The detestable maniac's passion for his grandeur self

I hereby tender my resignation from hard late night hours in illusion and announce my sweet and soft commitment to reality. 

Yours truly,                                                                                                                    

         the boy who gazed, through a blurred and barring glass, upon his own life.

Padrone è morto! Berlingheri è vivo mas che cossa lui ha fatto?

Caress the gentle skin of a lifetime working palm, a hand swallowed by wrinkles, drenched in labor. But there is feeling nonetheless, even more so, the palpable beyond mere existence and the detachment of the insignifance of remaining simply what is but a tool, an extension of the mind’s watch and masterdom over the body. Delicate, soft hands, they are instead soaked, drowned so tragically said, in grace and frailty, serving no purpose other than that, empty of consideration and effort, the exposition.
Why insult the beautiful and candid, not an intention the demeaning or attempt to ridicule high standards in unequational presentation, establishment in poise and concealment within the looking glass. Or even an ugly untroubled hand, the good or, easily filled in, pretty does not turn the object around less dignified of it’s merit and does not steal it of a path perhaps by it lined out.

Which brings a leighman thinker, an extensively subjective, abstract to make him sound more pompous and self conscientious, watchman of the unimportant to the point precognicised in the beginning and very loosely attained by the random choice of argument turns. Obviously, you can transform or affirm that anything is subjective or relative but bear with me on what is probably known by most and what I can assure was not the direction I was hoping to take, relative in its inexistence as it may be, I didn’t do a brain storm before wildy writing without objective or agenda. The random turns correctly chosen advertised a few lines back are not the dimension in which the next thought inserts itself. So, objectivity, ugly isn’t necessarily visual, an aid to the pleasure of the eyes can be deceptive, a little less typically put, a blind man can see beauty even though he doesn’t see at all. A sum of elements turns the basket heavier making the light tumbrill once overlooked or avoided into a worthy matter of consideration.
I can present before thy humble and nearsighted eyes a specimen so deprived of beauty and of an unpleasantry damned to make you awestruck and haunt you with desires of blindness, I could do so, it’d probably be fun. Anyway, a beast, a pathetic creature, an amalgam of mucosity that without an ounce of hesitation would be replaced with hospitality by a 4 hour chess spectacle, reminiscent of Chinese sleep tortures, banging ones head into nothing over and over again. But here comes what no ones been waiting for due to it blatant predictability, this creature, lets call him Henry Margassald shall we?
Well then, lets say Henry Margss as this dejected unfertilizing sample of dung likes to be referred, there was something carried through magnificently unproportional to Henry’s beauty, rather to its atrocious attack on our sight. In this spirit of the useless hypothetical, beyond the sinking in of my point, Henry Margassald was entirely responsible for disinfecting the entire western American continents water supply and thereby salvation of the impervious inhabitants of such wide confinements within what was believed to be safe. Would this amount, more like encarry a beginning , toward Henry’s beauty? Opinions are sure to split both ways or even shoot out hitting various improbable targets but I stand by my absolute defense of nothing, not my place to establish if steve buscemi is actually a sight for sore eyes or still a cause of the sore of our eyes, offense as well as flattering can be taken by your highest than most Mr.Buscemi sir but I mean no disrespect. And what’s more is that to take into scrutiny and attempt a conclusion of a generality is not so bothering but is equally autistic an attitude as administering a suppository to a homophobic obese flatulent fuck by the name of Reginald Mansfield Winchesterfercervillesmainetsserdumainet Smith.
The miracle of telling the sweet tale of a ferociously grotesque being upgrading his presence to bearable is perhaps possible but what is definate is the application to detail.
Alas, the hands of a desperate seeker of a means to live, to continue his and those of which he cares about lives become, although harsh and inelegantly rugged, a Venus de Milo of labor and testament of a mans dedication to what is truly necessary and the abdication or lack of curiosity towards the superfluous that has made man lose touch of such primitive yet vital values. And although Bertolucci is most probably my favorite film director and a man to whom I extend my greatest respect and admiration as well as hope concerning his not so perky health that we have so been accustomed to, I do not intend to leave my own written testament of communism or grace thy glued ass to which I apologize for the trouble you will encounter departing the chair that is by now already an extension of your body with the vision of the bohemian, spectacle that was seen in Novecento by way of an enormous red flag woven together by the “proletariat.”

