Two Men

I'm at a bar
and the spotlight
feels like the sunset
only with a more green-yellow colour
and for a moment or two
I get distracted by a move
of some hair
and two long toned arms
with blue purple veins on the hands
and elegant fingers, man fingers
that switch the hair like they switch
the music buttons
I get distracted and frozen
the hair fells back, just for a
minute or two and I see this
mild eyes asking
expecting
testing
for a second or two
I give in
let them look like that
look at them even more pleased
I ask
and expect
and test too
but only for some seconds
I suddenly remember and fade away
I look to the veins, to the hands, to the hair again
the eyes look down
to the mixer
asking, expecting, testing
and discretly starting to
demand, wreak, plague

Inspiration

by the times of great inspiration
I seem to be lost somewhere else
tracked by a remote notion of what
seems to be THE THING
other times, I gotta be like Hunter S. Thompson
and provoke my own cahos
I bring myself to that
make the magic
of writing it down.
other times, I'm too lazy
to pick up a pencil
and a piece of paper
so I sit down
and imitate
a sound
until the sound is tired of being imitated
and shuts up
other times, I get my sward
and I fight my ideas
never won the battle
but I'm proud,
so I insist
got a lot of willpower.
in the end,
this is all very simple:
some may say I'm a happy woman
I got some papers, some loads, some men

and most of the time
I write, I sleep, I fuck, I love and I eat

May the forces of evil get lost on the way to your doorstep

People have funny ways of saying goodbye
they generally never say it.
they hold it to themselves
and force to maintain it
where it doesn't get out
not even a single slice
disguised by low movements and
simple actions
as crawling down the street with lamp eyes
looking out for meat
or damn minds
or only for a simple source of love
confort
tender
for the nub
reachable in someone else
what do I have to say?
we don't really know how to say goodbye
we own this human system of get
attached to things
not knowing when to give them back
but there are lots of things
out there in the world
and we will often realize that we are all
poor bastards that want
too much,
and that
goodbye is sometimes a blast

People don’t know how to love anymore

People don’t know how to love anymore,
I told him
And why is that? He questioned,
In a torn timbre
They suck blood out of their lovers
Like mosquitos drain their victims
And they have the tendency to leave imprints
On the skin
On the first type of flesh
But not long time marks, you see
just superficial kinds of one
That itch and scratch
But don’t hurt
But stay there
Very quiet and nuisance
And our first trend
Is to lick them
Like you lick a wound, to stop the bleeding
But after a while
Licking
You realize they’ve gone too far
And there’s not really any point
In being licking
Cuz we’re all gonna be sucked
Until we’re 90 in a wheelchair
And this is not the end of the world

On The Road

It happens this thing when you’re travelling on the road
You never put your eyes on the cement floor
Or the lane roads
Or the trees that past by
Your four roads rushed up with speed
The music that is bumping from your stereo
The hand that is making a rhythm
And for god sakes, you think
This wont be a long road
Or a long trip
And you’re not going to be travelling forever
So he stops the car
He makes a quick step in the brake
And giggles
You try to love him so much
But its just a trip
Inside a car
A box of cigarettes
And a pack of bags
The silent sads
That travel and love to travel
Into selfishness
And a pure shameless air
Into nowhere
Dive into pure madness
He makes a quick step
He giggles
The fingers on the steering wheel
This is driving into nowhere
But somewhere
We find ourselves to be
aware
of
all of that
where.

the wild ones

I'm gonna mark you like a territory
piss and love under your clitoris
sweat and spit all over your boobs and belly,
those nice hard boobs,
that nice steady tanned belly
you couldn't ask for more
it's like animals do.they get
scared and flee
they do.
but they always leave marks
too...

