Sunday, May 13, 2012

Black beauty

A curvaceous black curve spirals in front of my mind
A sparkling silver dress fitting a shinning body melting the catwalk
Plump red lips forming slow motion sensual phonetics
A black beauty shared in the sanctuary
Without a word, a new parallel manner of existence
A glow in the eyes, the climax preceding the wave.

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Bus Fare Tale

Rising jets of melted tar, rise through the air
Multi-ton metallic walker stops, carrying an air conditioner nightmare
Glance to the overlord, plastic fare, a swipe in the air
Outcast, roofless, a mist of social insolubility,
Logic in a sense that ceases to coexist
An absent reader of economic doom and social gossip
Paper mash and public speeches of barely intelligible words
A black tattoo dressed in white, slim-fitting a plastic seat
A mellisonant smile from the girl in blue
The femme fatale dreams with helixes spiraling in a sculpted body
The mp3 halo and a coy smile
The tattoo district is the last stop

Saturday, February 05, 2011

Lipstick in the Snow

One of the fugitives of the snow.
The wheels of the miller are spinning around while the ground frizzes to the sky
and you…you move through this snow.
You have given your way to the dress.
A black dress…. lurking in the shadows of the augmented white moon.
Where the sky meets the ground, where the ghouls howl to the clouds.
Where the voice you tend to swallow begs for silence where the sun shines no more.
Let the voice in the window curse the crystal where it stands.
All the brittle things you hold will break with the lack of attention.
Lipstick in black sheets.
A burned circle in the lips.
A white bed with a big wild idea laying open for an icy whisper wrapping cursed flames.

Thy Destiny

Years of striving, sacrifice and tears
and now…
an handful of promises
as tangible as the air I breathe.
You do wonder if in reality, destiny is a flow
and while you are not fulfilling your destiny
the flow will always stop you moving forward
no matter what.

Image information:

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Dante's Bird

The Dante’s bird is keeping an eye on the wheel of the lost souls. Bodies and faces tangled in the barbwire of destiny, molded from the white clay of a personal unknown artist. The copper knights sleepwalk in the park looking for screaming statues, while Neptune’s face is in the ground with a crack in its face bolted with molten iron. The wheel of the screaming souls is standing still with an empty back while the barbwire is twisting by the torque of rust.

Tuesday, October 07, 2008

Scrape in the blue

Inspiring ambiance, a blue sky over fields of green, the sweet entail of a dream. I don’t think I just drift wide awake. Like a flock of birds, for now I am free, an empty page. Drops of rain stain the paper, writing crystal clear tales about black and white birds of multicolor songs. Trees touching the sky with poignant branches of tainted green smells. Laughs drawn in the clouds, the scrape in the blue.

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Uma mesa de pequeno-almoço vazia de companhia, num país estrangeiro

Uma mesa de pequeno-almoço vazia de companhia, num país estrangeiro…Esta é mais uma manhã, na qual tento inventar pensamentos, planos, voos impossíveis, algo que me faça sentir mais útil, alegre, concretizado… sinceramente, nem sei definir o que quero sentir. Aceito qualquer sugestão, até mesmo de roleta. Ao meu lado esquerdo, uma parede verde, um relógio barulhento que me ancora na realidade temporal; em frente uma parede amarela com quadros de pouco gosto. Foco a minha atenção num pequeno estrago no estuque da parede, penso no vazio, ou talvez o vazio seja a única coisa que me ocupa.
As vezes gostava de ser mais lunático do que sou e mandar tudo á fava. Penso que não tive tempo de racionalizar o que quero. Aquele “gap year” que os estudantes fazem antes ou depois da universidade em certos países, talvez fosse a resposta certa na altura adequada para mastigar um plano de vida. Os planos a curto prazo e as modas são fugazes, o que parece ser excitante agora daqui a alguns anos (talvez meses!) torna-se fastidioso.
Acho que é indispensável pensar e pensar e regurgitar tudo novamente. Cheguei a essa conclusão quando saí de casa e deixei cair as minhas malas em solos estrangeiros. O mundo tornou-se pequeno, mas a quantidade de sonhos e possibilidades transformou-se num colosso que cresce e me consome.
Não estou interessado em tornar-me num revolucionário de ideais baratos, que veste uma camisola com a imagem do Che Guevara sem saber o que aquele olhar significa (já nem digo a estrela) e diz que o dinheiro ou qualquer bem material é um excesso neste mundo de arrogância capitalista. Quero algo…algo que me abra os olhos e me faça encarar os dias com vontade e sem vazios que ecoam com cada pensamento que levanta voo.
Interessante, a perspectiva de felicidade é uma escala de uma metamorfose prodigiosa. O que pensávamos que era o nosso zénite de alegria torna-se um valor de inferior simbolismo e uma nova “coisa” cai no topo da nossa escala. Quanto mais vejo, sinto e penso mais quero saltar. O problema é que não sei para onde e um salto às cegas é sempre algo que não confiamos. Talvez naqueles momentos em que acordo a transpirar com pesadelos que não me deixam em paz.
Às vezes apetece-me chorar…mas não consigo. Será que me tornei insensível? Eu não quero perder a única coisa que me torna imune ao apatismo.
Uma mesa de pequeno-almoço vazia de companhia, num país estrangeiro…Esta é mais uma manhã, na qual tento inventar pensamentos, planos, voos impossíveis, algo que me faça sentir mais útil, alegre, concretizado… sinceramente, nem sei definir o que sinto…o que quero sentir.

