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.

Dans ma Lumiére: The Sentinel

Watching the people who pass by. Sitting on any given random wood seat. What’s the purpose? Of the wood you mean? Or the any given seat? Or the figures of that that is endlessly passing, passing. Everything is always passing, she’s always watching. The Tower. She saw the crippled man move her favorite chess piece.
It was time to make a move. Standing up, crossing the street to the nearest gas station. Ethereal.
Corroded wood door: already open. They say a human being needs approximately 30m². I don’t know. Maybe. Need. That’s the minimum you would need in order to feel that uncomforted zone but still manage it. The toilet was big enough to turn fingers into weapons of a chirurgical precision and her thoughts, the puke. They fit nice. The herd tormenting fits nice. And as it builds up to a crescendo, fingers are like bows gridding against ran down strings of hope and faithlessness. Someone call a luthier.
Flush it down. Gulp down the rest of air left in what’s left of your lungs and watch it all go again. Down. It’s a downwards spiral. I start off from a central point and in a progressive progression I get myself farther and farther away while still revolving around it…
Sounds familiar? You wannabe helix!
The adrenaline inebriated motion. Inebriated emotion. But her moments never seemed to be this perpetual before. It is even etymologically incorrect to call them moments. Self-deception. Self-decapitation.
She reached through her pocket. Time to become the Sentinel. As swallowing it the prayer of the day:
extreme thirst, urinating more or less than usual; weakness, fever, feeling restless or confused, eye pain and vision problems; restless muscle movements in your eyes, tongue, jaw, or neck; pain, cold feeling, or discoloration in your fingers or toes; feeling light-headed, fainting, slow heart rate; hallucinations, seizure (blackout or convulsions); fever with muscle stiffness, sweating, fast or uneven heartbeats; or early signs of lithium toxicity, such as nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, drowsiness, muscle weakness, tremor, lack of coordination, blurred vision, or ringing in your ears.
Less serious side effects:
mild tremor of the hands; weakness, lack of coordination; mild nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, stomach pain or upset; thinning or drying of the hair; or itching skin.
There she was. Observing her being from outside. Watching. What's the purpose?

Love Poem

I write to self-punish,

I don't write to self-punish,

when I work out,

I make sure my body aches,

aches until I can feel

self-punishments

of fat, bone,

muscles and sweat.

When I eat, every bite's

a calorie counted

and when I swallow

ingredients are well known,

when my stomach is empty,

its growl is my self-punishment

of how little I have grown.

The books I read, self-punishment

for ignorance,

my openness, self-punishment

for years of reclusion,

my love, self-punishment for my

lack of

self

love;

the girls I date, self-punishment for

loneliness,

the guys I date, self-punishment for

the indifferent and playful girls I date,

sex, self-punishment for making love,

making love, self-punishment

for being skeptical

(and why do I always prove myself wrong?)

drugs, self-punishment for being

way too sober,

music, self-punishment to silence,

loving you, just another self-punishment.

The Collector

(I wrote this poem back in the days when I did not have my chest tattooed, so a while ago hehehe. But I edited it today. So an old pic for an old-new poem. Enjoy!)

.

.

.

You make me touch

your hand for stupid reasons,

you laugh while pressing

my keys,

from my chest gore,

from my mouth filthy smoke;

You came to collect my...

You make me touch

your hand for stupid reasons,

you drink up my patient

and spit suspension around,

from my eyes caves;

You came to collect my...

You make me cling

my jaw for stupid reasons,

you wrap me around the barbed wire

of your warmth,

you kiss me with your teeth,

you wax away my last

hair of humanity;

You came to collect my...

You make me

be in danger for stupid reasons,

I wear the straight jacket you gave me

on our anniversary,

your bracelet stuck to my skin,

the scars close by my forearm

so symmetric;

You came to collect my...

for stupid reasons.

Hope

I combed my

twisted hair

hoping to

unknot

my thoughts

But my image

reflected on the

mirror

had never

been this dead before.

The Poet and the Junkie

Words inked on a
white sheet of paper:
I want to sniff into
my heart the word
love
and make liquid
strength
into my veins,
make balance
a shot in my brain.

But no, I can’t
seem to roll blunts
of happiness and
freedom:
the ashes are too
gray to be happy.

Perhaps if I wrote
“Reality”,
with a capital letter,
on paper acid,
I’d feel like I belong
Somewhere.

For now it’s just me
and the white sheet of paper.

I lighted matches thinking it was a Zipo

Part 1

Love

Do you lose
Interest
in people easily?
No, I gain interest
in everyone really quickly.

And there stood I,
one of many.


Imaginary answer

Listen, I am 24 years
old and I don’t need
this
bullshit.


The unreal most real answer of all times, the biggest joke of the century

Is everything ok?
Huh? Yeah…


Love

How about you?
I lose Interest
really quickly.

And there stood she,
one of many.


Relationship: a very subjective word

What? There was no
date! I am not meeting you.
Mmmm, is everything alright?
I’m just in a bad mood
now. People ask me stuff I
don’t want to talk about.
Who was it on the phone?
(Fuck! I shouldn’t have asked it)
I need some time alone.

She turned her back
and walked away,
I turned mine
but stayed.

