no acostamento.

margem esquerda
caderno de criança
ah! um grito!

-meu senhor, seu filho está morto, mas seja bem-vindo a são paulo.

tocata citadina n.5

2006-10-08T22:33:00.000-03:00

o nascer do sol em havana era simples, e rosado. enfumaçado e suspeito de crimes menores no que era hasteado por detrás do beco; em silêncio furtivo a morte ou o olhar preguiçoso da manhã erguiam, em partes distintas da cidade, o mesmo marasmo do dia anterior.
acordei exatamente às nove horas e quinze segundos da noite e, com gosto de sal na língua, constatei que a aurora se alçava janela acima sem a cerimônia habitual.
sorri pensando que o mundo acabava e tive certeza de que muito em breve me esqueceria de ter engolido o repulsivo copo de gelos derretidos e já mornos.
senti que aquilo dos olhos, do sal na bebida e da luz hesitante eram um nunca mais vulgar e cheio de pompa.
quis agarrar pelo pescoço o segundo que conteria, futuramente, meu relato.
acabei por estrangulá-lo. me sobrou este pedaço de papel.

o horror da juventude em outubro e outras histórias

2006-10-03T22:10:00.000-03:00

ah!, não é horrível esquecer-se? hão de concordar comigo.
dizer que todo poste de luz à noite te lembra de tua amante e que vê o mesmo rosto nos fiapos ascendentes de fumaça há anos pode tornar-te tão vulgar.
e o dia que se passou no interior do apartamento trancado (paredes amareladas são o mofo tentando simular uma invasão do sol) enquanto ordenavas que lhe trouxessem outra dose de tremor e prazer barato?

ora, leitor, aqui não é lugar para ti.
cuida de tua própria frivolidade e deixe que a minha divirta os tolos.
vai-te.

warmth

2006-09-17T18:52:00.000-03:00

we live inside a lie womb-shaped.

no title

2006-09-15T20:22:00.000-03:00

feared by all, our king was the tallest, the bravest.
he had to look down to talk to his people,
such a strange thing i know, but they never seemed to move, and looked so stiff.
he would make them bend their back, somehow i could never understand.
he was bigger than all animals and could take their lives with his heavy sword,
anytime he wanted, his wishes were granted by the shiny gods of the ceiling sky.
his green cape would stand out, no matter how wild the colors seemed
and to me they seemed specially blurry that afternoon,
not sure i told you it was hot, a window was wide open, i held a drink and sighed like a lover.
there was light all over the room, the carpet felt warm when i touched it with bare feet.
and the king...
i truly believed his golden crown would never ever break or lose its shine.
well, they all did too, we all did.
the wind would cause his cape to lift, and move.
i watched from afar, such a graceful scene for a painting, i'd love to have the ability to
draw the great king's portrait, i remember that's exactly what i thought.
(oh he had the grace, the grace of a heron, yet the feathers lost on flight were mine, and mine only.)
the monarch got tired of everything so fast, chopped the heads off the royalty,
gave his throne away to the first nobody who crossed his way.
he sat on the floor, and whispered such a silly lullaby, i felt ashamed for him.
everyone thought that the king had gone mad. the kingdom wept.
after flooding the village with salty tears, everyone was tired yet hopeful.
the last doctor's annoucement made them look down at their feet in sadness,
nightfall brought silence and sleep, the streets were finally empty.
i finished my drink, i suppose. don't rely on memories, the mind is rather deceitful..
the walk home was short and my mind was pleasantly blank.
people began to lock the front doors to their houses, i could see a few stars between the clouds.
i felt a raindrop on my shoulder, then another. i tasted the rain, and i must have been
insane there for a moment, because i can assure you it tasted as saline as the sea.
the king closed his eyes and waited for brand new dreams.
his mother's green old skirt lay wrinkled on a chair, underneath a sword made of blue plastic.

o grito de redenção de uma formiga

2006-09-09T18:47:00.000-03:00

pessoas da luz do sol, onde se escondem da cegueira temporária, das goteiras, dos buracos na madeira do chão?
quanta chuva é necessária para que fechem suas janelas?

por que suas lógicas e justificativas, perfeitas em engano, sussurram agora impuras e dispersas em cada encontro entre duas paredes?

e se apagaram as luzes, era pra fingir a solenidade confortável de uma tempestade.
e se nos dirigiram sopros com palavras, era para que acreditássemos no tempo e em quanto tempo um ser vivo demora para perceber que está vivo.

mesmo depois de morto.

depois de alimentar a todos os filhos do sol, a névoa se recolhe e restam espaços a mudar de cor. fios elétricos emaranhados sobre uma mesa, poças de lama do outro lado. e que esperam mais da pobreza do solo, dos olhos cansados dos amigáveis desconhecidos?

nas suas varandas o pouso de algum animal encharcado, suas bocas sempre brilhantes e rígidas, por que não se mexem?

por favor, movam-se, e respirem o que sobrou depois da água.

avisamos a todos eles, e então o quê?