before
Cold
Rain
For Mar
There are no doors, only windows. And so we move on, in lengthy slow strides. Looking back at past times, when there were doors.
For Mar
ou uma planta.
Teria que arranjar
uma caminha para o cão
ou uma daquelas torres felpudas
ou um vaso de barro.
Talvez uma bicicleta
sem rodas
ou um trampolim
sem molas
ou uma passadeira
sem esteira
para fazer exercício
sem sair do lugar.
Talvez arranje quadros novos
ou comece a pintar
ou volte a desenhar
para viajar até ali e além
sem sair do lar.
Acho que é tempo
de largar o minimilismo
abraçar o capitalismo
esvaziar a cabeça
e o coração,
encher a casa
de mim próprio
e dos outros que passaram
ou que vão passando
ou que vão passar
e construir um lar.
Vou precisar de ímanes
para pôr no frigorífico
e de jarros decorativos
cerâmicas variadas
e cálices medievais
e chaleiras japonesas
e cristais de cristal,
talvez que me torne escultor
ou apicultor.
Podia começar a fazer
coisas em madeira
estantes flutuantes
estantes subterrâneas
estantes,
para pôr os meus livros
e as minhas jarrinhas
e as minhas pinturas
e as peças de madeira
e os livros dos outros.
Olha faz sol,
vou sair
e queimar a pele,
preciso de desprotector solar
e de fazer a mala
e de ir.
I think you just saved me
Just now
Right now
when you left
ages ago
you just saved me
from myself
now
so now I wonder
how can I save you
As if you needed saving from anything
but from shadowy mirrors of myself
As if your light didn’t blind self-proclaimed werewolves
and sun-dried mental vampires
love and a couch
cottage warmth
screeching cords of tensed wire
and immovable souls
resting in satisfaction
dreaming of sun-dried lovelessness
Let me mute these loud echoes of this chaos
in my saved turmoiled head
whilst loving you
in silenced distance
dreaming of saving you
from the need of saving me
For Jo Beth.
A ti, Lara, porque arde. *14
Photo by http://www.markusvoetter.com
This
is a new territory.
A
new world, filled with glimpses of past times.
I
lock the door and sit on the floor, the clock on the wall keeps ticking.
seconds circling around...
minutes... hours.
Days
go by, it’s been months now.
I’m
growing old within these new walls.
My
skin is aged, tired of holding on to this soul.
My
spirit is blind for staring at the sun or vampiring through the
night.
There’s
an invisible gravitational fight suspended in thin air,
Can
you feel it flowing, turbulent?
Can
you ignore it?
Or
ignore ignorance as a girl sings words in a strange language?
Illyrian,
Pinyin, Euskara, Ugaritic or beautiful plain Algerian.
How
many languages do you not know?
How
many songs do you not hear throughout your days, your life?
To walk out.
Or to fly; learn all the names of the winds.
Zephyrus, Lawaan,
Simoon, Sharaav.
Ethereal,
eternal,
intangible.
Take
me there; I’ll hold on to your voice strings.
Words
as a flying carpet that crashes constantly into an abyss of boredom.
And seconds circling around...
Take
a picture, freeze all the clocks.
How
much older am I since a moment ago?
One
moment older?
Ageing
with a smile.
*08
|
Painting: "Unnamed Ethereality", by Leote Lamp Designs. |