Sunday, September 09, 2007

Out of reach

Hell over all what you can see, bore to tears, memories fading…faith in the world you need until you became.
Profound isn’t it…
Theory doesn’t make distance shorter, or time goes faster.
I just want to run out of reach…

The nadir of the heart

It seems we all live in a boundless noodle of love and secret sentimental eager, kept away in the nadir of the heart. The inquisitional look sometimes digs too deep, a simple whisper might show a lost love or a life lost for a love quest. The fear or shame of being revealed builds a colossal defense mechanism around the deepest feelings. But with matters of the heart, the human being is weak and predictable. A Silent moment…a forced broken smile, invisible tears…the slip is noticed when the heart breaks. There’s not enough strength to resist the pain when love is reject, it seems the body awakes from an eternal numbness and enters to gloominess.

It seems we are never alone in this life, there’s always someone that digs us. If we love and laugh, someone is going to weep and be heart-broken.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Every drop I ear

Every drop I ear, from every leaf, every single sound I ear, the voice in the enchanted mind, makes me drift. Noises are blocked by the world in ascension in my mind; the piano takes me through buses and cars like they were sculptures of a world of metallic heart and tragedy…or treachery. Abstraction takes all the nonsense to a temporary recycle bin, were they will stay as long the sound cruises through my body. It makes me wonder, makes me smile the chaotic vision that my eyes provide from the hasty street. I still like to ride my carpet of emotions through this hurried existence, stop time and observe oblivion taking peaces of broken hearts, forgotten by time: wasted love, lost to dead, dead of love…
Each beat commands my pace. The melody wires my legs and commands my attention.
I feel pain, the music is gone; I’ve run out of battery, I hit the reality.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Tired of the way that I’m feeling everyday

Yes…Silence it’s a peace of mind now.
From an ample glassy view, I see time passing forever. I almost forgot what I read from the Book of Song: “time passes through you and is peculiarly deadly after a while”. So many times, I wish I could just drift incessantly.

To feel, sometimes going in a misguided passageway…
To feel, nothing more to feel…
To feel nothing inside…
The need to be alone…but afraid of a meaninglessness walk.
If I could, I wish I could throw myself against what I’ve been searching all my entire life. Eventually, that could take my blues away.
I’m tired of the way that I’m feeling everyday, and its manner of taking my strength away. It’s leaving me exhausted, shattered.

I always felt it inside of me, since the first day…I feel it in my head now, getting louder…my shrine…my cosy blanket I use for hiding and forget.

I’m afraid this could be the last chance of taking hold of my vision of pearl.

Image information: Steve Vai - Alien Love Secrets 1995

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

...kiss entail...

I remember them saying, that the world was confined to a pulse of emotions and icons made in an instance of particular insentient.
A boundless reading of the world, restricted by the cut of a self-made stiletto, the frontier were people laugh, were people cry.
Round and round, encircling the momentary view, arms wide open…no stupid feelings and fears.
I disconnect… I don’t care about lovers and killers, riddles and inconveniences. Like a raging wave, like a tremendous combustion, I don’t want to save words no more.
A page written feverishly, a scream raised by a kiss entail…I’m not living without charge.

Bleeding of a fragile poem

Alcohol influence, on the shape of an isolated glassy castle. Exposing mid-night stories of romance from the corner of a relic heartache grave. But the bleeding of a fragile poem from a fragile bleeding heart is prompt in the charge of debt. The private hell is where you are crucified, when you provoke the bleeding of a heart, and the sentence is rescind after picking all the crystals of your guilty conscience. Cellar rats scouting through an electrical fence labyrinth.

