into the
deep divine
of circumstances
carnival has never been my thing
but then I was born a Brazilian
and had been to Venice.
more than once.
so how to explain...?
the allegories I've embodied,
the parades I've marched,
the parties I've taken part of,
the discontinued rhythm
of events resounding
multiple natural
abortions of perfection.
sometimes being pregnant
doesn't mean you're a mother.
if only you knew
how the porcelain
cracks hints of flesh
that's been there for so long.
flesh that's stronger than
any steel or armor I
attempt to wear,
more precious than any of
the poems I've written...
more there than anything I am.
if only breathing was enough
to deconstruct the over-thinking
floors in this building,
I would take a deep breath and
gently exhale every particle to
its newest remodeled rooms.
nothing's darker than a room
where there are lights, off.
if only heartbeats equal
quantity of times I've felt
this way, then my heart
has beaten once.
strong, pungent and warm
by a Japanese drummer.
because it is only the absence
of the present presence
to bring the present back.
.the.dualism.of. Dali.
parachute
when we squint our eyes
to opposite
complimentary
colors falling hot
and cold,
ah, those snowflakes
on a summer night
on the tip of
our tongues
to the bottom
of our stomachs.
[Pic by merrie, manipulation by me.]
defying poetic norms
...I had a poem in my mind with a very precise final stop. she then crossed past by me and it all turned into comas, and comas, and comas,
Braveheart
by my pillow,
laced top borrowed
from me last night,
although my own,
smell, smell of skin and
on my sheets
hair longer than
the ones in my head and
motion and bodies,
waves that make
the design of my cover
dance
and I'm so brave.
because nothing really is my own.
and I knew you'd get it
when I said and repeated it.
and I'm late, I know, but really
you're always the one who's late.
so I believe we're actually on time.
and I'm so brave
when I play you those songs and
am absolutely ridiculous...
I'm so brave
because good poems come in parts.
[photo by V-Imagine ]
Texto Para Ser Lído & Queimado
[Sessão Baú - Revisitada]
A mão segurava a pena vermelha e branca, hesitante, vai e vem. O foco se afasta, o circulo de luz se abre e vejo que aquela sou eu, sentada, dialogando com o papel, em branco.
"Os muros como projetos", "Van Gogh", "Isto me faz feliz", "único", "especial" e frases que continuamente chocavam-se umas nas outras, resultando em partículas de emoções arrítmicas mas sinfônicas, e mais sinfônicas do que um simples tum-tumnar.
"Você deveria ter escrito" disse-me Baudelaire vestindo apenas um samba-cancão branco com listras azuis. "Não. Gostaria que ela lembrasse daquele dia quando... ouvisse o nome de Van Gogh ou vestisse pela vigésima segunda vez, azul. E não que ela por um acaso encontrasse o dia-papel em sua gaveta e o relembrasse. O dia-memória, o dia-voz, o dia-cheiro, o dia-tato... esses são os verdadeiros dias que se abraçam feito ondas..."
"Acho que vou tardar para aparecer nesse cômodo de novo. Obrigada pela minha dose de vida."
E inesperavelmente ele terminou o cigarro que nem ao menos vi que havia começado, sorriu e saiu pela porta.
Mirei o papel e lá estavam minhas palavras exatamente como as havia fluído: ao seu redor meus muros deixam de existir, como se tivessem sido apenas um projeto de construção. Feliz. E isto aconteceu de uma forma especial e única, assim como o azul de Van Gogh.
