You are that one
whose words to
my ears are playful
but truthful
(you have a way of
towards sad eyes,
catching them by surprise),
in you resides
the safe zone of my
schizophrenic swing,
indeed dear,
I do not get anxious
over you, I do not burn
for you, I do crave
your presence, I do not
ache over your absence,
nor over you being
part of my life.

It is as harmonic as we wish to keep it.
(did I just say we?)

We share whatever
is in our minds,
fearing not rejection,
nor expecting complete acceptance;
just open hearts,
open ears,
and all of this,
all of this is
because we’re not…
we’re simply not…

Numbing to Feel

I am deaf. Deaf to the outside world. My ears are only open to my Bose noise-cancelling headphones and whatever trippy beat they’re injecting my neurons with. Loud. Always loud. No external noise will seep into those combinations of rhythm. That’s why they are called noise-cancelling. I am a noise canceller. Nothing undesirable will enter.
I am blind. Sun glasses always on. Be it rain or snow, and of course, also on sunny days. No one can look through me. No one can see I’m not blinking. No one can see my eyes are wide open and steady no one can see I’m sober no one can see I’m tripping no one can see I’m flirting no one can see I’m despising them no one can I’m staring at a very fixed point. That gets me going. Really, it’s nearly orgasmic.
Because I am legless. Only my still spots and loud music put me into a state of trance. Honestly…? I have no idea how I got here. It feels like I’m always ridding on a bus. I am always riding on a bus. I’m always riding on a bus… I move through osmosis. I love it.
I am mute. I speak what’s unknown to the others, my own very thoughts, the repeated beats I’m listening to blended with yesterday’s poetry I wrote on the trash can at Christopher Street with Bleecker. Do you remember? Dear trash can… my thoughts are so prophetic, only you could ever touch the depth of my thoughts.
I must be fucking brilliant.

(Please click on image to fullsize)


How come my so called schizophrenia only gets worse if my brain is being bombed with dopamine type 2 (D₂) and serotonin type 2 (5HT₂) antagonism? Really… why do I feel so detached from reality… are my thoughts of being crushed on the floor from a thirty-store high building real or have I already jumped? My pieces would look like a squashed pumpkin to the ground… sort of pieces and puree.
I have it all here man, it’s all in my hands, I could powder anything, anyone, no mercy, no second thoughts, just a fist shape. Pleasure.
Next. The urge of brutality; aggressiveness is before my eyes, just shut the fuck up, just back the fuck off… just…
Next. Guilt and an infinite pitch-dark open field, then a cubicle, then no floor. Nothing matters, just suck me in.
Next. I’ll be all you need.
Next. I have nothing to give.
And that is my picture.

[Pic by Real-Faker]

To One More Day

(Original text in Portuguese and it is below the English version)

The train is creeping in softly, but it can never be discrete: the click-click, tum-tum in the rails announce its majestic arrival. It comes swiftly, waving here and there elegantly and I shut my eyes and it possess me completely when the breeze undulates my hair and it almost touches me (I smile), almost kisses me (I raise my little feet), almost, almost makes me fall into its arms. It is in this exact moment, when the train is just about to arrive that I imagine a young man of beautiful black straight hair, that all-over-your-face kind of hair, kind of indie guy, kind of everything, you know? he puts his arms on my waist, hug me from behind, and inhaling he’d sense my perfume on my neck and exhale “I gotcha” and would save me from my suicide. But yeah, in fact, today it was the melancholic mended saxophone fellow that has saved me, the tired guy, on his 50’s, unshaved, black and with a charming smile. His low notes pierced my heart and the high ones calmed down my feet that almost always want to jump. He did not know, but I live one more day because of him.
À Mais Um Dia

