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.

reflexo

reflexoxelfereflexoxelfereflexo
reflexoxelfereflexoxelfereflexo
reflexoxelfereflexoxelfereflexo
reflexoxelfereflexo
reflexoxelfereflexoxelfereflexo
reflexoxelfereflexoxelfer
reflexoxelfereflexoxelfereflexo
reflexoxelfereflexoxelfer

reflexão p(at)[o]ética

Eu e você
Você e eu
Vocêu
vai ser
seu
eu
teu
meu
veio e vai
foi e vem
agora e então
lá e aqui
Maria e José
Ah!
Zé!
Nasceu
Morreu
Levanta
Cai
Dia Só!
Noite Vã?
Uma batalha de lás, de cás
Pontos, pontos: continuativos; finais.

TRYPOETRY

POETRY
        TRY
        TRYPOE-
        TRY ...

Scary

It is awfully scary when you meet people from your imagination in real life.

Lt Collins st

Lt Collins st
Upload feito originalmente por Zépedro

"estupidamente azul"

Infamous poem

Hmm...
I am.
Am I?
Oh my!
I am...

About people

I pretty much prefer to write about people who do not exist - they are far more real!

Foreigner

I was born and grown up
then I was me: a foreigner
                    
                       at home...
                                     
                                         anywhere!

Nowhere me

Nowhere me, nowhere me:
How are you?
Nowhere me, nowhere me:
What is it? What do you look for?
Nowhere me, nowhere me:
Why don't you find your way?
Nowhere me, nowhere me:
When will you mak up your mind?
Nowhere me, nowhere me:
Where are you from, where are you going to?

Carolina

She arches her lips and laughs at me
She falters some feelings that I cannot mean
She comes to me and stares at him
She annoys me just for being
She loves me when I get sick
She ignores me when she's with him
She taps my face for my irritation
She taps my face bringing me joy
She says she misses me
She never says to me 'good bye'.

Azul

azul
Upload feito originalmente por Zépedro


Quando uma tarde de domingo sorri uma cor para você - este é o resultado.

Meu apego

 

Desapegar da alma é mais fácil que dos livros!

Riples, riples

Come and go intermittently

The murkiness obscures while clairity ripples

Come and go densely  
come and go rippling, rippling

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.

Piscadela

 

Kandinsky

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)

Imperatives

                                         Salvador Dali

Write
start a song
Sing
dance a song
move
do not stand like a tree
roots
swing
move
FinisH

Ela

Ela fechou a porta com vagar extremo e se afastou, furtiva, como quem abandona um doente que acaba de adormecer à meia-noite. Àquela altura, o quarto atrás do seu calcanhar, escapara definitivamente de alcance. Do lado de fora, na rua, caía uma chuva, indômita, gris, que frutificava as propriedades sinistras do lusco-fusco. Num rompante, atravessou de uma calçada a outra se desviando dos carros congestionados e caminhou precipitada sob as marquises.

O café, atabalhoado de gente, parecia não se incomodar com a imagem da mulher revirando sua bolsa, arrancando lá de dentro um maço de cigarros amassado e molhado. Trêmula - de frio ou por conseqüência da decisão tomada há poucos instantes –, com a carranca pálida, manchada de maquiagem, mal sustentava o cigarro. A boca, miúda e fina – um traço, borrada da cor que deveria ser dona, tragava e lançava lufadas mortiças. Pediu e serviu-se de café com uísque. A luz, débil, que pendia sobre sua cabeça, estampava no cenho, mais acentuada, as expressões dolentes.

A noite rompeu imperiosa em sombras e néons. A calçada, molhada e suja, refletindo os faróis, era ferida com o pisar do salto trôpego, escarlate, envernizado. Os pedestres se esbarravam inevitavelmente. A mulher passava alheia a isso, heterogênea à massa. Sua dor não vestia seu corpo e ela cambaleava rua adiante. Seu trote, pasmódico, mole, não escondia - pelo contrário, alarmava a curva desenhada em seu dorso, arquejado, inflexível. Que mulher doente! Pensaria qualquer um se a notassem.

Uma mão se estende e prontamente pára o ônibus. Sobe. Parte saculejante o transporte carregando os conflitos e alegrias dos corpos de seus usuários. Para ela, o ônibus parece se arrastar. A criança, debruçada no banco da frente, exibe um sorriso que não pode ser para mais ninguém senão ela. O ônibus desce vertiginosamente a ladeira. Ela sente um gelo na barriga e chora.

A dor de existir²

Podia ser quem quisesse. Um poeta malogrado em sua escrita logorréica à sua amada, uma criança de fala e movimentos débeis, um homem atazanado em seus próprios conflitos, a própria elegância e cortesia ou ainda um fracasso. Ele só não podia ser apenas uma coisa interinamente. Oscilava como o tempo que em suas frações menores que milésimos, mais infames que milésimos, faz um camaleão incorporar suas matizes, o vento volver a curva e um pensamento vagar em despropósito.

Um homem e um distúrbio. Sim, tinha caráter; sim, era digno. Mas algo o afetava. Sofria irrefletidamente. Sensibilizava-se de quase tudo, embora, por instantes, revelava-se sisudo e severo. Tinha bom senso de humor, ótimo senso de humor, podia irradiar vendo um cachorrinho auferir-lhe gracejos; mas de vez por outra, no meio de um largo sorriso, suas maçãs se lavavam de um líquido choroso que, todavia não eram alegres. Não, não eram alegres. Mesmo assim, com toda a crise, podia ser quem quisesse: o poeta e o menino, a elegância e o fracasso.

Estava envolvido numa atmosfera de miasma, contaminando tudo a sua volta, e para tanto só bastava-lhe imaginar. No seu bojo, não suportava ser quem era e com um suspiro enfadonho, e um pesar no semblante, com os cantos tortos da boca, desabafava:

- Pra que tanta sensibilidade se a abjeção humana é bem mais fascinante?

Dizia isso no propósito de diminuir sua carga, mas só conseguia perceber o quanto estava doente, o quanto estava afetado, e o peso da sua consciência parecia cair sobre si. Quando afundava o peso do seu corpo sobre os joelhos, envergando-se, era como um 'c', um 'c' de carência, e se curvando mais um pouco, um 's', um 's' de solidão, sucumbindo com o corpo, o seu desacordo.

Apesar dos inúmeros amigos e ciclos que freqüentava, seu vazio avançava à obscuridade, à devastação. Era insólito. Bem que por diversas vezes tentou se livrar da doença, mas seu estado de espírito não lhe permitia. Sabia que não havia cura, porque não haveria uma cura para sua crise de existência, e sabendo disso, progride tortuosa a vida.

Por que ser o que quiser, se no fim não há uma razão? A vida se desvela complexa, incógnita, paradoxal. Um momento que se tem uma única vez e pode durar um dia, meia-hora ou cem anos. Mas de qualquer forma, todo esse tempo é magnificamente igual, o viver, o existir, isso sim é verdadeiramente o sentido da simples permanência. Ah, pobre do homem, pobre do homem que como esse, esteja disposto a ser o que queira e ainda tente descobrir razão de viver.

(²) - Essa é uma uma nova versão do primeiro conto que postei aqui. Para conferir o original é só ir ao primeiro post do blog. Algumas correções e corte das sobras que só faziam empobrecer o texto... quem sabe melhorou agora?