Espectral antixistência
Não há telefone que toque,
Não tem havido motivo para retornar uma chamada que não leva a nada.
Sou o ente que não se sente,
Aquele que apenas mente mentiras de parasita,
Aquele cuja guita já não grita mil vezes calada,
Abandonada comigo, no solilóquio de mim para o próprio.
Está explicado, agora vai ser apagado.
Apenas copiado para um texto assolado
De quem só dá má língua,
Vivendo espectralmente na míngua
Sufocada
Cada texto cada contexto é apresentado
Como um puzzle incongruente,
Cada palavra faz menos sentido,
Cada meta caída mais uma estocada
Nesta loja mofada, melhor fechada,
A palavra acabada, a esperança esganada.
Inelutável
O vento sopra,
a briza estranha,
O instante desvanece…
A gente inelutável,
Evanescente confiável.
An obelisk raises hopes
An obelisk raises hopes, a bridge connects souls,
An orchid leaves its scent, characters will not bend,
Roads always diverge, around a tree love struggles,
Hurting it, bond cutter knives, no deep repent.
Another scene made of clay, hot, colder, next day.
A child raises his hand to a passing young woman,
Seated at on old stairway entrance, she is not seen.
Seven years, has lost her mom due to attack of a man,
Angry child climbs the Victorian stair losing self-esteem
Another scene made of clay, very hot, colder next day
This is not what I fucking want to connect me to, I say
Another scene made of clay, very hot, colder next day
Fishes jump out of the pond, sun bright along the way
No subject may attend such gathering of inconsistency.
There may be whores, bulls, pinnacles, tools, watches and more.
Apples, pineapples, ascent to macho pichu, sign of Ophiuchus.
Relatively slow, the serpents most wished capability turned it sore,
Cause everybody wanted the death alive, well and playing baseball.
At the balcony a mother of five cries for not having lost them all.
Another scene made of clay, very hot, either way, colder the next day
Another scene made of clay, very hot,
either way, colder the next day
O why you force me to write
Things so patentely not bright
No interest whatsoever, if I may?
Another scene made of clay
One must be offered to
A entity of the underground,
Cold is far from evil compound.
Your path isn’t just a day,
Why do you loose it
Never a word about birdlings
A praise for his mother
An offer to the Gods
Describing the youngsters sons he should
Some leashes are made of clay
Some broke, others just decay
Expand your life, heart, orgasm
Write when sad or angry, say, if you enjoy
After falling back to listen to Dinah Washington voice
I confess a choice of empathy about being mad about a boy
At this age, a voice from the fifties, after years of my celibacy
As a naturally promiscuous but faithful to one at a time,
Confessing all infidelities and invite to all ménages type of man, when married,
I understand some women mad about boys, punishing their partners
By their inability to let them fuck the young cock,
Invite their partner to assist or participate actively,
Present himself personally or remotely by any modern means...
Or keep it to her (lone?) selves...
As a naïve believer,
My creed is most would communicate if possible,
And feel sorry for such women or men,
That there are still many of both,
Who cannot share their libido with their partners
So sad, it brings pain to both subjects, family, friends
Suppose, this time, I am hungry writing,
Mad with myself for denying myself sex as communion
And companionship,
Staying on quick creative masturbation is misbehaving.
Staying home but not by circumstances, not choice
And neither books nor digital media are good company,
In solitaire there is desire but not the satisfaction one admires
This is not a satire,
More of a parabolic confession
Or a mind regression
You decide, I’m not giving a shit
I’m a fool to live as I actually do
And have nothing more to ado
Women please pick your boys
Tear them into tired happy jalopies...
Don’t bother with hypothetical jealousies
So as I say, forget the sad example, if true
Maybe some full moon I came out in the blue...
To give someone deserving some of my expertise,
Familiarize with, listen, laugh... be humble
Although the empathy is real, I know that stand in a bed of nails
Failed the Fakir course, and the blood taints everything
So no living soul will offer voluntarily to me
As others decisions strike and slain my initiative
Before I even form the process, by data analysis based prediction
And no valediction
No fast pace
Will free my desire from the asphyxiating embrace
Of things I ought to accomplish
Of means I refuse, tools I’ll never use.
No path, no pier, no fugue, no muse.