If I have Rita Hayworth’s hand, the undressed final end of a magnificent limb exposed oh so carefully could I dare to deem it unfit of my kiss and tremble? Could I confidently and provocatively to the extent of one others very empty life put the vanguard stripped majestically entangled carnal object of even the most peculiar hunched being besides the callous, worn out tools of a man in service for more years than he can count outlined for his own enjoyment? Or need say more, relegate ravishing Rita to the revolting rear of the realationality of remainings, rebel ranting against curfew, dedivasize her in light of the lowest in the chains good deeds?

The intent of a short, primarily bull shit driven, thesis was the instating of seriousness and meaning in one other piece, but of fiction, meant to be done by picking up these psyche cherries, but now I sleep.
Farewell and a merry December to all ya depressed or happy with this pumpkin of tiring emotion.

A palavra estimar é uma das pérolas da língua portuguesa

He has found a suitable person

A girl to fit his age

To tread through the cycle cage

The intwinement towards immersion

 

A history of phases, rites of passage

Jumping, averting lives of marriage

But now damnation t’is not considered

Establishment of humble anarchy, order withered

 

Pulling away a mighty curtain

Of cold war implications

For now, no tresspass, that is certain

The ambition of relations

 

Demmur, deliver, drop

The hungry beast so famished

No writer’s block, no search for plot

Instead to have it ravished

 

Steady down, ease up your stride

Control the need to rise, relate

Confide your silence, make my mind your own

 

Overlooking constant rush to react gives pride

Remain in tranquility, don’t exacerbate

Speak through voids, words unknown

 

The arms are but a consolation of a pain unfelt

The embrace to conclude the predicament dealt

My feet on a fine line across niagara falls

Do balance with the crucified position

Of a lesser radical submission

Though towards a reverie, my instinct crawls

 

To eat rice hot or cold

Advances so bold

Of a season in each others company

With no labels, no prediction but a trip to Italy

Na arcada com a Mona.

Em certas horas da noite e não de uma forma constante a vida aproxima-se  de uma anedota, como se fôssemos Deuses acima da mera vida mortal e nos recostássemos observando deliciados as cenas da nossa estadia na terra.

 Chegando ao perverso bar de vício e luxúria procurei o sítio para me instalar e estacionar o meu estudo céptico. Uma menina ao balcão vestida com uma quantidade de côr que parecia saída de uma edição de labreguice rústica do cirque d´e Soleil e casais aproveitando a luz escassa e vermelha de ambiente intenso. Enquanto me enojo distraído com um dos mesmos aproximas-se súbita e sorrateiramente algo misterioso e voluptuoso mas com um olhar perdido, de momentânea consideração. Sentou-se na minha pequena côrte e deixou-se estar.

-Sim?

-Sou agressiva, calculo.

-Está bem...

-Achei que sim pelo menos.

-E queres continuar a agressão ou preferes a explicação?

-Prefiro estar.

-Está certo.

Fícamo-nos por uma hora sem trocar palavras a percorrer o terreno entre nós. Olhando, calculando e por fim tocando. Dei-lhe um abraço. Ela apertou-me. A luz afecta todos.

-Sou a Mona.

-E o teu sorriso é enigmático.

-Pois é.

Saímos e sentamo-nos nuns degraus ao pé da casa dos bicos que sobem até vários miradouros e debaixo da arcada estabelecemo-nos como infíeis ao mundo e sinérgicos na nossa invasão simultânea de espaço. Ela adormeceu e quando acordou a Mona deixou-me com um beijo de reencontro e nostalgia opaca. Wasn´t meant to be.

Dissertações hospitaleiras

Após dias árduos de tarefas camponesas levadas a cabo por rapazes sem as mínimas destrezas aconteceu o fatal.
Foi contra uma planta num carro de outrem e não pintou a manta porque teria ficado mal.
Intervenção divina a sua sobrevivência?
Merecedora de escárnio a sua displicência?

Castigada a sua inconveniência com semanas no hospital,
Engessada a sua perna por se ter portado mal.
Agora em casa da vovó mimado até ao fim
Quando confrontado com a questão do conforto a resposta e sim.