The loneliness that won't hurt you

its a quiet night stuffed with wolves that howl
and drink bourbon
until 6 am
I sleep in this bed so quiet
it must be my sound of
enjoyment and pleasure
hm-hm's for good and tired
shhh,
I say to myself who tries to sleep
this is a large bed
its like a mirror divided in two
only that this one has sheets
a pilow
a feather duvet
pearl like
sometimes a cat at our feet
shh, I say to myself
I want to sleep
but the wolves keep howling outside
inside
this bedroom
such a fury of animals
with the heat
the fever
the infirmity that governs my(ours) body
shh, I try to tell her, but she keeps pushing it
a bed that should be so quiet
I give up
light a cigarette or two
think about the sliced tomatoes
the full moon
the yogurts
the piece of shit that persists in fucking my shoe
this and that
the pelage and the sweat
a bunch of teeth
then I stand up
take a few steps on the room
look around, crawl a bit more into this darkness
of a full moon summer night
its not always about company
but loneliness
loneliness is a bitch
I take control over the motion
pick up a pair of panties
and feel the notion
that this scent has been smelled before
the moon plunges into my room at night
shh, let me sleep,
I tell myself
there's only room for one
but reality is a bitch too
and if loneliness won't be so arduous
sleeping would be easy for you
too

I got a lot of work to do tonight

And its driving me nuts
finding a spot or a line
to start with
and drive the line or the spot
into a reasonable end
that will lead me to where I'm supposed to be leaded

the skin that covers my finger bones
starts crashing and revealing the flesh
that slashes
into three or four cuts
that probate me only
to stick with this willing of determination

I got a lot of work to do tonight, I tell him
we both know about what I'm talking about
there's not really many optinions if we considered it
scrtach
mone
a stone,
in both pockets,
that is not a stone
but a concentration of dilemmas
and games and flirtation
with parables, metaphors, figurations, false ideas
that unclear the battlefield
and allocates it in two converging poles
in an unreliable end, and ruthless, cruel
how much greed
ours,
we
who are nobody
even less those that represent us by the
name, form, voice, smell,
it's a figure so awry formed
a conquest
that leads us here
with stones deeply hidden in pockets
that don't rip

so much to do tonight!
clean the shit that commes glued to the hands
that travel inside pockets
a bit confortably

start to learn this story
that has always been learnt
so far
so bad
incorrectly
its getting us there, I tell him
what, he asks
the time we die
we'll be all
pretty buried and death
its getting us there
nothing else flushes away
we'll have nothing to
complete or combine
but tonight
we got a lot of work to
do tonight

Yap, things

that thing you've been calling a soul
doesn't belong to anyone
not even myself
when it's right there holded on the arms
of two irreverent kids
who will only put them in
amusing danger
the thing - soaked wet warm -
you've been calling a consciousness
has no longer place between
the flacid stretched skin and flesh
of crossed bodies
the thing you've been calling myself
has no longer a meaning here
at this earth, solid space
commonly called for social integration
coherency
lucidity
human stupidity
it's time for the landing place
to prepare itself
and shot a plane
up to the sky
to get things where they are called right
without misspellings
no wrong soles, no guilty unpleasured consciousness, no identidies or names or cruel independency
and particularization
there'll be a bunch new unity up there
the thing you've been calling liberty
you've been saying it all wrong, pour kid
its only nostalgia and melancholia

Delirium at a toilet's door

The skin releases
This hazelnut kind of smell
Which pinches the air
appearing hot and melted
like Sweat
that drips
and warms

Rips a ephemeral scrape
Of member banality
And this second pulses
In a lewd way
On the chests
Where then dwells
tepid
damp
petted
forever.


Pulsions like these you don’t erode
An orgasmic deliverance of the idea
And of what is the figuration of desire
Exteriorized by the curl of four arms
And two necks
The bosom that breathes upon the bosom
With hearts that pump upon each others
Arrhythmitized
In roars and howls
Grunts of two wild species
Febrile
And we only holded hands
And we passed them by the bristle hair on our arms
With closed eyes
Without exciding the ephemeral delectation
The groans turn into hiccups
And we pull our fingers deep down to our bones
Sunken on the honeyed skin
But it doesn’t hurt
He is a gentle boy
I fear that this will languish at this point
And it truly languishes
Maybe I’ll embrace it
Two scorching orbits
That wamble in climax
Lonely at a toilet’s door
So then
My biological body forces me
To act humanly
And I leave
to do what you best do
in toilets.