Part 2

Attempt of connection #1

She came,
then she came to
see me perform.
I knew one or
two things about her;
talking was not really
her thing (she was a dancer,
among other things).
Talking was mine though
(I was a poet, among other things).

When did you write that poem?
(It was an old poem, and I, as
clever as any poet is, knew what
she wanted to hear)
Three months ago, but you
could have asked me
why
I chose to perform it tonight.
Why did you then?
(there, the smile I wanted
to get off her apathetic face)
Too bad you didn’t
ask me that in the
right
timing.


Attempt of connection #2

She came,
then we met
among innumerous sweaty
tight bodies, mmm very,
very nice bodies
must I say,
urgh, OK, maybe not all
hot, but yeah, all moving
to the sound of anything
else than their own
hammering thoughts.
There she was,
staring at nothingness,
barely blinking, faceless.
I approached her
anyways, at the
wrong
timing:
someone else grabbed her,
she looked at me and
closed her eyes.


Attempt of connection #3

She certainly came,
I pretended I did,
and when I fake it,
I fake it to the bone,
when I’m hurt,
I hurt back three thousand
times more,
she just didn’t know it, yet.

Look, girl, I grabbed her,
we need to talk, now.
We blabbed and uttered words,
we threw
phrases in the semantics of air;
communication was the
joke of the century for her,
and I took it very,
very personally,
I AM
COMMUNICATION!

What? Am I too sweet for you?
Yeah…
Too sweet and too intellectual for her.

Finally she had the chance
to be the inspiration of
my writing, just like
she wanted in the first place.

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.

.welcome.to.bipolar.

(Please click on image to fullsize)

.whatever.

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]

.climax.noir.movie.

"Bom, ultimamente tenho ficado em casa tatuando quase todo dia e aproveitando meu ócio criativo que tanto adoro e me faz produzir..... Cê acredita que às vezes fico olhando pro nada, vendo a minha casa, admirando minha louca e adorável família, meus belos cachorrinhos, enfim, analizando o tanto de coisas óóóóóóóóóótimas que tenho em minha vida e que antigamente eu cagava e andava pra tudo isso..... Tenho certeza que mesmo sem ter toda grana do mundo, somos riquíssimos sem saber, senhorita Ciavatta..... Sei lá, talvez seja viagem, mas tem dia que dá vontade de abraçar o mundo, as pessoas, dar bom dia alegremente pra mim mesmo no espelho , olhar as formiguinhas trabalhando e encher os olhos d'água... Não pisar em baratas e deixá-las seguirem livres o seus caminhos tortuosos e cheios de Baygon...Não matar os preciosos pernilongos caçadores de cera de ouvido e deixá-los voar tranquilos e longe de todo SBP e todo MAL do mundo, que pra eles é, na verdade, um simples par de mãos que fatalmente dará cabo a s suas pequeninas vidas com uma super raquetada que cessará os sonhos destes pobres e ilustres insetinhos...ui!Raffa... amanhã , ao acordar, tome um banho bem gostoso e refrescante e faça de conta que enquanto se limpa, está limpando as coisas toscas e desgracentas de sua vida, e ao se lavar imagine que elas foram todas pro seu devido lugar: O RALO. Aí, depois, sinta-se revitalizada e pronta pra receber novas energias do bem... como aquelas que vc sente quando bebe bastante breja e fica lindamente chapadinha, amiga do mundo.... feliz por estar bebinha e alegrinha... Alí..... Como aquela que vc sente quando aquela pessoa que vc tanto sente tesão se aproxima de vc e cheira demoradamente seu cheirosíssimo pescoço e o lambe, e morde delicadamente seus dentes e diverte-se com sua sedosa língua como se estivesse no Hopi Hari em dia de excursão da escola.... E deslizando as montanhas maravilhosas que teus seios de bicos arrepiadíssimos representam naquele momento, dá de cara com sua barriguinha que servirá de travesseiro pra confortar aliviar toda falta que faz ter um encosto fofo como este pra chamar de seu... e talvez encontre um piercing no umbigo.... mas aí, tem que tomar um baita cuidado, pois uma jóia de má qualidade pode dar tétano, né? E descendo tranquilamente, sem desespero, essa pessoa te olha com os olhos de quem já te conhece bem e sabe o que realmente te deixa doooooooida.... Sabe que você grita silenciosamente e explode sem deixar vestígios de pólvora do enorme e incessante desejo que une desesperadamente sua vida à dela... E te faz subir pelas paredes feito uma alpinista que escala o Monte Everest em menos de 10 minutos e entra pro livro dos recordes...Enfim, ao se secar,sinta-se nova... e ao se olhar no espelho dê uma risadinha marota e perceba o quanto sua vida pode dar certo se vc deixar ela te levar feito a mamãe e o papai que levam o filhinho no primeiro dia de aula.... com todo amor do mundo.... E ao ligar seu computador lembre-se que tens um amigo retardado que não tem o que fazer de madrugada, fica escutando um montão de músicas e te escreve um monte de baboseiras poéticas (do ponto de vista dele, claro!) mas que no fundo, adora ter você mesmo que ausente na vida dele.... Beijozzzzzzzzzz!"