Ansioso no entanto para sua liberdade chegar
Nesse dia sim o rapaz irá chorar
Lágrimas de felicidade, choros de alteração de rotina
Gotas de raiva, mad! Escorrem até a menina.

Menina esta, mas quem será
Qual e o objectivo deste nosso jacarandá?
Pequenina e sublime no seu senso comum
Ou belíssima e inconsciente da sua vida que se torna num pum.

A decisão e complicada no entanto atingível e visto que se põe em hipótese uma alem de outra a devoção deve ser meramente incredível.
Mas suponhamos após meses e anos de rejeição absoluta que num dia escuro de inverno ele se transforma numa gruta. Querem as duas abrigo, querem-se as duas recostar. Ele vai deslizar a pedra ou mais uma vez ficar a olhar?

A pedra deslizada cada menina num braço da cúpula diferente
Trocas lancinantes de olhares perturbados e senhores sem duvida também perturbadores. Seu braço esquerdo abana com vigor e o direito vibra com clamor, agora com a palavra amor não se adequa na procura da resposta pois ambas são feitas com a sílaba nua.

Chegou altura de dar estes trocadalhos por termine pois tenho de beber um trago de saké.
Se a vos vos agradou a recitação da minha miséria que vos caia em cima um bicho da “malér”a"

Deidre and the conniving Red Ribbons Part II

C ontrary to all reasonable decisions, Deidre decided to persist straight into the heart of Europe, she hadn't been there ever in her life and if not for Curly's family in the North of Ireland it woud've been difficult to round up money for the overwhelming jorney across the altantic or perhaps through the other side.

Things were beginning to get uncommon with curly, what set out to be a bewilderement by his disposition to help slowly evolved into a certain quest for him to, she was very straightforward with her purposes but she was going to give in, the easy way with which they related to each other was too pleasent to overlook and so, as kinky as can be, on the plane after a couple of hours of conversation a couple of kisses exchanged with warmth and reservation they went to the bathroom at the back and curly had his way, she was happy but so focused on the task at hand that they didn't speak about it for a while.

After a weak of gaelic chants and the milking of massive cows Curly told Ma O'Reilly he was going to Italy and she got a cousin to take them by boat. Transportation was beginning to be sort of their thing because yet again the soft and sweet fornication did take place, on the front deck while the captain was fishing for Codfish. She finally sat down for a talk:

-Look Curly, I really like teh time we spend together and god knows you can take me to the moon once in a while but i don't know if we can afford these distractions at this point so if you don't mind i would really rather wait till we get home.

- But you see my darling, my love for you is vast, and to waste away a perfectly good meditaranean trip wallowing on something we shall carry out only on our arrival to me seems foolish, I would much prefer to continue our most luscious affair. The prime of our life is to be ceased as the only one we have my dear, never fear, for I shall guide you, and take you to the answer you so intend to receive. Okie Dokie?- and he delivered a passionate wet kiss to the swept heart of our little girl. She looked him over and read his eyes, a slight downward arch of her eyebroes accented her reticence but there was no denying how right this delightful man was so she kissed him once again and said:

-I could learn to love you.

-Well, my lesson is already learnt.

No better place to arrive for our recent pair but the city of Venice, they were beginning to relax a little more but work was hard to come by, Curly decided to take up a job as waiter in a cafe right at the piazza de san marcos and Deidre snuffed around for informationn while she found a place to sleep for her lover and herself. An abandoned palazzo and a couple of matresses and sleeping bags was the solution, and right by a river they could hardly identify. One night after Curly, Charles finished off work they decided to go for a stride and momentarily Deidre thought she spotted Jim but this was obviously due to the tired state in which she found herself, they decided to dine at a pleasant restaurant in the heart of the city and definately sink in to each other.

After the replenishment and chain estabilished between their enamorate gazes they left the place and being it a dark night charles though of something:

- What if we steal a yacht down at the dock?

-Are you crazy? Besides, the security is too tight for us to even try to conjure a way.

-I think I know of a way, our house has a basement, if i just swim under the barrier I'll be able to get in no problem and there's a dude at work who does these under the table paint jobs for boat's, he can also remove a couple of pieces to disguise the yacht.

-Okay I guess, i'm up for it.

Let's go then. Round up our shit when we get home and i'll pick you up.

