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.
Waiting
The bench:
I sit
Memories of her
my blood,
her absence
Why I sit
on this bench
alone.
Cigarettes tips,
smile,
I hate them,
smile,
smile,
lipstick of ashes,
Rooibos,
I kiss the floor,
on the Bench,
still,
on the Bench.
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?
Inner Self
I wish I could explain more the person I was, but I'd rather reveal myself if you ask.
10/25/04
I’ll Never Be What You Want Me To Be, But I Promise To Be Myself If You Let Me Be With You.
It’s always fall fall fall
fall fall and it all!
The strobe blinks
in the place of my eyes.
P A R A N O I A
--------Love is a bloodstain.
--------Passion is an infatuation.
--------Friendship is a constant learning.
Can’t we have them all?
P A U S E
A girl is simply a girl.
B E A U T Y
Why do you deny your own
being?
Call me hedonistic, bohemian…
I’m free to wander…
P R U R I E N C Y
Your innocent smile,
Your confusion,
You know I’m
Empty
but so beautiful,
You’ll want more, more,
I’m endlessly giving.
M O A N S
I’ll leave as quickly
as I came in, so
I’ll come back just
as soon.
N O T H I N G
Your tears in vain
water not my absence
but the person you
wish I were.
Past In Present
I saved them all.
The text messages
(like I could read your
mind at anytime),
The posts on the internet
(I screamed to the world
how much I loved you),
The pictures
(we captured moments so well
they felt like non-moments),
The phone bills
(I loved to see your name
next to mine
in such formal documents).
Your kisses?
They mingle with everyone else’s,
Your touch?
I don’t know, but this girl’s feels good,
Your voice?
I met way better singers than you,
Your writing?
I am too busy with my own,
Yeah,
I saved them all…
And now I need to save myself.
Inner Self
Monologue
The boy, already confused in excess dared to ask him. No, not really. Alright, it is really necessary to ask:
- I don’t know how to live… I am afraid, too much confusion, too many choices, up’s and down’s. I always choose that that exists to crumble.
The old man smiled sideways, raised his eyebrows. He let a small laughter slip, like everything was way too obvious for him, way too clear, overcolored and perhaps he found his childish way of expressing things too simplified and lacking in better grammatical construction.
- Son, you live this way for you live in the past. The past is, for the most part, the only moment in time we know, and this is why we never free ourselves from it. We let it tame us. The past you see, if you fail you fail not in a new mistake, but in the same one. Past/ prison/patterns.
He paused.
The boys’ phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. Work, it must be work. He would never leave unless it was a matter of life and death. He thought more death in this case.
When it stopped the old man carried on.
- How can you dare deny something that you yet don’t know, presupposing that it will thus fail? Simple. Because automatically you transform everything in past, therefore you already know the end. However, young man, life is bigger than present, past and future. The glory is found in empiricism, not in passivism or nihilism. When regretting, regret that which you did not do, rather than that you did. Not because you are justifying things in your head, but in order to gain a different perspective of your mistakes. Regret, for example, not having said “yes” to that which you really regret, rather than saying you regret saying “yes”. The future, just like the present and past, is dubious, it’s uncertain, even those things we already know is unknown in its totality.
He made some tricks with his can and swung it from one side to the other.
The boy looked confused but asked him anyways.
- Are you happy?
The old man seemed unhappy with his question.
- Happy? I am a pendulum boy.
The stroke of mid-day. The elder stood up from the seat he was, across from our character’s side, and walked away. The unemployed boy whose Zodiac was Libra remained perplexed on the amount of projections he made in the universe. The phone vibrating again, his dealer was the only person who could really help him deal with everything around him. It’s too much.
Inner Self
11/20/04
To/The End
Staring at the smoke dissolving through the air everything, in a paused way, makes perfect sense - laisse-moi tempêter -. No cigarettes to fulfill this void. No words from the rest to change a thing. It seems it’s not changing. It’s getting worst, of course, evolving. Not for me. I’m that who chooses not to live a lie, it’s either to jump or to turn my back. Illusions. Maybe that’s what everything is for you. My reality is just as raw as the drags I take.
I closed the door and turned away.
Inner Self
This is one of the poems I actually dreamed about. I dreamed of Baudelaire and him and I collaborated in the piece that follows. When I woke up, oddly enough I had memorized the whole poem.
11/25/04
Lost? Very much found, merci
To find South
without losing North…
comment, comment
je fait a trouver?
Around paranoia,
around spasms…!
Yeah, all of this
is sort of spamic.
Mas você escolheu o jeito fácil,
Então, hey menininha, não chore.
Troublesome is how
you fully believe in
the little stories you tell, how
you’re never the one to blame.
Admit it, not even yourself
know how you feel.
Mais, c’est la manie.
