Sobre flores

Minhas armas são flores;
já nascem para morrer.
Cor - pólen.
Cor - fogem.

Collectivity

What is a plan? 

I ask myself, you ask yourself, they ask themselves: what is a plan? 

I plan or am I planned?

There is, certainly, a way out. 

Is – certainly – there a way out? 

Do I believe or am I forced to believe?

I am moulded, you are moulded, he is moulded, she is moulded, it’s moulded, we are moulded, you’re moulded, they’re moulded. 

Is 'we' moulded?

Some would not agree. 

Is it necessary to agree? 

What if I do not want to agree? 

And if we 'does' not want to agree?

What if I do not want to agree?

And if I wanted to be I, first person of my own opinion?

If others ‘I’are made out of me, and these many me are we, what am I? 

I: the other or a collectivity?

We are a collectivity, a disintegrated collectivity, a shredded collectivity – miscellanea!

We are a collectivity willing to get united, but we are way too disintegrated; reduced to tiny and misshapen pieces.

We are snips, different colour snips, different shape snips, different names, scents, languages, motivations, culture snips. We are snips, and for being snips; disorganisation. 

We are disorganisation!

Sssssst!

Egon Schiele

I travel back and forth
in a time that is lost
neither dark nor light come
across my blind dawn;

I visage mysteries
through the mute boundaries
of my echoing hope
lisping the sibilant consonants...

hissing my soul...
shivering my ridge...
silencing my sin...
my being!

Insomnia

Sleep, Dalí

There were only sounds of non-living things on – a dying roar reverberating in the whole house. The bathroom had a leaking that never stopped – tic, tic, tic, tic; the fridge snored on starvation as it needed to be fed; a noise of detuned radio was always on the air, even when it was off; the TV, bringing other people’s reality and also fantasies in, cracked – tac, tac, tac; the floor cracked – tac; the roof yelled as it collapsed, but it never would; the microwave beeped, continuously, counting the hours.

An unusual noise broke off from the roar and took Peter Harvey’s attention – it was not a meow, but a sardonic purr. Harvey goggled at the compact range of his three-room apartment and found a cat staring at him, its tail curved over its back. A cat?, he questioned himself in amazement, yet quite sure of the impossible presence of such an animal in his place. He shook his head in disapproval of his own thought as to vanish the image of the purring cat from his mind. In fact, it did disappear, but there was still the hovering of that sound in the tiny only-one-living-person apartment.

Beep, beep: the microwave announced the time spreading an echoing wave of electronic sound – one more hour had gone off, and now it was 3am. Peter Harvey fixed himself on the couch as to avoid having silly thoughts, started zapping the TV, but could not help his eyes when he saw feline references every channel he surfed. Reasonably, Harvey came to the conclusion that he should be tired, and should not cheat himself of his sleep, and went straight to bed.

Peter could not sleep.

Undoubtedly, he was intrigued by the cat, but the reason he could not sleep is that falling asleep was his most difficult daily scuffle.

Lights: off. Non-living sounds: on. Cat purr: still on. Peter Harvey: on. Peter struggled to sleep. As if a storm was brewing in his way, he battled the blanket and blanketed himself waiting for protection, but he rolled all over the bed which made it clanck, and his arms embraced and folded the pillow as if it was a rock, an anchor where he could cling on to – Peter was awake. Tic, tic, tic – the tap dropped water rhythmically. Tac, tac, tac, tac – the floor cracked. Insistently the microwave – beep! – announced another hour. A bit later chirps broke the roaring and not much longer, natural light invaded the rooms, as did a thousand of other vibrant and living things’ sounds. By that time, Peter was exhausted and let himself be overcome by tiredness, falling asleep. It was already something past six and he had about three or so hours of sleep before showering, having-coffee-and-a-puff and heading to work. Peter was still, he lay on the bed much more as a corpse than as someone who rests.

Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring... rang the alarm which was set for 9h15 everyday, but Sundays. It rang – ring, ring, ring, ring, ring – but Peter did not move.