When they arrived at home Curly put on some dark clothes and a black mask. He filled a bottle of water with air and drilled a hole on the top, put in a straw and dived in. Deidre was kind of fearful and got hold of everything as fast as she could, got to the entrance to the dock and tried to create a diversion by flashing herself to the guards, it was so effective that they let her in, she took them both to a booth deeper inside the compound and tried to stall with some dances for as long as she could. When she finally heard the alarm her heart dropped and she ran outside but curly had already gone. The adrenaline pumping through her veins made her run like a wild chita and she didn't stop until she was in a dark alley woth no exit and an obvious stench of trouble. Whe she turned back a couple of sailors with buff bodies and mommy tatoos apearred with groggy accents and ill intentions. They grabbed her and although she bravely struggled her way out of her grasp she was shoved by a third one into a boat and was brutally gagged and thrown into a cabin.

Next thing she knew she woke up to with a slpa on the face and the unfortuante news of her whereabouts:

-Did I not tell you to back down you medling cunt? Why would I warn you? For you to savour the victory more delightfully? I told you not to keep on chasing me and now you've forced me to do something i didn't want to do.

-What did you do to him you bitch!- and as she was struck again the chair fell to the floor.

-Watch your language, I owe it to your dad, who's a great lay by the way, to teach you some proper manner's of speach. Now listen up, needn't worry about your bravado lover because a couple of friends have already erradicated him from the face of the earth, but don't worry, it was quick and painless and I've something slighty more mind boggling for you my little tart.

As Deidre shrieked all the bones in her body seemed to crack and her mind collapsed into a gelatinous pile of dung.

-Have you ever heard of a Harem dear Deidre? Well, I shall explain. We have arrived in Ankara, the capital city of Turkey, and I am about to sell you to an oil Lord with a Harem in the middle of the desert and an insaciable taste for young western girls. A harem is a place normally remote in it's location which serves the wishes of it's master. You shall enjoy the company of roughly a hundred women fighting for first string and when called upon you shall deliver your fanny as a sack of meat laid on the feet of rabies infected hounds. So you see, you're fucked.

-Well. doesn't matter. I like fucking, especially Jim, and with you. Fancy a fuck Becca or are you too conservative to suck the rift between my legs?

Becca gave a freaky and ravishing smile and grabbed her between her legs whilst kissing her with her pulsating red tongue.

They arrived on shore and after a few altercations with Jim, trying to understant the error of his ways she was led into a grim and smelly square full of huts and market trollies. They sunk deep into the city and entered an impressive palace that'd knock the white house of it's foundations any day of the week. She was bathed, dressed, prepared and beaten into submission until she was presented before her future lover. After a couple of days of exemplary treatment and a certain probing of her adequacy she was led into the back of a truck with no food and just a pair of knickers, driven into the desert for days that seemed like months. At some point Deidre believed this was her end but it was to imporatant to find Charles alive to die on all this know. The estate resembling a mirage with palmtress and lakes was equally opulent and if not for the chipped away paint oon the walls it woudv'e outdone the latter. She entered singlehandedly a bathing room with dozens of naked women gazing her threatfully and a couple of them doing biblically forbidden thins in the pool. There were all sorts of women, from the beautiful to the disgustin, the old to the young and the incredibly young and there was even a boy or too looking her ever like the hounds of hell waiting for their serving. It seemed to be paradise and the antecipation of what would happen next sort of aroused her but she decided to stick to a corner and remain there until she was called upon. And she was...

End of part 2

Deidre and the conniving Red Ribbons

Deidre had it in her to burst out all the secrets trusted upon her by so many people, she always was a very trustworthy person but for the moment, given her current situation she had no respect of self containement, simply contempt for all that were letting her down. She loathed being entitled the prissy little girl you could rely on and was fed up with responsabillities she couldn't or even did not want to handle.

So right now a great number of persons were compromised by their ill fated deeds and on the path to disgrace for deidre would cough out all the grim details of her trustees sick life, lies and rascal rendez-vous.