Vou esperar que ela quase desperte, para lhe sussurrar dia-energia.
aquela
[Sessão Baú - Revisitada]
Às vezes ela vestia regata pensando em camisa, mas mesmo assim a vestia. Assim, por comodidade. Inúmeras vezes comia sorvete pensando que deveria comer comida. Certamente era mais saudável! Ouvia rock quando o momento pedia clássica... e é aquela clássica História de que nem sequer escutamos a nos mesmos. Perdeu as contas de quantas vezes tocou bateria como se fosse piano e digo-lhes, não se pode bater nas teclas e nem sequer tocar as pontas dos dedos na caixa, nos tons, no bumbo e no surdo, acho que ela deveria mesmo ter ficado surda, pois jé não era a primeira vez que ouvia essa mesma historia e via os padrões se repetirem e fazia exatamente n-a-d-a para impedir...
eh... o problema eh quando beija os lábios alheios como se fossem os dela, dela, da ela, daquela... mulher.
[Picture by complejo ]
dualism
Choro ao ler Anatomia Cardíaca, N.
Talvez porque tenha tentado eu escrevê-lo o dia inteiro. Talvez porque acho que tenha perdido uma chance. De ter batido uma foto já não-amarelada. Chance de trocar o som monótono de metal que bate e bate e bate até escorrer faísca. Ou Talvez por achar que nunca tinha tido uma chance. De encontrar essa coisa que corrói o peito, essa que visita Malarmé e Valerie a doidado e aí inclina a cabeça para trás e viaja... Ou porque tenha dado uns pegas. Não no sentido literal, infelizmente, e não! Meu charme não é barato, não é barato não, rapá!
Seca. Pós-moderna pro caralho.
Quero ser o abrigo, a casa, o tapete, o chá, a única mesa no fundo do bar e quero saber rimar, mais complexamente, pois assumo-me complexa e detesto complicação e sou chata até não poder mais mas você é tão mais chatinha!
Minha, foi.
Perdi a noção do Português. Por que quis o novo verbo, os novos pronomes, a nova sintaxe, as novas normas, a mais nova semântica da tua pele.
Estou cruzando uma linha que não devo. Fixo-me num ponto e atravesso.
sight
[start from solely LISTENING (do not watch this montage, it sucks) to your heart beats... and the music... and us - JERICHO ]
I hear your voice calling out to reach me,
then all is calm and clear.
I feel no pain when you hold me,
pull me in and draw me near.
I see your eyes of hazy blues but oh so clear, sincere and true.
I taste the air around you and I feel brand new.
Come fill my senses up with you,
You've turned the jaded into new,
Come fill my senses up with you,
Love would be senseless without you,
Come fill my senses up with you.
There was a time when love was blind,
love lost and all at sea,
Love came in dreams and waves,
came and went away from me,
All forsaken, all forlorn, all mistaken, feel no scorn,
Then you pulled me from the darkness,
And now I see things new.
Come fill my senses up with you,
You've turned the jaded into new,
Come fill my senses up with you,
Love would be senseless without you,
Come fill my senses up with you.
whiSper
desaprendi a falar a língua que antes falávamos. Desaprendi a escrevê-la: os novos capítulos só naquela de sotaque. Naquela dos sonhos e realidades... vários e várias por essas bandas. E você tentando, darling. Achava divino como havíamos mudado: de cidade, de vaidade, de viadagem, de comunidade e até de autoridade divina! Impressionante feito anjo que caiu de para-quedas que não abriu.
Certas coisas permaneciam as mesmas e eu achava divino como havíamos ficado: pra titia, no mesmo barco, sem coragem, a pensar, a parar, a imitar, a falar, definitivamente, outro idioma. A linda teoria do filósofo vs a bailarina despirocada de realidade que sentou-se para tomar chá com Buda e quis fumar com Vinícius.
tempo, tenho hoje em dia medo desse tempo que nos junta feito osso no músculo que não desgasta, que trabalha, que quer agarrar com toda a força essas partículas que por mais banho que tomemos, ou mãos que toquemos, não se vão. Não se vão, não.
creio estar aprendendo uma outra língua...
If You're a Bird, I'm a Bird
"Because she strove for it every single day she wouldn't take anything less than that perfection."