The roar that shares the house with Peter is now muffled with the external sounds of the morning. Cosy, he wakes up, the morning sunshine comes through the window-panes and joins the scent of fresh coffee spread all around the house. He stretches lazily without opening the eyes, his arms widely opened are ready to embrace a new day. He yawns and opens the eyes and there it is: a cat, also yawning and walking the lazy and elegant cat walk over the blanket towards his lap.

For quite a while, Peter freezes in amazement and so does the cat. The ice is broken only when the kitten purrs slyly and starts rubbing its whiskers on his hands holding the blanket. Scared, the man – discrediting of that scene – all of a sudden, jumps out of the bed and finds himself standing in the same room which lodges lounge-room and kitchen. The small round dining-table is set for breakfast: freshly baked bread, cakes, muffins, biscuits, eggs and bacon, butter, all sort of jams, fresh coffee, tea and milk.

On one side there is the cat sat, reading the papers; on the other, a free seat waiting for him. Peter is muted.

‘Bonjour, monsieur Harvey. Le petit déjeuner est servi,’ says the cat in such a natural tone, ‘asseyez vous.’

Peter goggles as much as it is possible.

‘Quel chat stupide que je suis, pourquoi suis-je en train de parler en français avec vous? Excusez-moi! Oh, again! I’m so sorry. What I meant was: breakfast is served, have a seat!’

‘Je... je... je vous ai entendu’, stammers Peter. ‘Wait, je ne parle pas français.’

‘Oh, now you do. You are so smart, mon ami’, the kitten folds the papers and serves himself a cup of tea.

‘Will you stand there the whole morning? Le petit déjeuner est superbe!’

Peter Harvey oddly accepts the invitation, not for curiosity, but for the incapability to control his movements.

‘Non, rien...’ the cat starts humming a French song.

Peter stands still on the chair. Desperately he tries to scream, but from his mouth only comes French, and then he shuts up. He tries to move, but his arms are tied on the chair, his eyes are strained by upper and lower extremities with tape, and his ears seem to explode for the deafening sound of loud rings.

Peter Harvey was eyes wide opened, but couldn’t move, his body could not break off the bed. He also could not breathe and then choked. When regained the breath, he jumped off the bed as to accomplish something that could not be waited for, and dove deeply into the new day which had just been deflowered by the possibilities of the night.

Miró

Sou um corpo dançante de boleros não executados. Um corpo que dança só. Um pra lá, um pra cá.

The hours

There are two big hands, one bigger than the other, moving in circles, unstoppably, telling loudly life is much more of the same if you don't move ahead them!

Bluered

Irvin Penn

I like blue,

said Jazz.

I like red

wine!

Ego

Filme 'A concepção', de José Eduardo Belmonte

I
go,
eager.
I'd go:
superb;
ego!

Family

Pierre Verger

 I do
I don’t
I will
I won’t
I should
I shan’t
I could,
But now I can’t

I do
You don’t
I will
You won’t
I should
You shan’t
I could,
But my mother says I can’t

You do
I don’t
You will
I won’t
You should
I shan’t
You could,
But my father says he can’t

We do
We don’t
We will
We won’t
We should
We shan’t
We could
We can’t

That’s my family!

Time

Tic, tac, tic, tac, tic –
Eat, drink, sleep, love, smoke, be –
Tac, tic, tac, tic, tac...

rain-bow

rain-bow
Upload feito originalmente por Zépedro

a chuva não vem
a chuva não vai
a chuva é uma menina
de colares coloridos

a chuva paira,
planeja,
mas não cai
ao invés; levita

a chuva ficou para trás

The girl and the bar

Claudia Picoli

1 . Mid-light on a full moon night

Half bottle to a sloppy whisky glass
Sip!, Ssip, sip to a huge silent gulp
The money’s left on the table
Tinkle! Tinkle, tinkle on the bar
Invisible steps are washed with drops of beer

2 . The moving shadows of the tree
Tickle the cracked wall
In each crack
The mute eyes of a witness
On the floor
A dark ruby syrup shines


3 . An angel would be
Why not, so, a mannequin?
Pale, pale – beautiful
There was red in the face
But it was not blush


4 . She left home
She left the bar
She left life

5 . No culprit
The detective told the family
Mum cried
Pop didn’t
Sister:
Ah! A room of my own!

