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.

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