15.10.14

regresso



és fome que deu em fartura
uma ilha que pede naufrágios
e erros, e erros, e erros
és o caminho mais longo entre mim
sem um mapa sem pés nem chão
só a cegueira depois do grito
tenho vergonha das minhas palavras
de tão gastas, inúteis, tão ditas
mas beija-me os dias que ficaram
e guardo os versos todos para ti

27.9.14

The Words of Others


Writing and living, as I do, as many of us do, as days upon days, is all about one’s own words. It is.
Or is it not?
I’ve been myself for a while now, not proud, not too keen, but a force of habit, like a reasonable thing to do. Being as the most elementary way of enduring without dying. Writing and living, as they say.
The body I carry, with all its hmms and ahhs, a body so frail, breathing tenderly like roses may sip or sinners might whisper, a body given, ill-treated, with all kinds of laments and cries.
My body has fears, it hurts, it thrills, it savours and shivers, and my body also thinks, but only when it stumbles.

Of love we shall talk another time.

There’s always some violence in the act of hearing, like a target meeting its bullets, or wood encountering fire. Words can only burn inside the heads of others, conquering and then soothing, loving and then leaving.
But we all yearn to be conquered, don’t we? We all feel empty and sad when the night falls and there is nothing to be there for. No God in our hands, no meaning in those hours.
And then the voices, and then you, and you, and people pouring meaning to what life could be… Life, as I should live it, God of all the proses.
My life, so much better, so much…. More, through the meanings of others. I’d be happy if I was you. I’d be wholesome if only I could try.

Of love we shall talk another time.

The deer keep jumping, despite us, the leaves keep falling, despite ….
Don’t we? Don’t we all deserve so much better? Don’t we all know so much more?
People can be very intelligent.
I had this girl… I did. She said the sweetest things, she touched me where I am not. And kisses, and words, and… still… I mean, we all have fucked, and it can be pleasant, but not like that, I kept telling her, not like that.
Writing and living, like we did, was all about our own words. And we fucked each other’s phrases, and we fucked each other’s worlds. With all our hmms, and ahhs.


Of love we shall talk another time. 

(Texto escrito originalmente em inglês para uma leitura na Ledig House)

16.7.14

Europa



Andam tão sérias as pedras
Tão calados os pés no chão
Fingem-se homens os homens
E repetem a voz e as mãos
É muito tarde para nascer
Outra vez um outro mundo
Não há lugar para tantas sombras
Nem dias para todas as horas
Se alguém sonhar que me leve
E separe este peso dos ossos
Pergunte à chuva como cai
E ao sopro como faz vento

4.6.14

Poema Escrito Sem a Ajuda de Dor



O rasto de um corpo nos meus lençóis
Um instante que cheira a noite e a café
Algumas palavras soltas que nem importam
O ar que vem de ti, os dedos, os teus pés
Tudo tão simples, tão só isto, afinal
Uma música linda a tocar na gente
Uma queda sem gritos nem chão
Afinal o tempo és tu, e sorrir és tu também
Afinal algumas flores e um fumo lento
Não abras a janela, não digas o teu nome
Que pode o mundo romper por nós

 
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