Stella’s lane

An echo of shrilly trains and cosmopolitan murmuring was dying out behind Stella as she was discharged from the bowels of the Flinders Street Station. Under the clocks of the building, all sorts of people stood waiting for their friends, relatives, lovers and other people – including the ones they had never met. It was an imposing French Renaissance construction that reflected goldenly when the sun happened to caress its colours. Unfortunately, that was not one of these days. The sun was hidden playing behind stormy clouds, and Stella did not crash against people waiting under the clocks because she chose an alternative exit – the Degraves Lane exit.

Edith Piaf, even dead, added some colour to that bleak day as her singing muffled the whining trains. Piaf sang from a crêperie which was on the right side of the stairs which took people in and out of Flinders Station. When Stella stepped out the last step, Piaf was singing; a young girl in old fashioned clothes smoked sat on her old fashioned bike; the French man was making crepes, and the smoke of coffee, crepes, and cigarrettes, dissolved in the heavy cold air, but Stella only thought of how dull her life was and ignored the beauty of what surrounded her.

Stella was wearing an old black coat, black pants, black top, and black shoes. She had very dark hair as well as dark circles under her eyes. She herself was dark, contrasting with her extremely fair skin and, yet more, the motley walls and people who cohabited Degraves Lane – a little piece of France, Spain, and Italy; the whole of Europe in a small Australian lane.

People crowded together under marquises and motley umbrellas, walking or standing, but always flicking cigarrettes. Stella lit hers and ordered coffee from an Italian cafe. In the mean time, the clocks, doing their jobs, reminded people of their tasks or pushed them into trains which whined when departed. However, time did not seem to rush in Degraves Lane. People only sat, sipped, puffed, laughed and shared multiculturality and idiosyncrasy.

Stella had something important to accomplish, but what was that? The clouds, tired of the sun teasing their backs, sweated and poured above roofs, marquises, marquees, umbrellas and people without umbrellas. Crossly, they fell apart and left the sun alone, shining its light that both dried and warmed. The light came canalized by the borders of the tall and skinny buildings, creating shades and spots which tourists stopped to photograph, professional photographers photographed, and the people who appreciated beauty appreciated it. A table, under a marquee, was then available. It was Stella’s spot. She sat – blackly-smoking- drinking-her-coffee – the light spotting on her and shading the colours on the walls, umbrellas and clothes of Degraves Lane. That was Stella. That was her lane.

Fatos

Gal é meta;
Zé tá fora.

Zé é meta;
Gal tá fora.

Somos metas;
foras.

Minhas estúpidas frases

As profundezas jamais lançarão de suas entranhas os aromas de uma expectativa.

Multinatureza

Ventilação
Ventilação
Sibilaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
r... Sibilaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar -
Uma canção
de pássaros, pedestres ou aviões
Sibilar um papo,
Sibilar um traço;

Da mente

Sibilar
Contatos,
Sibilar amarros;

Da gente.

Sibilaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar...

Home

Im pu lso

Impulso contido
contido
contido
contigo
comigo
impulso
com...

   TOALHA
   TOALHA
   TOALHA
ÀTOALH
  TOALHÁ

O-O

Piscaram os dois. Um de cada lado, como se cheios de areia. Molharam-se, lamberam-se, fecharam-se em si mesmos e não viram mais nada. Noite e dia - tudo já era um só. Tempo não havia. Via, via, via. Meus. Só meus. Redondamente amendoados. Melancolicamente negros. Escuro no claro. Olho. Vejo olhos.