El Perro del Mar
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OScxklFZ4U
Happiness won me over
Happiness won me over
Happiness won me over
Happiness won me over
Won't come for those who wait
Won't come for those who pray
Happiness, happiness won me over
Happiness, oh happiness won me over
Happiness won me over
Won't come for those who wait
Won me over
Won't come for those who pray
Won me over
Will come for those who love
For those who love
Deep in the heart
I know it is love
It is love that's the answer
Cause love won me over
Deep in the heart
I know it is love
I believe it's the answer
Love is the answer
Come with me over
Lady of Justice, Unfolded
R: I just had a whole brow and I'm almost at Webster and for some tingling reason I wanted to text you while I giggle and jiggle with the trance in my earplugs.
It's so funny... I'm having these narcissistic moments as I'm walking lol everyone is looking at me with passion and desire... like this woman just now looked at me, up and down and slowly bit her bottom lip. I felt it in the bottom too. Very bottom. Even knowing I'm clearly a top who enjoys variety and being put into place.
Censure me if I'm getting too sexual.
C: Whole brow? You know I was typing as you wrote that, and now... Well, I just don't know what to say, lol. Did you read your horoscope?
R: This Chinese man on his bike just grabbed his bars. His little rice and shrimp boxes swinging around: the pendulum of my life. The repetition and endless patterns of shyness before the new. Where's that woman who can handle who I am in my purest essence, a woman who doesn't find in my perfectionism the perfect excuse not to give back, to abuse the generosity in my hands, to exploit the depths of my emotions, to enslave me to an eternal unbreakable pattern...? HA, I'm feeling so Shakespearean! [I think she asked me if I had read my horoscope?] Wonder if she'll be all about Derrida and will deconstruct me in every line and touch, she'll read my chapters as if every single time was the first time... TO HELL with running. I know she's a marathoner, she's got warrior legs and a mind control that goes beyond the finishing line. But she'd rather walk by my side. She's not a libra but she's got that poise that not even I can hold so well...
C: Hey, my mom just looked at me and said: "I don't have a whole other world here. No one's contacting me!"
R: I swear C, hope is a fucking curse and a blessing. Nietzsche strongly advised me not to lose hope. If he didn't why would I? My horoscope. Yeah. It says: "LIBRA - Considering all the changes you've been through lately, it's fitting that the new moon on the 7th falls in your sign. Since a relationship abruptly evaporated in May, you've been quite a rollercoaster - and it's time to not only get off, but to also walk the heck out of the entire amusement park. Your ticket to a healthier, happier life? It's not unattainable and it's not being held by some grumpy ol'gatekeeper. It's free and right inside you.".
Libra
My hands are heavy
and tire-skin.
I carry that weight like
a Northeastern Brazilian woman:
strong to the very end, why?
I don't know, she doesn't either,
but we both are.
We accept the inevitable.
Nothing is permanent.
We accept it so well I start to wonder
if we have become
too wise
or too cold.
I carry that petulant pose of
a Paulistana who knows better
than fuckin' Wasteland Northeast:
overachiever, the way to be.
We accept nothing less than
perfection.
And when you deliver less,
well it's time for you to leave.
My hands are white
and porcelain-skin:
I doubt anyone's worth
of holding them.
memories of my present
"It's funny, I feel like I've watched this movie before. Like I know the ending of it."
"What's the end?" I asked, almost instantly regretting it. The answer was a smirk and a look so still I saw my own apathetic face mirrored in her eyes. I knew it had to do with me. To do with her. That's what she believed. I believed it had to do with ending.
It's ironic because just a minute before this whole conversation stroke I had wisely mentioned how things never end, they just change, like a cycle that needs to be completed... I think I had finally experienced what the root of ending meant vs. my Pollyannaistic vision of ending. Its originally meaning states the opposite side. And there was I. Watching my end from the other side of the street.
I thought of how we were sitting on a bench. I remember writing you a poem where the bench was just an excuse to put into paper my thoughts for you. Sheer poetry. I don't really remember how it feels. Poetry. Or you.