O trem se aproxima de mancinho, mas ele nunca consegue ser discreto: o click-click, tun-tun nos trilhos anunciam a sua majestosa chegada. Ele vem veloz, ondulando pra lá e pra cá com muita elegância e fecho meus olhos e ele me possui inteira quando a brisa esvoaça de leve os meus cabelos e ele quase me toca (eu sorrio), quase me beija (meus pezinhos se elevam), quase, quase me faz cair em seus braços. É neste exato momento, quando o trem está prestes a chegar que imagino um rapaz de lindo cabelo liso e preto, daquele jogado na cara, meio indie, meio tudo e nada, sabe? coloca suas mãos na minha cintura, me abraça por trás, e inspirando ele sentiria o meu cheiro no meu pescoço e exalaria um “I gotcha” e me salvaria de meu suicídio. Mas então, na verdade, hoje foi o moço melancólico do saxofone remendado que me salvou, o moço já cansado, de seus lá 50 e poucos anos, de barba mal feita, negro de pele e de sorriso encantador. Suas notas graves penetraram em meu coração e as agudas apaziguaram os meus pés que quase sempre querem saltar. Ele não sabia, mas vivo mais um dia por causa dele.

Study on How More is Less, Less More

[Design not mine, I am sorry I don't recall where I got it.]

Male and female, old and young, they are constantly snuffling. They are moved by the scent of their prey: always hunting, alone, in group. The world outside is fierce and you must be fiercer than it, harder, above it. Hunting. For “the others”. Praising. “The others”.
I wonder if in that constant snuffling they could sense their own smell: a mix of blubber with sweat, filth and perfume, that same perfume the others wore. Perhaps it made them feel like they were less themselves and more like the ones they hated and despised. Their dirty little secret is hidden under the fat of being like them is all I want.
Eight. Ten. Twelve hours of constant hunting. This is all they know. All they see. All they obey. They obey.
I swear, if these people did not wear blouses/shirts, tie and black pants, I would mistake them for pigs rolling in the mud and finding it absolutely beautiful.
They do not speak, they squeal, loud. Their language is burped and they do not make the slightest effort to speak. It is like the world owed them so much so why bother... why bother embracing it? Exquisitely curious how this specie refuses to mingle, in every aspect.
The way of greeting one another is also very intriguing: they use expressions such as “coños”, “pendejo”, “desgraciada/o”, which in their native tongue means respectively “cunt”, “dumbie” and “bastard”. Those words were stammered in such natural way that perhaps you would think they were being kind and affectionate with one another.
My question to this matter is: “Do they greet each other like this because unconsciously this is how they think of themselves?”
Another dualistic observation is how they treat other species that are part of the same workforce as them: 90% (just so my study does not fall into generalizations) assume the aspect of dominant and seek at every cost to take down the “intruders”, by being monosyllabically very emphatic, even if the workforce is obviously affected by these internal attempts of extinction. But they seem to possess a very limited sight, like donkies wearing halters, seeing only forward and even still, no more than one foot ahead.
The experience of being a Brazilian who embraces the American culture, works for an American company among 99% of Latinos was truly enriching: I thank God for being intelligent and for having knowledge, although they are genuinely happy in their ignorance, and I am always left with the lights off, ruminating my thoughts.
Study completed.

This are

The closest to
definition I can reach.
We is another word
fitting to
This: we, us, are and
I, you, am, are, we us…
What guarantee does
indefinable hold?

All the guarantees
both you and me want.
It is just happening.
This is.
This are.

Platonic Guitar

That’s me to
her eyes
for she thought
well, I shall make
two or three chords
out of her.

And she did.

God… how dared she
play me with those
buttery-smooth fingers,
tipping every inch of
me, experimenting
sounds coming out
of my moaning-string mouth,
how, how dared she?

Press me and compress
me and then caress me
and ask me, hey,
how do you like being
bent and pulled?

Mmmm… I do not know,
I am reechoing your moves,
I am trembling
safety, I am
letting you play

Play my every note
and possible combination
for as long as the
poem I swore not,
not to write you
is over, just slide
over me,
oh wait…

I absolutely love
bent and pulled!


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