Friday, September 08, 2006

A candle of sizzling problems

My hands turn over a candle of sizzling problems; I perpetrated a commentary of stars moisture in a trenched heart. It seems I’m trapped again in the evening, looking for a new mental-fine-menu. Sometimes I just want to sit and wait for the story supper.
Shuffle trough memories I search what is misfortune. I scout and scout once again, my poems trough storms of inner torments. It seems I’m a prey haunted for a draft of greater creation.
Hate and betrayal – I want to trample them under my foot.
Princesses, fortresses and exiles are the standards of my illusion tales.I search a way to hold the road to command my attention, from the twilight zone sack of broken tears, from the real civilization and from all we perceive.
IMAGE INFORATION - Janpanese animation ''Howl's Moving Castle''

Friday, August 18, 2006

Pavlovian slaves of high caloric TV ignorance

Holy Man jumps the grounded fire, while the drum impels the ring smoke into the night skyline. Limerick ignorance is what the new generation shouts to the cracked walls, callous by their rocks of hatred. Listen the frames of indecision and frosted reasoning stupidity. Stiletto attitudes of a poetic incision within the voice. Graffiti disciples with aerosol Cross parading in a fashionable road of unreachable success. Pavlovian slaves of high caloric TV ignorance.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Perhaps in special occasions...

Down in the deepest secrets of your shadows, I see the torch of the priest has she holds the knowledge, your heart is in my hands now for your profit. I shiver in the corner of the gloom, and everything you think I will hear. I’ll be the devil behind your tail, and like a bomb I will bring light. Carefully unsuspected, perhaps in special occasions I will accept Visa.
Image information: The Flaming Spirits of the Evil Counsellors - Dante's Inferno by Gustave Dore, 1861.

A mudança e o progressista...

Enquanto a mudança e o pensamento progressista, continuar a ser visto como um desvio educativo, uma rebeldia, ou como um simples cliché de afirmação social, continuaremos imutáveis, acorrentados ao mesmo círculo vicioso que odiamos, mas que sustentamos com medos, mitos e lendas.
Nadamos numa sociedade de má critica, a coisa fútil, o atirar para o ar palavras de ordem e revolta que são largadas no chão, partindo-se como porcelana quando o indivíduo fica com as costas frias. Quase como um sindroma canino, ladra-se e ataca-se quando há muitos, mas baixa-se as orelhas e olha-se para o chão quando se fica sozinho.
Mas o melhor deste filme de baixo orçamento de muito mau gosto, é que quando os actores da peça estão do outro lado do ecrã, riem-se e “mandam vir” com as atitudes que comem à mesa com eles.
Talvez isto tudo seja um produto da minha imaginação, da minha má educação, ou talvez eu faça isto porque talvez sofro de algum défice de atenção e preciso de me afirmar. Não sei…pode ser, quem sabe?

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Um dia destes...

Um dia destes senti-me triste, algo me incomodava, alguma coisa não me permitia saborear a brisa que me batia na cara, senti-me insensível e apático. Tive que lhe dar atenção e entender o que se passava. No entanto, foi uma tentativa fútil, a única coisa que ganhei foi uma cãibra, por andar sempre de semblante carregado. Bem…não foi tão fútil assim, descobri que me falta algo que me deprime de uma forma acutilante, mas que não tem formato. É um nó que anda sempre apertado e não fica frouxo, ocupando grande parte do estômago e do coração, tirando a fome e impedindo de sentir. O remoer do sentimento e a falta de pistas para encontrar o caminho da felicidade, deixa-me absorto, perdido, pensativo. Não faço mais nada do que redigir sem conta, o monólogo entre mim e eu.

Thursday, May 04, 2006


I was sitting where the wind blows the mountain, just laying there watching something out of range, out of sense.
The perfect place, to purge my lies from their cold heavy shell.
I open my arms, with the wind in my face, pretending I’m free to play all the strings, but soon my will is gone. I will rise my hands up in the air, until the sun burns out my determination.
I will scream my lungs out, until I feel the space left by my voice.
I will hold every single punch and pushes, until Time grows tire.
I will not sleep, until I found my way out, I will take a rest when I die.
I will keep my mind focus, and I won’t change direction.
I will build my armour with my own sweat and tears.
I will go trough indifference until I grow immune.