The passing of days in suburbia was something of a camouflage to those on the other side of the picket fence and business was hard at work in all fronts, how people got to spill their beans or to get so sloppy as to fail in their concealment was beyond even Deidre herself. It all began with her own father who had turned their basement into an ilegal casino fully equipped with black jack tables and russian roulettes, even a team of créme uniformed dealers with a history of counting cards in the casino they used to work for. In the house right in front swing parties were organized with pledges of secrecy amongst practically everyone in the neighbourhood but the most disturbing was this lovely lady, Rebecca was her name, but Red ribonns was her reputation. She was an incredibly sex oriented and desirable person to look at but as it happens this made her a tad particular about her tastes. She would make videos of kids and teenagers in the neighbourhood and once in a while even invite them over to watch themselves over a glass of wine. As these sessions came to an end she would strip down to but one red ribbon protecting her most private and inapropriate expositions to these children aching with the possibility of opening their present. A gift from heaven, but the problem was she was so much for them that they lost taste for life and that one shot was all.

As banal and ordinary as ever if not for the day when all went wrong, Jim, a very well known kid around the neighbourhood also known for collecting a few cherries from the willing girls around the block. Jim was absolutely awe struck by what he had had and felt and was also very fearful for the video rebecca red ribbons had managed to collect of him and his stepmother in the pantry having it off like lions or rabbits. So he dared to go back, and she said she was done with him but he wouldn't have it and after some confrontations at the door witnessed only by our little angel with horns he stepped into the house. He hasn't been seen since and Becca the babe left town for a fortnight.

Deidre wouldn't settle for this due to her having also been willing towards Jim and although he had discarded of her promptly like all the rest she couldn't help thinking Jim couldn't have been so weak and so she got around and revisited her connections and her journal. Coming across a friend who said they had seen both of them together in Mexico she got a hold of her long time buddy and drove drown without a second of hesitation.

As she and Curly arrived in tijuana as last were spotted the dodgy duo she went around hotels asking about these people and was only informed that a month ago a lady and two teenage boys left a room with a couple of tapes and red ribonns, this man had heard something about Italy, about visiting a couple of similar friends with equal fixations and after some rounding up of money by some significant blackmailing letters to those back home they set off to Italy, Venice. There was always, and unfortnately not to deidre's knowledge a sort of understanding between her father and Becca and after she got wind of her being hunted she sent an email: Dearest Deidre, I trust you will believe I have nothing to do with the dissapearing of your friend Jim and can undoubtedly keep quiet on what I once showed and layed upon your lovely set of ears. But now you shall hear me out you little bitch, if you and your friend do not stop that quest of yours in due time I shall take matters into my own hand and dissapearances will increase so lay off for your own good. Yours Truly, Rebecca Braithwaite.

End of Part 1

Desde que haja descanso o bom senhor não se incomoda

Vou idolatrar hoje e sempre a continuidade da decadência a que me submeto nestes dias tão nefastos. Não acontece nada, não sucede uma única hípotese de figurar nos anais da história senão sendo apenas mais um habitante do planeta preguiçoso demais para se empenhar numa causa. Foi naquela tarde sombria por baixo dos ciprestes cientes de quem abrigavam que se submeteu o senhor á pena máxima imposta pela tal dona clotilde. Estava ele sossegado e quieto quando gritou aos quatro ventos e mais outros ainda não oficilazados mas que esperam ansiosamente a sua vez:
-Porque e que a vida e finita?! Porque deixar espaço a ser preenchido pelos mais novos e cedentos de omnisciência, querem tudo, perdem nada. Querem nada perdem tudo? Mas que se trame que noutro dia irá haver um bom proveito?
- Tá mas é calado que só dizes merda!
-Ah tá bem.
E assim dormiu na segurança de quem sabe que talvez, numa outra dimensão, num outro plano onde se encontram aborígenes e caucasianos, onde discutem alexandrinos com mongoís que existe uma concisa e simples alternativa á sociedade que nos propõe tão vaga e vazia de objectivo?
Interpretar? Porquê? Então se os críticos ainda não o aclamaram como um génio não é nada! Aquele limiar entre a genialidade e a parvoíce, o gajo e mas é parvo catano, deixa-o dormir!

Natalia Vodianova and the attempt to write a picture. (Below)

Mercy on the unworthy
You are not from this world
Break apart from what happens so suddenly

How to express the synchronicity of both things
I wish I could
The song and the woman
To say a feeling
To gesture through the utmost simplicity, you.

