Thursday, December 30, 2004

Bats

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
flavor
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

orange

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

within
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
something
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
drops