During the conversation each phrase started to slowly fill my lungs with liquid emotions. Soon ideas rushed in so violently I am surrounded by water and I am drowning. I am blundering about the memories of my present. I am in and out. I am completely in, who am I fooling.
I have no.
I.
air...
CPR kit: 8 missed calls from you and your texts of where r u? or when r u coming home? or something like you cared for me and not who I was with. They reminded me why I am writing this. I swear, fate is just inevitable. She would think my introspectiveness had to do with the anticipation of me understanding her ending for this movie. But all I sank into was how you were not part of it.
It is indeed inevitable and it's crushing my every belief as my waiter crushes that juicy orange for my OJ and I just swallow it. I dare not taste it. It stings my palate, it corrodes my throat, the lack of understanding.
There is nothing deep about this little girl.
And when the clock ticks within me, nothing, nothing about that bench can be saved. And there was I, back to the same side of the street. I thought if I just talked to you about it, things would make more sense. So I did. I said à bientôt to her movie, at least for a while.
I am reading this to you and anticipating my fate. Anticipating you'll lose all the science and defy the gravity of things. So you tell me absolutely everything I don't want to hear. You wear your white coat and speak to me about how nothing is guaranteed and how what matters is just now.
Like I said, absolutely nothing I wanted to hear.
Role-play
I wonder how she tastes
past her waist,
how her red hair is
much more red due to
the desire to commit
adultery (if I was married).
I wonder how her lips
suck onto the tip of
my tongue: she corrects my English,
and how she moans when she forgets
the possessive pronouns.
Do her marks and bites
bleed differently for those
she doesn't kiss?
"And when you kiss me,
I wonder you're just
not fucking me."
"And when you kiss me,
I know you're just
not fucking me."
I blink the circumstances away,
it must be temporary,
and we breathe it all
in and heavy and
out and light because
otherwise we'd be dead.
Literary Asthma
Death to the poet.
second chance
[ pic by http://browse.deviantart.com/?qh=§ion=&global=1&q=mud#/djggfo ]
On muddy
bed I think
how to change myself
with hands of charcoal,
your face on my walls
with lungs of smoke
puffing the call.
Shadows creep up the roof
into pulsing veins,
the streams with moss
across my arms
follow spiderweb tongue
hanging from your branches,
and I watch,
I watch close
the fangs upon my skin
breaking rib cage free
to dust only
and soft
and nails
piercing
perfection across my eyes,
eyes drowned in powder
and suffocated by tears
of constant lingering
in the house of absurdity
where I was beheaded,
where I rescued my own.
I, and no one else.
Orgasm
I was enjoying my tea.
Then you rasped my throat,
razor-blade-mint-leaves tongue.
My breath is fresh
like mold.
My bile, I'll be here for a while
growing hair under my nails.
Fermented emotions
pouring on my glass,
you're nauseously drunk,
there is no turning back.
Inebriation with my fingers
inside of your flesh,
anesthesia of sensations,
sweat perforates your chest.
You tear my humanity,
I tear your skin.
We grow ants infestations
as our home atop.
The circle must
never stop.
Coffin Memories
Now I often think about it.
When the taste of coffee
splashes bitter sharp grains
in my mouth
(how words amputate
my desires once seen
in a glimpse of innocence).
There is no room for innocence
underneath the armor.
There is no room for belief
on a 8X10 mindset.
It starts to make sense why
I am drinking rusty water,
and how I write "poetry"
on toilet paper, and when
my skills became paralytic.
Now that I often think about it
I revolutionized my own vocabulary:
my favorite prefixes are -a and -an:
amoral, anesthetic, apolitical, asocial.
Now that the feeling is so knotty
I wish choking became hanging.
Now that God stole my tears
there is only penitence past the doors.
Science Class: Winter, 2010
I pick you up
with no warning.
Wonder if you pick
my in between the lines up.
You pick up honey crisp apples
from the arteries
of our green love.
