testicles

Today my culture studies teacher
Talked about how men
Should have their balls in the right place
And it got me wondering
How many men have
The balls
In the right place
And which one
is
specifically the right place
for them to be
I went out
to smoke some butterflies
deeply through a winter afternoon
a man walks by
and I can immediately see
that his balls
are not there
not In the right place
I smoke some more butterflies
Purple blue blood
Fizzes in my veins
its kind of mad
to see it bombing
like this crazy heart
that never stops
And I’m about to pass out
because of those opium butterflies.
When,
suddenly,
another man walks by
and he has a funny way of walking
he got rats stuck up his ass
and he giggles
very much
revealing white teeth
perfect white teeth
that were polished
at a couple of hours ago
by a big sharp
with a weevil tip
and he has both of his fingers
red
and I know where those hands have been
and he giggles more …
he knows it too…
“you got no balls” I yell at him
“not there anyway”,
and he stops giggling
and shows me the white teeth
and his tongue
and his throat
and his laryngitis
and he screams
A YELL
PURE SCREAM
we froze
this is the man with the smallest balls
I’ve ever seen.

Crack Piercing

She steps the floor
As if she’s breaking dawn
an orange evening
with red clowds
Wearing high heels
And long legs
Tied up to a body
And she’s a redhead
There are very little things
as magnetic as being a redhead
With green eyes
And desirable big breasts
And beautiful cheeks
And two perfect round dimples in the back
She wears very tight pants
Black leather
And she shines
And glimmers
And talkes immensely
Not loudly, just rustle
And she is a nice woman
An incredible woman
And her legs are so high
That they hardly push the pants
That are halt so low
And her incredible magnificence
is stuck into those buttocks
And we do get along quite well

the pixy and the humans

All the way
From Lisbon
To a place near
they drove and smoke and put little rocks
of md under their tongues
I can’t imagine the people.
Three mad individuals inside a car
droving of
and by a couple of minutes later
maybe an hour or so
three mad individuals inside a bed
and the guy would be inside the blonde
and the red hair would be watching
closely
as any lover would do
she would see it closely and she would help them not slipping
but nothing else
and the blonde would put some more love under her tongue
the time would deflate very promptly
all the way
from the car
to an house
to a bed
in a room
that had mushrooms growing up all the walls
and the blonde was a fairy
who happened not to have her magic wand
and the red hair
was just there
by mere accident
and she didn’t knew anything about magic
or mages
they might even
say
all of that with zest
but by that time
they were pretty messed up
as if the remains of food
in their plates
didn’t meant anything
as if it had never been eaten
they made the room blue
and the red hair soon sucked him too
and the blonde forget that she was ever a fairy
the room was a mess
but they kept having orgasms until it was morning
and night again
and the walls were kind of airy

as simple as this

He was a very handsome boy
He had kind of blonde hair
And his hands were dry but
Delicate
With long fingers
And lots of veins
He would laugh and answer
But he would mostly watch me
And be tender
And I didn’t get the chance
To watch the bedroom
Cause it was dark
And we could only hear breathing
Whistling
And our bodies temperature
Covered up the bed
And we spent all day in bed
And we didn’t felt hungry
And he laughed at everything
I suppose he could cry too
At 8.p.m. I get up
dress
and leave.

Plush Dreams

Sweet spot
A dream that I had once
Everything was filled with purpura plush
And I was settled in great deep purple
Shot through a night
In the bellybutton
That night was so young
As you can imagine it
We’re not screwing in the color
Even less making fun of her
He did stand there
Contemplating it
Quickly sharp pieces that are sluiced
in the back
we were releasing tuneful flutters
and our voices get covered up
by small moans
very indistinct
night with damned dreams
skin that feels slight
corps who own no weight
air sound
who rush through the sky
into stars and the moon
shy bright so slow
a deeper purple more deep than any purple
and babe, honorably, waiting
for this hot long summer
to be over
and there’s a tree
that resembles everything
inside this two packs of walls
so small and tight
we almost feel them
and both of us
exude in delirium
and the core of triumph is only
when we cannot reach it
-let’s paint ourselves
Violet
Or blue
And exquisite
There’s a house burning orchid
Burning pink and purple
There’s a god with a thousand years of magnitude
And the grass is quite all right
The pearl valence flies through the air
In perfect unity
And the flames play organ
And he’s talking
I’m around
Playing listening
And when we finally burn
Its shadow picture like
I don’t know, he said,
I may be reported as insane,
But this is the hottest of all colors
We’re filled with space
And we felt hotter as the blazes grow up
And a hundred years ago
you would get this feeling
by chewing warm raw meat
lips moving in a frenzy
spiting waiting
for hands to be placed in order
under each others
the body breathes
with satisfaction
my shoulders are weightless
and a thousand years
couldn’t put in them
the burden
I almost hear it happen
The mosquitos humming
Sucking and draining blood
I’ve fastened this
very easily
but without permition
long slim fingers
that we feel perfectly
through capillaries problems
I have a thing for deep voices
and crazy eyes
and spaced beard
and for a man who smokes
and wears rings
and dreams
and lives
and knows how to talk
and loves purpura



maybe it’s time for me
to
wake up.