How can I love you?
I don’t know you,
I don’t see you yet those 4 lines that limit your image are to be damned
Why should you be confined?
It is a sin, a trick played on me by an ill intentioned lord of wrongdoing

Please be mine, come and stroke me with your eyes if ever that is possible
Do what you will, stop the sound, I shall persist and have no difficulty
No effort, just submission to the natural word that fails to ring in my mind

How can it be? How can it be that I ask such questions through genuine doubts?
Forgive me for not rendering all and failing to give justice
A religion should be made, I shan´t be a follower for my devotion is singular

To end, so lacking, to make haste out of what is insultuous in it’s briefness
Have I crossed borders into saharas way away, taken it a step too further on a cliff?
So basic the phrases I put down! But being subjected through the sole path of the arm, the fingers and the pen.

This is it, no more.
You would be best left untouched, unaged, unaltered, unlived.
I do not believe this but I forever yearn to be your shadow and as such to care for perfection.

A asneirada e "o asno" (e uma fotografia originalmente para aliciar o leitor/mirrone mas que acabou por ser algo que não se faz justiça com palavras)

Forçar um conto, fazer nascer uma ideia de uma frase ao acaso e leva-la a partir daí para o caminho que pareça ao autor o mais ilustrativo da sua linguagem é ao mesmo tempo que absurdo a única forma de um sujeito preguiçoso e de certa forma obstinado na crença de possuir as tais enfatizadas “capacidades para mais” ou até as ditas “tu conseguias se quisesses” (frases que ressoam e apressadamente se fazem esquecer na cabeça que já tanta vez se acomodou a estes comentários e outros que tais, acomodados numa barreira intransponível, um check-point por onde só se passa com passaporte marciano, expondo-se para o mais limitado, não se passa).

Ou seja, estou sempre dependente de surtos de inspiração e do assistente de sinónimos do Word, sim porque na era em que estamos, vergonhosamente a escrita é facilitada para o que não detêm o vocabulário suficientemente preenchido ou não terá a prontidão para aceder ao seu, este segundo sendo o meu caso que me leva na última das hipóteses a ceder. Posso apresentar como desculpa a afirmação de que as palavras já as sei, mas infelizmente a ponta da minha língua está muitas vezes a vários quilómetros da minha boca e percorrê-los é uma árdua viagem que envolve catanas e calções acima do joelho. Apresento também, (quebrando um bocado a musicalidade da frase anterior, havia assim um espécie de “gingar” que tinha antecipado mas abdiquei do movimento de cintura para frisar algumas ideias também importantes) uma vontade de escrever à máquina para não dar tréguas a lei do menor esforço, escrever em papel não é má ideia, a interpretação do que está explícito apenas para o olhar mais experiente ou estudante de medicina é que depois frustra quem a lê, até porque o único leitor que se mostra minimamente interessado é o próprio que benzeu o papel com uma cruz -a cruz do mal-entendimento, e outra -cruzes credo “q’esta” merda!”

Nadar como um sapo num pântano é para um ser humano que procura uma flor sequinha e pronta para se oferecer a quem se dispor a receber o tal fenómeno é a analogia mais disparatada mas coerente para acompanhar a tentativa de dar alguma razão ao que me passa pela cabeça e tenta escapar do viscoso invólucro que é esta, isto é, as conjecturas que abalam, chocalham sem necessidade ou propósito definido que fraquejam sempre na altura de se fazerem ouvir –falta sempre um elemento, uma palavra, uma eloquência. Falar de mim próprio e da minha insatisfação bastante subjectiva perante o mundo é basicamente o que faço e de forma alguma permitirei que caia no erro de o impor como um drama ou um auto de self-importance. Proporcionalmente ao que existe eu não existo, sou brilhante e todos esses adjectivos da mesma categoria que alimentem o meu ego vazio de razão de ser mas tenho a plena noção da merda do caralho que existe por aí, ou melhor, não a tenho.