I pick up electric flying strings
from the top of our intellect.
Galactic crunchy & Tingling bonding
Bulletproof
Start of conversations,
industrial beat,
words,
Gothic cathedrals
scrapping my dignity.
the strings are loosened
and tightened up
to my neck.
And I don't expect to feel regret from this.
My taste,
better,
your queers,
cheap imitation of reality.
My scream,
My cream,
better.
I don't expect to feel regret from this.
Your walk so pop,
your studded tongue,
your skin breaking leather,
where haven't you been?
Don't expect to feel regret from this.
My hair,
pulled,
you,
quenching and starving
twisting and knotting.
Expect to feel regret from this.
Down the throat
two or three pills,
full pupils = bulletproof.
Regret from this?
Criticisms burning
on the same pace as
your cigarette
and you're
careless with
the ash.
It's everywhere
regret.
The Corner Table: The Less Lonely
From a steamy window
I watch
singular couples
open & close their mouths.
To eat.
I hear what they say:
the clinking of silverware.
I feel what they feel:
medium rare emotions.
Reincarnation Sucks
Rotten_____________ The Catholic Bishop
eyes made___________The land owner,
of petroleum_________ one of those
dirty spilled__________ royalty wannabe
oil. ------------------------------------------------- over blood on battlefield.
___________________pigs.
Garbage teeth,
the smile of a
traitor,_____________ Bless me
a quick stab__________ for being
from behind. ------------------------------------- aim for the kidney.
__________________A SKEPTICAL
__________________vegetarian.
Breath of poison,
touch of leprosy,
you sure stink of
Black Plague. ------------------------------------- corpses eater.
You Do but You Don't
My days
the stops
uptown
downtown
going express...!
I repeat,
express going
downtown.
Hey, I have
an unlimited
ride,
that means
all I can do
is just ride
and ride...
How many transfers
do I have to keep
making?
But if I get off
I'm going to have
to walk...
(the purpose of
the ride:
lost)
I must have gone
through the whole
&
numbers
I'm left
Hide & Seek
Our memories:
individually
wrapped.
The finest
artisan
chocolate
I savor
slooooooowly.
They melt
on my tongue.
Coloring
Nordic forms
on their own,
finest birch-cedar
lips
and travel in
pentatonic scale,
the remote sound
of rain
condensed on
the subway windows,
the smoke of continuous
fried noodles reminds me
this is reality.
As far as my
shut eyes can bring me,
as far as my
iPod can make
the crowd move
with a little heart,
that's where, that's where
mud and dew make love,
oak and sage intertwine,
sand and blood,
mohawk and bud...
and Nordic forms
on their own.
about a poet
it's said that a poet during abstinence periods embodies the persona of a blind. It's swallowing adrenaline from shot glasses when you're clearly not a drinker.
Nausea.
Dizziness.
Altered state.
Arrhythmia.
Control. And a new form of art is born.
Shuttle Bus
to avoid
time.
The cloth covers
a mini newsstand,
time for that
Indian to return to
Palace-High
(in the Bronx)
Why am I laughing?
I'm the one killing
time
side by side
hand in hand
with a forlorn
instead
of bed
(the officer: NO SLEEPING!)
(the bum, jumpy: yes, SIR!)
(me, I just looked up: I'm clearly NOT a bum, pig!).
I could have been,
in the last minutes
of a New York
to be missed
in bed.
But time's implacable.
The clock keeps
chopping.
I also had better to do:
I listened to music,
with no lights on.
She had better to do:
she was in bed.
Road Accident
My relation
. s h i p s.
to a one-way
highway
and I'm
driving to a
dead end.
My feelings
the pedal
at full speed,
your responses
the rusty
break
failing
corroding
any chance
of airbag.
Flat tire
a couple of
swerves
and two round
white lights:
C.r.A.Sh.
Love and Communication
My girlfriend:
Your next poem is this poem.
You’re selfish.
You’re incredulous.