Painting Nails

we rely on this
bedtime delusion
unspecifically pretending to be
getting something from this
limitation of love nesting
which is so limitless
that actually
becomes hard to take
it on this easily
since I've had always heard that
love is a pain in the ass,
ironically,
there's no itching in the butt
and we both feel awight
...don't we?
we play
this painted nails fest
down under the sheets
shading the hue
of this crazy rapture
and I never really enjoyed nails
releasing this high concentration of tones
'cause
it leaves all the room
pretty in red
drunk by a rainbow
that encolours our love
and mental fusion
so much that we become ONE
big developed body
with ramifications
and fingers
with nails
skin-coloured regular fingernails
"paint your nails",
I try to require
with the colour you
want them to be painted with
but don't come and ask me
to paint them for you
I wouldn't even lift a finger
or a toe
to make them red
white
or pale pink
or blue -
- not regular nail colours -
man what an orgy...!
there's a lunch of fingers
having breakfast in the bed
every friday's happy hour
of consumption
in what little nasty fingers
do best
sometimes even when
they're in rest
all digged up
in a nest
rolling over
my chest
CHRIST, I yell,
IT'S SUCH A BLEST!


(only those satisfied ten little fingers will stay,
at last)

it all disappears here

why does it get,
sometimes,
such a hard time to find yourself
in the core of everything else that fills you?
why does it seem as if you're trapped
into somebody else
that doesn't please you
getting so sticky
in walls of unidentified mesure
that would only break
in undetermined pleasure
being such an individual of
concerning clever
that undergoes by
critical endeavor
mid tenacious periods
that will only bribe
the idea and action to
imbibe
all the load of the world
through small round nostrils
that form
a face
and sometimes a bosom of
depersonalized identity
that puts the one
bury
dead
and
gone.
and it only rests you,
the other one
who gets so stiffy
and narrowly
iffy
since it belongs to
something else
sniffy

a complete affair

persons walk along in the street
in a pretty delightful picture of insanity
I run to meet them so I can
ask and explore the idea of
why is it so hard to don't be
crazy when you're already crazy
and you kind of like it
there's no concrete response
nobody knows how to answer this
I think I know why that is.
     because they're already crazy.
                  they are already mad.
and we're all pretty delightful
things moving clowdly in this picture
of deadly eternal delusion
-what a brutal amazing scene!,
I tell him as we roll
our legs upon each other
begining to share hot
fluids of love
-It's never going to feel enough, you know?
the stupidity of single madness.
but we're not single, are we?

The Bass Frequency

it rotates
and rotates
upon the candlelight
it's a little circle of life
and it circles and rotates
it ondulates above the
slow motion freaks who crawl
behind their steped out minds
of cripaled feet
it rotates slower and ondulates faster
in an impenetrable rhythm of softness
so, it catches blind eyes of strong
bliss lights and it never failes this
hypnothic motion of awkwardness and dirtyness
to nobody ever failes the traced line
with weat signs printed underground down
grandiously moving and dandying
yet mixed up with
the contaminated idea of a virus
that explodes and blows in the
core of HIGH EMOTIONS
and then they start
doing the dubstep scene
under this city life pression
and there's no reasons for
....auch!....
everybody wants to go
down
on the bass rhythm sound
so they drag themselves with the
essence of the weird sound
and they specialize
on this kind of tape recorder
that gives them nothing
more than this transformer
of life energy into
dark shaped drum noise
which releases the thing that
fills
stoned expansioned minds of
unmeaning and unfeeling individuals
inside this black hole world
in an out going
movement of dispersion
this hardcore enjoyment of something
which is not touchable,
they think



and it rotates
and ondulates
then it stops
- underground pressure -
and nobody
thinks and
pisses and
craps again
until this bass frequency condition
domains