Like Liberty

Boy Short found a tape
And he didn’t knew
What tapes were made for
What was classical music
He didn’t knew who were the big ones
who was Chopin
and I wondered everytime
we met by the park
how he grew up
and
what he listened up to
And he never told me
But he would smile
And he did smile
when he found out about the tape
and got kidnapped by a nocturne

eagerly

I sit alone
By the afternoon on the couch
Reading a newspaper, watching the tv news
But there’s this sadness pumping
And agglomerated in my core
So, that I decide to understand it
I squeeze the speaker
Try to rip off some tears
But nothing falls off
- Maybe its not that type of sadness -
So I take a couple of walks
Try to find things meaningless, don’t feel anything
But the sensation of this void is impossible
Things are coated with such terrible intensity
- Maybe its not this type of sadness -
This is so empty
That I choose to take a shower
Hot water
But it doesn’t dissolves
There are no sad tears
I’m predisposed
So I raise the water temperature
And when it reaches and burns the skin
I drop a groan
and find that maybe its not this type of pain
So I wrap myself
Make a phone call
Meet an old lover
Rub myself in his arms, remember his smell, the touch of his skin, his mellow voice
I try to have nostalgia, longing, to want everything back
But suddenly I realize,
while lying there
That maybe
It is not this kind of sadness
So I smashed
And hash the booze
and the ashtrays
are made by the floor, cigarette burns
And its not that either
Not that kind of madness
Sadness
It gets old
And not knowing
Feels so much worse
Then being alone
And trying to cry
Feels so much better than
Preventing you not to
After awhile
It’s the end of the day
And I still got that newspaper to read
And the tv news to watch
There are always newspapers
And tv news never get tired
I sit down
It’s also not that kind of sadness
So
What is it?

introduction to oldness

It was about a couple of months ago at my working place –
The one I always preserve to create something
as beautiful as a everything you can come up with
and I used to have more patience
and more bottles, more scotch
I had a pack filled up great things
A box with shaggy ideas, 2 packs of smoke and a lover
who wanted me so bad that I would drive his brains hot
so hot they would flux
and I was having sex with papers, and with ideas, and with problems
I never thought I wasn’t
But when I went down to balance
I found out I only had a couple of bristle
hanging on
and that a lover and a couple of smoke and drinks
really don’t mean as much
as clarity
and my words
and my guilt
for all of that
became what you might call remorse
and terror
and horrible sadness
and we’re all trapped by the same misfortune
by the same fate
people do like to meet themselves in highways
and they like to ear
to get in touch with fictional characters
make love with them
in a deeply grievous delight
witch is hardly so tasty
because it’s not possible
and we dive in impossibility
and forget reason
and clarity
and right or wrong
what is
they asked me profusely
right and wrong
what is
this feeling
of having an electric heart
and skinny bodies
and funny noses
and dirty outstanding music
handsome battalions
so handsome and brutish
but irksome
and soon I give up loving
and give up smoking
and give up making love with strange creatures
and move around
very closely
to what is a mood
and
If only I never knew what’s this feeling
Of feeling old
Maybe I could feel young forever
And I would live.
Not knowing
That old can be a feeling.

Out-and-out

They say cigarette ashes
will not cover this in its totality
and I told them that they didn’t know
they were not apt to understand something like that
“we’ve been doing a lot of things these past two years,
We don’t know where we are”
However its nice to have cigarette ashes
it means you smoke them up to their filters
and that you left something
That you still leave something
So negligible as a cigarette ash
and dirty sheets
and a bed that seems like a battle field
Arms that cover you up
That pinch you, that tell you that you are something
That you mean something between them
and you could dive in your room
With tired eyes
Red and poisoned and demented
Not knowing
How could it be resembling
To something you do know
I feel something rubbing along
My thighs
The fighter side of his own
I feel sick for typewriters
Cause they wouldn’t be able to type this
and I would get angry
destroy all cigarette ashes
then smoke more cigarettes
to make more ashes
Clawing clothes and wrapping tongues
Would feel like a brief stop in time
and the room stagnates in perpetuates fullness
They still don’t know
but I think they do.
and people sit at their tables and try to eat
Nocturnes scratch the stereo
and boys and girls sleep in beds
Avoiding the opacity of the world
We move in slow motion
We don’t live things, we burn them
Cats sleep in narrow beds
I wonder how they never fall
Thinking about that
Makes me realize that
Nobody ever knows anything
That cats may fall off
That kids may not be able to sleep
That this dirty sheets may be disappear really soon
Cause time flushes that away
So does a button
In a toilet
And a paper
With a rubber
And two hands.
By now I have cigarette ashes
And an hard member
Rubbing
Doesn’t matter much more
It’s a room
A side table
Two heads that will sleep
Trying not to beat
The wilderness of the world

Poison Chase

She bites it
And she bites it very slowly
The tip of her finger
Disappears in the mouth
and those red eyes
And a wet tongue
White sharpest teeth
That form something
as beautiful as a smile
her hands grab her own waist
In pain
Hardly never giving in
She moans so quiet that it is almost impossible
Not to ear her
And she moves lewdly like a snake moves to chase a rat
She shakes her hair
Blonde and bright it crawls down her shoulders
And it doesn’t disappear
It stays there right above the breasts
Which breathe with tremendous significance
It’s very easy to desire that we can breathe with them
hot flesh
all of it perpetuated
by nimble moves
that make that hair crawl a little bit more
And the legs and the skin keep on the torrid breathing
she moves
Clearly in the direction
just like a snake moves to chase a rat.

And then she bites -
Oh and she bites it good.