You’re everything I wish I didn’t understand.
You’re everything I should run from and you inhabit my space.
Get the fuck out of my osmotic bubble flesh eating virus.
Selfish.
So selfish.
Start your poem. The last words to the end of mine.
I am dried up in the gaze that slashed and cripples my skin beneath this down comforter.
Fucking parasite.
AND WHEN YOU YOU YOU READ THIS….
It's not you.
It's not the form in which was meant for you YOU.
You are all of this and non of this because the problem…Watson.
It's this.
Im the mirror.
Myself:
I am the mirror.
But the reflection to it is shattered and makes me nervous.
The glass? You broke it yourself and you’re asking ME, ME to pick them up?
Darling, pick them up yourself, then we’ll talk.
Then I’ll really be incredulous to the idea that you cannot see.
Then I’ll be an atheist amongst all these people who can only follow and follow and numb and numb and run run run…
I ask myself if you don’t ever get tired of running… ‘cause I’m here looking around and I don’t see any medals, or trophies. But hey, it’s your high.
Poem
written in one fine punch in the stomach.
And I vomit nothing.
Too High to Title This
I dreamed that
I was high
and never woke up.
Bliss. At all times.
This dude walks up
to me, his facial
expressions are of
pure apathy:
“Raffaella, your
best friend died”.
I laughed.
Not because I thought
he was joking,
but just because.
I walked away
and cooked myself
scrambled eggs
on a 2-week
dirty pan.
Amusing is how
eggs fry and
have these tiny
little explosions
within.
It’s tragic but
inevitable, and
let’s be honest:
what’s tragic
is usually very,
very funny.
So I laughed
one more time.
As I sat down
to eat, while
pushing aside
piles of clothes
I barely recognized,
perhaps because
I’d forgotten to
do laundry or
because they were
strangers’, I stopped
to think if I hadn’t
to be somewhere
important, like work.
Not work, dumbass,
you’re dreaming,
you don’t work in
your dreams.
So I smiled because
I did not have to
work and I laughed
until my lower back
cramped at those who had
to work.
Ha.
Amazing.
I questioned,
like a good follower
of Descartes , if
I was dreaming or
was high or wishing so
bad I was high that
I had made myself believe it.
If the later, then I could
turn my thought into a religion!
Picture this slogan:
“Work your mind in
such high degree of
meditation to
reach the state of
Cannabiska”,
which would just be a
fancy Indian word for
“being high”.
Incredible.
I would be the
modern messiah.
So I laughed again,
and spent the rest
of what you people call time
laughing until I slept
and it all started again.
Emergency
Diagnosis:
Severe inexistence of any existence aggravated by chronic osmotic lethargy.
Prognosis:
Metastatic and illogical repetition of circular patterns.
Cause:
Death by caffeinated heart.
Resurrection:
Attempt #1: Corporal heating through human touch. Failed.
Attempt #2: Manual blood pumping on heart. Failed.
Attempt #3: Verbal encouragement by masking a shitty life with empty promises and hope. Failed.
Hour:
6:06 pm.
The Magician
keys
to my own
prison.
heavy,
in my pocket,
lethal,
to the definition
of home
on that book,
sitting on the
top
shelf.
the trashcan
gobbled them up.
(I starved for air)
repeating verbatim
of my broken years:
It’s anywhere
and everywhere
and I found it
nowhere.
Mrs. LockSmith
across the street
was touched,
she said she never met
someone who could break
into so many locks like me:
with no particular
Key.
I lacked in keys,
I lacked in better references,
I lacked in height to reach
still I entered
still I understood
still I looked from above.
Hairdresser
I combed my
twisted hair,
hoping to
unknot
my thoughts.
But my image
reflected on the
mirror
had never
been this dead before.
The stranger, the difference he made, he will never know
The man in the subway
smiled at me:
he knew my smile was
safe and serene,
he thought I was whole
and upright,
and just because he thought so
I started believing in it too.