So I have to write
in hollow verses how
we didn’t try, how
we didn’t realize, how
it wouldn’t do, how nothing.
É, não há grande plano,
benzinho,
É do jeito que tem de ser.
Just because I know, I know…
Inner Self
[This was more of a song than a poem, but I obviously don't remember the rhythm to it]
11/30/04
Golden Memories of Past and Future
I wish I were with that
whose sweet verses
I have all in my mind
waiting to be recited,
to make me weak on the
knees, to whom I would
send stupid love songs...
that would make only sense
to me and her.
I search myself in everyone,
I’m empty like that, you see,
I’d show you the world and all
the beauty you possessed, if
you could only believe...
It doesn’t matter,
it doesn’t mean anything,
at all.
Choices are my doom, I always
fall into mistakes, I’m never
afraid to run, I need you to
hold me down, say I cannot leave.
But it’s all in my mind,
all in my fucked up little world,
it will never happen.
Do you think I can have back
the chance that exists only in my head?
Inner Self
Part of
Promises
I thought of myself as
capable of such.
Vows, never.
Commitments, partial.
It seems I’m only in part,
they restrain me.
I cannot see completeness.
How shall I reach it and
still, still be myself?
I promise to be myself.
No, even on that one I have
failed before ...
Inner Self
12/19/04
Untitled – Author with No Name
Depression,
not only visual,
depression like
the gradual erosion
of my being…
What being, after all?
To live = to die
and not the other way around.
Anti-social,
I can’t stand
I cant stand
I can’t
be a column
I cry, cry
and the
r
e
a
s
o
n
so much like this…
far from being
understood.
Your absence,
the riverbed hammering
of “you let me go”
when I ran.
It pecks me like
the eternal crow of Prometheus.
Inner Self
[Sequence of parts of me which are mostly like "dark" secrets, but that I am now leaving open to interpretation]
12/23/04
Maybe
what you really should do
is stick up to your own prison...
My little girl... I’m
about to leave you
for I am merely that who carries the
undying candle
and
deliveries it to your door
but always ought to walk away...
Empty- handed
diminished in spirit and
enhanced in soul...
For what I once had is now yours, my dear!
I walk like a book
my end
my middle
and my beginning already known.
In hope to find another
candle bearer I must wander
on my own.
All these girls… none walk with me.
Inner Self
[As you can see from the date, it is an old poem, however, dealing with ghosts that still haunt me.]
12/29/04
I don’t feel that
man-screaming-in-the-open-field
hatred when I think of her: loneliness.
he screams and the piercing freedom flies,
I
scream and lose myself in
w
a
l
l
s
of her, again.
it’s like the guava fruit fly,
it’s born inside her, it’s part of her.
it is in her like an ingrown nail that
will never,
ever
be removed.
so I used to brag myself,
thinking that she was
what I most wanted,
I was as comfortable as
a cloud couch
from which I fell, from up there I fell.
and by only desiring her
I let not that others touched me,
I became the most ethereal rock
I ever met,
go figure…
truth is this is my eternal daymare,
reason why I am not scared.
to hell with people-around-me
loneliness,
I want only the Raffaella
loneliness.
help me not to run away anymore?
Epistola
Clarice, it’s either too clear for me or not clear at all. There are days in which I wake up feeling like I have reincarnated. I think “fuck, this is not my life, this is not my job, these are not my feelings”… but they are, aren’t them?
Giacomo, the joy of faith pierces me with its sharp sounds and leaves me to die today, just to resuscitate me tomorrow. Here I appear, in front of thee, wonderful world. Hell.
Woolf, there’s a bestiality in me I keep shackled in my veins, I twitch them, I smile, I watch them throb, I dig my very cave and no one knows, but our thoughts are our greatest gift and curse.
William, let me find the will to keep on flying to be ignorant when desperate, for only sheer ignorance can make me hope for the best, only it can make me calm down, open my sacred book on Psalm 91 and actually feel those words giving me strength. Dare I say, o Ignorance, you make me praise the Lord!
Dear Søren, the emptiness of your “O” has always fascinated me. I look down to my bellybutton, I swear, I tried innumerous times to press it and have myself turned on “happy mode” on “rich mode” on “goal achieved mode”, but there are more buttons in life, in empty “O”s waiting to become the “O” of the Latin alphabet.
Whoever, I wish I were speaking to God.
Love Poem
The day transgresses
in a turtle pace
with a monotone
and automatic beat
to it
(could that possibly
be my heart?)
I’m moving but
I’m frozen,
I’m speaking now
but all this speech
could just be a recording
(I love fooling people,
especially myself)
I miss you, I miss you
so much…
I’m colorblind
and pale without you,
my dear poetry.
Love Poem
Ephemerality of love
Multi-tasking is a Must in the Modern Era