Eternal without a cause

Real few people
get the chance to
go down in history
and I ear so many
talking about you
so many
loving those things in
you that
you so idly reject
so many
trying to recover some of
the essence of that coil
name and figure of
J.D.
And I don't test cars
in speed races
And I don't own blue scintillating
eyes
or sweaty dirty cowboy hats
but I question myself
where is now trudging
that time
when
3 movies made a man
and a man made 3
movies that became
so invulgarly eternal
and there are so few
and so many
who
can write about this
but even fewer
who
can feel this
Ah........yeh........
........3 movies
(laugh)
56 for other personalities
for other men
(cringe)
and those 3 are eternal
(harsch)
now
     how many does it take
                to make
                  a man
                     ?

E

I blow inacurately into beams of delicated
pink
and I'm not alone
the characters came with me
into deep
illogical
orgasms
of intense touch-and-feel-flow
it is such a wonderful world
that I'm eating with my hands
such a pleasure
and an out-of-mind fucked up ritual
that
they walk around me
and tell me to don't think
to don't fall alseep
and while I'm above the feet
they eat all the world
and I just don't know what to do
The signs are put up to
all the actions
all the thoughts
but finally
there's this BOOM
and the world
falls behind
my sleep
and suddenly
emerges this peep
from behind my head
slowly as I blow
and topple into
a junk-heap
of sweetness
pleasure
mirth
an eternal beep
and
yet
there's no (ever) oversleep.

Mental Sanity

My portuguese literature teacher
     wrote three words on the board
YOUR-MENTAL-SANITY
    and she asked us to write about that
    and my mind wandered
    while my hands started working
    and I hadn't any idea
    of what I was writing
            but I did it anyhow
And those red, big, ugly eyes
  of her, the teacher
  were watching me.
with pain distraction
such a dictator, she was
But I shat on that and wrote
with tricks of manipulating hands
and fingers who want to write it
all.
I didn't compromise and she realized
that is all bullshit school program steal of exchanging
amusement.
not?

Love is god from hell

I'm just 3 steps away

from heaven

and heaven never felt

this red-hot

warm

torrid

there are shards of glass in heaven

and they're not the wings

of broken angels

or maybe

just maybe

they are

and heaven has music

Did you know that?

But not ordinary music

No.

fucking sweet music

but hell has a soundtrack too

and the shit is

that sometimes

I can't distinguish

the music from heaven and the music

from hell

nor the shads of glass

cause they're very little similar

and very little antagonistic. Heaven

has guys puking out

as well as hell has them,

happens the same with the poison

that makes them puke, it

is spread on vases and flagons.

They both have instruments too

kinda like im the movies where

the sound if so vague but so

exquisite

so gorgeous but so awful

and people puke

because they're not ready for heaven

but they're not ready for hell either

there are windows in heaven

doors and even flowers

coloured big flowers

with petals, leafs

bottom

and fresh air everywhere

which dizzes me

because I thought fresh air only existed

in heaven.

that's fake

everything's fake when you

talk about heaven and hell

when you try to marry them.

there's no possible marriage between heaven

and hell, they're distincts.

...

It's 3 a.m. and I'm messing with

bigger laws than me,

this petty being.

And I make no bets

about it

I do not play with it

I simply stand there watching, viewing,

wandering and fuck it all.

fuck heaven and hell.

there's just earth and

           imagination

and

         sometimes

  love.

