tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60599432011-09-24T20:36:56.374-07:00Blood of the White WordsFrom the wind war breaths a pure rainPipukusnoreply@blogger.comBlogger101100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6059943.post-1104404881971046342004-12-30T02:53:00.000-08:002006-05-04T17:30:45.780-07:00Bats
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 Pipukusnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6059943.post-1102379053662227512004-12-06T16:19:00.000-08:002004-12-12T09:32:38.103-08:00the 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 Pipukusnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6059943.post-1102035827478110112004-12-02T17:02:00.000-08:002004-12-02T17:03:47.480-08:00orange
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 Pipukusnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6059943.post-1100967022162292112004-11-20T08:09:00.000-08:002004-12-12T09:38:27.080-08:00temple 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 Pipukusnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6059943.post-1090273415423681132004-07-19T14:43:00.000-07:002004-07-19T14:43:35.423-07:00Mirage colour
your
mirage
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 vibrationPipukusnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6059943.post-1089384095468501892004-07-09T07:40:00.000-07:002004-07-09T07:41:35.470-07:00A 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 Pipukusnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6059943.post-1088548376967898772004-06-29T15:32:00.000-07:002004-07-07T13:24:05.700-07:00The 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 Pipukusnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6059943.post-1086357058430213522004-06-04T06:48:00.000-07:002006-03-08T01:18:33.436-08:00The body of the flower
There where fifteen minutes of soft waves. You where the legs if the mix of the hair, the memory is the volcano of the sea.
A light of air flies away from here.
I remember the pollen that burns the avenues, the places where the blood adventures. When I had nothing, I walked the garden of flowers.
There was a perfume.
With you it was a limpid fire within.
An Pipukusnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6059943.post-1068660164664830132003-11-12T10:02:00.000-08:002003-11-12T10:04:36.890-08:00Some tears are smiles
Your body of unquitness extends the hand of washes on the life of the night, a universe that transforms itself into a sudden vertigo of cream.
Your quiet but drawn out hand, soft but delayed, does not leave the moon to die in the cradle of the stars, in a light tablet of air.
Because there is a secret trip on your skin, that still does not belong to me.
A milk Pipukusnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6059943.post-1068476864467683162003-11-10T07:07:00.000-08:002003-11-12T10:08:38.590-08:00I loved you still
I loved you in a life
that still thus died in
as when I saw the refined
knife of whitewash shining
the penknife of your look stream
I already knew
that you were offering
your destiny figure of a salt bridge
and sugar chest, still I went
in a mud wagon but already knew
that you were shinning in
inopportune and disfigured hand
you still had in balance on seaweed leaves
Pipukusnoreply@blogger.com0