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26 novembro, 2009

Eco and Narciso

I am Eco and Narciso
And where is my Nemesis?
I am word and image,
more word…
word… word… word…
Nemesis? Why do you desert me?
Is there anyone here?
Here? here? here?
And what comes?
Come... come... come...

The harm of existence

He could be who wanted. A lamented poet in your logorrheic writing to his beloved, a child whose owns fool speech and movements, a stunned man in his own conflicts, the elegance and grace itselves, or a failure. He only could not be just one thing temporarily. He ranged as the time and its fractions less than thousandths, more miniscule than thousandths, which makes a chameleon incorporate its hues; the wind goes around a corner and wanders into inappropriate thinking.

The man and his disturbance. Yes, he had character; yes, he was noteworthy but something affected him. He suffered instinctively. He himself felt sensitive of almost everything even for the moments of sullenness and severity. He had a good sense of humor, a great sense of humor, he would be able to beam radiantly if a puppy joked with him however, tears hastily would come to his face, not merry tears, not merry tears, not merry. Anyway, sank in crisis, he could be who he wanted: the poet and the child, the elegance and the failure.

He was drawn in miasma that touched everything around him. In his bulging, he could not bear himself who was boring and with a sigh and a weight in his semblance, bending the corners of the mouth, got things off his chest:

-Why so that human sensitivity if abjection is far more fascinating? 
He poured out his sorrows as if to reduce its load but he only managed to realize how much he was ill, how much he was affected and the weight of his conscience seemed to fall upon him. When he sank the weight of his body on his knees, wearing him out, it was as a ' c ', a ' c ' of carelessness and if curving a bit more, it was as a ' s ', a ' s ' of solitude. And so on, his disagreement collapsing with his body.

Despite the countless friends and circles he attended, his bareness wore to the bleak, to the devastation. He was unusual. Although several times he tried to get rid of his disease, his mood would not have allowed it. He knew that there was no cure, because there would not be a cure for his existential crisis and minding it, his life progressed tortuously.

Why struggle to change your nature when our fate can be written in the stars? Life is complex, unsung and paradoxical. Life is a moment which comes to pass once and can last for one day, half an hour or a hundred years. Nevertheless, all this time is magnificently equal - to live; to exist is the real simple sense of permanence. Ah! poor the man, poor the man who, like this, wishes to be whoever he aspired to and still try to find a reason to live.

17 novembro, 2009




Vociferou seu amor à uma estrela
E ela, flamejante lá no alto
Quase não pôde ouvir

Não fossem os olhos do homem
Ardendo dentro de si

Ele jamais explodiria no
Amor que ela brilhou
Só pra si, só pra si...

Sem título

Van Gogh

O céu infinitamente negro
Dominou-se pelos lampejos
Incessantes das plêiades
Que alardavam em suas chamas
E brilhavam toda sua magnificência

Sob seu fulgor
Um poeta malogrado
Refletia no seu choro o céu chamuscado

Da plêiade mais distante
Dependeu-se uma estrela
Riscando os campos negros
Atingindo o pranto do homem
Agora, tudo era rastro
Tudo era poeira

(outro da safra de achaduras)

A ferida do ser

na boca,
o gosto de sangue
no sangue,
o fervor da vida
na vida,
a amargura do ser
de ser,
uma grande ferida

(poema antigo achado nas achaduras)