I like women in general

She walks down the road
in perfect scarlet shoes
perched in two narrow high heel plugs
with a scarlet bag
made from leather
that cintilates and shines on her
bony shoulder and her skinny hand
she walks down the road
with two voluptuous scarlet
lips
and a scarlet little dress
that hides the nasty
scarlet panties
into the crotch
which is not scarlet
but the bra...Oh...wait...
there's no bra.
SO she walks down the road
and everything is scarlet in her.
she's beautiful.
I'm dazzled by the measures
of her figure, by the moves of her
limbs and green eyes.
a foxy with green eyes wraped
around in scarlet
rough
kindness
red
so animal.
I watch her but she doesn't sight
me.
we're in opposite positions, in distinct
colours. but we're pretty much the same.
another girl comes by
she's dressed in purple like
a grapefruit juice.
she's wearing purple sunglasses
and a big diamond purple ring.
she talks about this film
where the world is blurring purple
and how she fantasies about
purple rain and purple piss
when she's in bed with guys
and I love her. Oh god
I love her way of rolling up her
tongue when she pronounces - PURPLE
such a tease in only two
human lips
I'm not in purple either
or orchid
or phlox
but we get along well
and we talk about films
and colours
we're similar
and pretty much
almost
the
same
another one grimmes and
glimpses, she's chinese
and has perfect round tits
pierced in the nipples
and she's dressed in white
the insane tone of purity
but she's not a puritane
she is nuts
a nut whore with the nipples pierced
no. not a whore cause
she's dressed in white
the colour of big immaculacy
and this one is smoking
a cigarette. and she blows
the smoke to my nose and face
she makes me inhale it
as I inhale coke, with such hunger
but passivity. and she wonders about
spots. sparkling dots. and I don't get her.
mainly because I don't even want to get her
but we get along so well that she
shows me her nipple later
on, in the the toilets and asks me to lick
it, the stiff nipple of white pale
skin. and after I do it, she weeps and
smiles and says
You're the love kisser
I do a thick smile and kiss her on the
forehead leaving for the next one
who's a readhead covered up in
green leafs of desire like
Eve. her fuckles on the nose
say more than she's capable of
and we do not love without
a porpuse
she said. we do not concentrate on this
particles of life disposal more than only
other being. we do not move without
concentration but unpassionly. we do not
breathe with insignificance, we do not
fuck without protection. I laugh. she
cries and claims that I'm the most hideous
person she has ever met. but we're
both dressed up in green. we're both
desirable and we do breathe
with significance, and we do move with concentration
free of passion and we do concentrate on life particles and
we do fuck with protection. She silences. Her silence
is arsh and quiet. we're dressed
up in green, I say to her.
she snuffles and smiles
everything is still now
it's not about the colours,
I think.
it has nothing to do with this colours.

Love Snores

6 a.m.
and we finally fall asleep
into each other arms and
sexual organs
it is such a combination of
mighty fulfillness
that we dive into deep
unawareness
of what's crawling
behind
around
or under
it is a level
of such tremendous satisfaction
that we loose ourselfs
in the meaning of perception
time
love
says
boiles everything inside this sheets
melts the wounds of two persons who no longer
seem to swallow with hesitation.
she wears high heels
and he wears a tie
long enough tie to hang two necks
heels high enough to support four feet
we bump it all up
the sheets
the glasses
the cigarette boxes
the clothes
the ashes
the screams
the moans
the blood
we're tigers and lions
but we do not bite
we do not play with the hard
solid fatal bullet in the gun
we keep it rolling
and going
until we've came on a rush
rouged
blushed of peel
as the whole city burned itself in
destruction
the wreckage, he said, is the reflection of our alienated love
and sexual tension
we're tigers, we're animals,
he said
and yes
we were all of that
so we lighted cigarettes
and drank shitty whisky
what didn't matter at all
cause we had ourselfs to crawl into
to pour into each other mouths
and we did
not a convencional kind of love,
ya know,
cause he wouldn't buy me roses
he would steal them from gardens
and say "I'm a good neighbour"
and he wouldn't take me caviar
to bed
but instead he appeared with nice hot bread covered with italian cheese on it
and I would eat it all up until the last piece
and we would smoke
and mess the sheets and the floor
with shoots of his white mournfoul love
you know what I mean
we were tigers
and we didn't watch TV
we had sweet music
and mouths that talked
like nobody elses
but that is not the real expression of love
if loved had a voice
it would be a snore...
I guess I could explain this...
...
but you know what I mean