on miscomunication i want to say it aloud in a way never said before
hopeful you would understand it better
that what was pronounced i could not tell
by word or gesture
as a secret or a revelation
a gift or remains of shadows past

as being so used to loneliness
we fail to communicate it to
each other in between symbols and languages
and time without text

sometimes your skin speaks to me
any silent and distant invocation
a laugh, a grunt, as we do no touch
as we shut up in the dark

as creatures who do not overlap
textures and realms of proper semantics
we surrender to the sound of nonsense
being dropped at our feets
and we erase from the wind the whisper
from the water the waves
me eavesdropping on your heartbeats
you putting me in your painting

we manage to hear night and days passing by
in ambiguity
in mistaken desire and protection
in encoded mystery
in foreign tongues.  ¶ 2:24 da tarde (0) comments

  "La Jeune Fille Aux Cheveaux Blancs" - Camille Je suis à l'âge oú l'on ne dort nulle part
les seuls lits d'oú je rêve sont des quais de gare
j'ai loué un placard pour mes robes d'hiver
j'ai tué les parents

Oh ! je veux partir sur la seule route
oú il y a du vent
je suis la jeune fille aux cheveux blancs

Mon amoureux dit qu'il ne me connaît pas
il vit loin de tout il vit trop loin de moi
sur le plus haut volcan que l'amour ait àteint
il reviendra demain

Oh ! je veux partir sur la seule route
oú il y a du vent
je suis la jeune fille aux cheveux blancs  ¶ 2:25 da tarde (0) comments

  road trip manhãs que não vemos pela neblina
em que nos ferimos na impossibilidade do silêncio
e bastava apenas deitar-me no teu colo

e dormir  ¶ 5:37 da tarde (0) comments

  Reencontros Um mundo inteiro de volta da ilha. Escalas. Terminais. Domingos.
Uma volta inteira para rever o afago de um amigo, esforço de quilómetros e de horários.
ambos saímos da ilha para nos reencontrarmos no chiado. descemos a rua ao nicola.
as histórias mais estranhas. o mundo traduzido por aqueles que escapam, tão irremediavelmente presos ao passado e à memória. os que escrevem sobre o caminho, tão seguros de que se vão de novo encontrar na volta.

poeta contra poeta contra poeta.
silêncios em línguas estrangeiras.
agora sei como lhe dizer olá.
com um soneto de Pessoa

Whether we write or speak or do but look
We are ever unapparent. What we are
Cannot be transfused into word or book,
Our soul from us is infinitely far.
However much we give our thoughts the will
To be our soul and gesture it abroad,
Our hearts are incommunicable still.
In what we show ourselves we are ignored.
The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged
By any skill of thought or trick of seeming.
Unto our very selves we are abridged
When we would utter to our thought our being.
We are our dreams of ourselves souls by gleams,
And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.

  ¶ 5:27 da tarde (0) comments