Poesia (20.0)

Coming Back to Death

My oldest friend,

As you may know

Such thing should only be here

In order to keep me moving

But it has become a necessary aspect

Of this life that has been lived for me.

Sadness and this anguished feeling take over

And my so-called art comes out.

My dear, you see,

Dark and dirty

Such as my hands

Covered in blood,

Thick

Dark

Old

Poor

Blood of mine

That runs away

Despite all requests,

That runs away

Trying to find peace

Anywhere but home.

Friend, all I know now is that

Resurrecting as you wish

Seems to be an act of selfishness

But instead of making an effort

To live after dying

I’ve chosen to die after living.

My resurrection, so,

Happens through pain

And only pain itself

Can make this life

Livable.

Poesia (19.9)

Solitude And His Face

Like the pain.

Feel it underneath your eye.

I went looking.

I found.

I cried.

I couldn’t stop.

It was too painful not to look.

Like an accident on the road,

I was the driver that,

Willingly,

Slows down the speed

To see a dead,

Or almost dead,

Body.

His pictures were to be seen.

My blood was to be spilled, so.

The solitude that my body goes through

Is unimaginable

Since I cannot unseen

What I just saw.

Shadows cover his face briefly

And I am,

As for to speak,

Covered in my own solitude.

Thought about reaching the phone,

Calling you instead of crying wolf on the floor.

My hand couldn’t bear the weight of a call.

At one point my eyes dried,

Suffering with the sight of you two together,

You were with him

When you swore at the moon

And all the stars in my celling

That you would love me

And myself only

For a good and long eternity.

Now eternal is my pain.

And there is nothing you can do

To erase the past

That is carved in my eyes.

Those green beacons that you once swore

To be light in your dark way,

Beacons that I hope to guide me

Out of my solitude.

Poesia (19.8)

Lost Track

The acknowledgement that you are

Alone.

Lonely in your own body,

For as big as it is,

Flesh is not company.

For as unconditional as mothers love

Can be

They,

For as holy as they are,

Cannot fulfill your desire

For inner company.

For as many lovers as you might have

They,

As unholy as they get,

Will never fulfill that whole hole that crumbles

Within your fingers.

For as many friends as you may forgive

They,

As available as they could get,

Shan’t see you

As a necessary body-soul part.

Perhaps your own gentle touch

Can

As harsh as it might feel and sound

Comprehend

You and your own

Loneliness.

Poesia (19.7)

O Pecado Original

Estraçalhado no chão

Formigas ocupam

Seus lábios sujos,

Seu peito farto,

Suas costas nuas,

Sua barriga cheia,

Suas mãos culpadas...

...

...

...

A Primeira Culpa

Com dedos ágeis

Fora em busca de alívio,

Da dor que emerge à noite

Dos calafrios que a madrugada traz.

Procuraram o onde

Procuraram o quanto

E o o que.

Acharam todos,

Conseguiram.

A espera balançava

Seus dedos finos

Sob as mãos fervorosas.

O telefone toca,

Está chegando.

As mãos correm para fora

Da casa

Vê

No fim da viela

Uma luz única

E um ronco de morte

Uivando a madrugada quase imersa

Naquele desejo fugaz.

É o senhor?

Pergunta o ronco,

As mãos respondem

E carregam o peso do sabor

Mais rápidas do que nunca

Vêem o erro,

Ignoram-no e voltam pra casa.

Já lá dentro

Com seu ouro branco precioso

Começam os trabalhos.

Vai de uma vez, pensam.

Derramar tudo.

Colocar no mesmo.

E terminar em segundos.

Não.

A anatomia não permite essa pressa.

Lambuzaram-se as mãos grandes

Não deixando nada para trás

A não ser o novo,

O silencioso e novo

Arranhão vago nas costas.

As listras vermelhas na barriga,

A falta de delineamento dos traços,

E o coração já amarelado molenga.

...

...

...

Estraçalhado no chão

Formigas ocupam

Seus lábios sujos,

Seu peito farto,

Suas costas nuas,

Sua barriga cheia,

Suas mãos culpadas

E o gosto da culpa

Em sua boca oleosa.