Thursday, December 30, 2004


I was courageous. I met her in that luminous moon night. There were lost bats in the streets of Lisbon. And the penetration of her body was a bird that carried me in trips for the mountain of the oceans. It’s funny that when we go in a trip departure we feel the heat of a stranger wind. It transforms us into nomads again. The headquarters of the wind flows can transform our remembrance everyday. I don’t remember when we lost this sensation of freedom of the body, sometimes, when the vagina exists in a pen of a miraculous trip, I them remember again. That’s why the sweat is an invisible book that recognizes the memories we will have in the future. Some time has passed since those days.

Monday, December 06, 2004

the trees of Sofia
(tribute to Sofia de Mello Breyner Andersen)

I do not understand the tear
that is carried in a bark
in the streets of Lisbon
Sofia still has
books to write with
the cloud cotton fingers

crying is a straight
direction gift
to whom made
a life of the empty way

we should
kill the tears that we exceed
in translucent latitudes
we still didn’t touch the perfume
that inhibits the tranquility
of the sea flower

Sofia is as books
and books are as Sofia
they are part of a closet
where we appreciate to flourish
in soft immortal dreams

there aren’t tears of sugar
that feed the trees
and hungry readings

some transparent headquarters
penetrate the entering
of the discovery verses

the poetize didn’t disappear
she is part of the core crystal
the burning process
a photograph
a journal
confirm the perpetuity
of the Sofia trees

some books can read dreams

Thursday, December 02, 2004


the sun of juice comes
from the trees of the clouds
beneath the french nails
that slowly rain
from her

my body of
unknown tooty fruity
are hidden books of love

something here
a water sound smell
reminds me of you
in the slow desert of
Lawrence of Arabia

there is
a topless bar
of lazyness rebels
with a sunny name
something like Nehru Jacket
between the suicide
and the rebirth of the roaming
Love American Style
that sock it to me
like a winter fee of
forward feelings

someworld reminded me
that the skin is cold
and Ed is dead
at bouffant hairdo
where the earth tear

Saturday, November 20, 2004

temple of the stations

one music on the bordering skin
also has deserts of incident light
tranquility rivers of dreams
and wastelands
consumed in the noise
of the acid heart fields
temperament of storms
slowly sleep in the body
and despite the discoveries of the sun

one of any day
I give up in one railway
of these temporary trips
abrupt salt mines
a sun rush of fire crosses
the places that music saw

some places within
are borned in the ample
temple of the stations

Monday, July 19, 2004

Mirage colour
it comes between
the dawn and the perforated
transparent seaweed of the heart
it comes at a certain step close
to the barren wind of steel
between a classical beach
where the vagina is
tempered with
the goal vapour
of the vision voyage
a beach
of skin and foam
is underneath the lips
I leave the fingers
in sweated beam
a fish of velvet vibration
in a tranquil temperature
I recognize the silhouette
my knife shade perpendicular
to the delimited desire
a red cloud
of napalm remembrance
parallel to the stillness of love 

Friday, July 09, 2004

A rhythm of strawberries

I looked at a moment for the perpetual window of the trees, I thought that I had found an idea of a feeling drowned in the innocence.

A soft brown music tempers the volcano of your lip.

Now you are not. A sonorous and classic juice distracts the desire.

It was only my heart that thought, while the mind felt the rhythm arisen of your strawberries on my skin.

In short I feel the lack of your presence. The food that your perfume penetrates slowly on the ash of the three days.

The lack of a pillow to the side can light a storm in the body.

A light music tries an eddy for your lip in lack.

Now already you are.

A poem.

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

The steel of time

A flag disturbs the emptiness in the dark of the room, leaving the chairs in the perennial interrogation of the future. A quiet sound remembers the dark colour side of the blood.

I am going to seat myself a little in the hands of the time.

I found that still I am waking up in the way of the life. I found that I make a road of this liquid silence that the hymn repairs.

I am a second in a foam sea, over your flower road.

Repairs of a stop sign flows from the step stairs. I count cents that I write while I know myself in the steel of the time.

A soft leg allows some luminous joys in the roses.

A victory to cover grass is enough to me … it comes to me from your gold lust.