Only and endless inconsiderate abuse
So you (that, happily for me) are free to act under the usual constraints
Ignore them, give them all you know you may
And the more you have within, sway
Expand your life, heart, orgasm,
Don’t chasm, be blank or breach,
Reach higher, be brighter
Menina brincando
Dijo hace lo que haces con el corazón
No embarques en un corsario negro
Respecta los sueños de las antepasadas
Inspira a la primera idea hermosa o catártica
No me gustaría de me quedar a antártica
Más la poesía de los pingüinos Imperador
Deberá ser más alta que el dolor
Lo que nada consta contra la sospecha
Que sou una menina brincando na Praia
Escoada de areia na playa fugida de mar cansado...
Men walk and children run
Stories are to be told, good or bad, happy and sad.
The bird had a lot of untold one, allegedly mostly bad.
Acrobatically writers do their magic with the birds
Fumes eluding the editor and convincing de public
That this is the real magnificent product of human spirit
Witch is undubitably at least, what spirit is in ancestors consideration here?
Spirit of peace, serenity, luxury, anger, of people past,
So many waves in the sea that we, few and small, cannot opine?
One more verse about how irrelevant are we to compare to a glorious pine
I see thunder moving the leaves, after I open my eyes close to the lightning
I feel the path enchanting my life, some effort like the saw and the pine
Men walk and children run with their Kits yellow, blue, red, and purple, cutting each other.
The pine falls to the ground and all the birds are homeless, some eaten and other catch
Color is present in the blood, the sky, the river, and the sea; I just can't see any color in me.
Colour is present in the blood, the sky, the river, and the sea;
I just can't see any colour in me.
Cause I, me, fucking monochromatic being
Like hollow man, but not,
Just a lose 45 hollow point shot, that is what we can buy,
Hitting nothing, nor a fucking fruit fly,
But provoking the stampee that will feed thee.
Yoall.
Colour is present_
Stories are to be told, good or bad, happy and sad.
The bird had a lot of untold one, allegedly mostly bad.
Acrobaticlly writers do their magic with the birds
Fumes eluding the editor and convincing de public
That this is the real magnificent product of human spirit
Witch is dubitably at least, what spirit are in consideration here?
Spirit of peace, serenity, luxury, anger, of people past, there
Are so many waves in the sea that we few and small cannot opine?
One more verse about how small we are compare to a glorious pine!
Words will be thought and then written and god wanting, read.
Once read the author prays for appreciation or at least an opinion.
Cutting a long story short, having never published, must follow the tread
Malformations malfunctioned at days cutting like razor blade and perished?
I see thunder moving the leaves, after I open my eyes close to the lightning
I feel the path enchanting my life, some effort like the saw and the pine
Men walk and children run with their Kits yellow, blue, red, and purple, cutting each other.
The pine falls to the ground and all the birds are homeless, some eaten and other catch
Color is present in the blood, the sky, the river, and the sea; I just can't see any color in me.
Colour is present in the blood, the sky, the river, and the sea;
I just can't see any colour in me.
Cause I, me, fucking monochromatic being
Like hollow man, but not,
Just Like a shape already forgot.
Eu rolo sem rumo, tabuleiro estragado
Desalento empurrado, dado viciado, caído na orla do ser,
Vazio na hora de ter,
Eu rolo sem rumo, tabuleiro estragado,
Destino ignorado, sem planta para ver.
Ofereceram pilhas de livros e razões sem nunca interiorizar o que aí achei, palavras polissilábicas,
Estruturas, só palha seca, cinzas e agruras.
Seco só e sem palavras ardidas,
A casa antiga de mim enfim desabou,
Os saltos altos das mulheres na rua, choque, ruído e o nada que sobrou
Só a dor traz sentido ao meu desalento.
Só a teimosia provem ao meu sustento.
O vento quente com sabor a chamas, a cinzas, afinal como me chamas?
Cinzas de nós, chondrites aspiradas, afinal nadas, nada do macroscosmo,
O soluço da solitude no planeta mãe, só esta noite, nâo ficas,
Pois a tua personalidade é fria e eu sou quente e grande e tolerante,
Mesmo à minha incompletude expressa no sangue e gemidos que levo,
Nâo te pego amor mesmo que a alma desespere e repetidamente sem trevo.
Três ou quadrifold, fuck what is about to be told, i am sold to boldnesss.
So i cannot falter, no more alter, and my song is in A plus full of disarray.
A song of lost love, of having to cut your limbs, of sung nothingness.
Sem pino
Apoio tem que ter base figurativamente
Apoio é uma ilusão se apoiar alguém.
Apoia a cabeça no meu peito.
Apoia-te em mim.
Apoio não há
Até ao fim.