Patético agora que me apercebo que não só desacreditei uma eventual capacidade revelando um segredo que é melhor guardado mas também pelo facto de que me encontro a descrever o padrão e a forma de escrever que o tão conceituado artista adopta. Portanto, vou-me despedir de tentativas vãs do que se reforça vezes sem conta numa introdução ou contextualização ou o que quer que seja e proceder então á “tazer-ada” no cutelo imaginativo que pasta no meu cérebro e muito ocasionalmente vomita cá para fora um belo de um bolo alimentar saboroso e intacto –que se admira, que se contempla no trajecto até à nossa goela insensível e se mastiga com prazer e se mantém até a próxima cagadela que inevitavelmente abra espaço para outra apresentação, (o que se quer, mas raramente se obtém é que o defeco seja dotado de um amendoim, o fruto seco inesperado que raramente se esquece, que persiste na memória e atormenta o sujeito boquiaberto e surpreendido consigo mesmo) bruta e feia imagem que se roga compreendida e ignorada, posta de lado.
Então cá vai disto.
Estou pronto, coragem!
Qual inspiração qual quê?!
Eu consigo, eu quero!

“O asno”:
Ao passear pelo jardim vi uma menina mesmo muito bela, ela olhou pa mim e eu pronto, fiquei logo fisgado, nem me contive, avancei pa mulher como o meu tio me ensinou: “O touro encara-se de frente” dizia ele. Pa sentei-me, conversei cm a gaja e passadas umas frases bem treinadas nos retrovisores dos carros lá na oficina quando o meu tio não espreitava ela tava sobre o meu efeito, sentiu o poder de um Santos. Fomos comer um gelado à baixa que me custou um bocado pagar, deduzi que iria lucrar a longo prazo em confrontar a minha relutância, pois porque eu consigo ser relutante quando quero, na boa. Não falamos muito na gelataria porque depois de ter desperdiçado as minhas frases e a ter perguntado donde era e que idade tinha não havia assim muito mais pa dizer.
-Mas vives cá há 6 anos é?
-Sim
-Fixe
-Sim.
Respondia ela as minhas perguntas em que ficava minutos que mais pareciam horas a pensar mas continuei a tentar.
-Tá bom o gelado?
-Tá, obrigado.
-Ainda bem, já ca tinhas vindo?
-Não
- É giro não é, e os gelados são bons.
-Pois, é engraçado.
-Tens de ver a minha mota
-Tens mota?
-Tenho, uma 125 muita boa, não é de uma marca conhecida mas a minha tia rute disse que não se arranja melhor áquele preço.
E logo me arrependi de ter dito aquilo, engoli um bocado em seco e forcei uma pose relaxada que não tinha nada a ver com o que tava a sentir.
-Ah... Boa. Onde é que ela tá?
-A minha tia Rute?
E espalhei-me outra vez, piorei quando me ri sem sem saber como agir.
-A mota claro, tá em casa, o meu pai não me deixa ao fim de semana pa não me poder afastar muito. Normalmente nem repara depois quando saio mas hoje não quis mesmo sair com ela.
-Começo a achar que essa mota se calhar não existe…
-Podes vir vê-la, juro que é verdade, até posso ir buscá-la. Aliás, se não quiseres não acredites, não tenho de provar nada.
-Ah ta bem. Então até logo. Prazer.
-Prazer.
Deixei-a andar um bocado mas depois para mal dos meus pecados persegui-a e agarrei-a pelo braço.
-Espera. Desculpa. Fui um bocado estúpido
-Não nada, eu é que sou teimosa e não quero acreditar.
-Tens razão, desculpa. Fazemos assim, dizes-me onde vives e amanhã á hora que quiseres eu levo-te onde quiseres, na minha mota. Tá bem?
Ela hesitou.
-Tá bem.

E é assim que se dá por terminado o ensaio menos esforçado e mais idiótico, tanto como chato, que já escrevi mas que no entanto pode talvez contribuir para a minha maturidade como criativo.
Podia transformá-lo a ele em alguém com sérios problemas de sensibilidade no que toca ao que é encarado como normal e podia escrever que ele não tem mota, podia ter amigos que lhe ajudavam a perseguir um objectivo cruel e fundamentalmente mórbido. Podia adoptar um tom mais melancólico e fazer com que a morada dada pela rapariga fosse inventada pela mesma e levar o rapaz a vaguear pela cidade, ou até conduzir pelo campo, uma quantidade de cenários que não levam a nada. A ficção é um mundo melhor deixado inexplorado. Que é que pode surgir de positivo a partir de personagens e locais nunca testemunhas destes acontecimentos? Nada. É uma distracção como qualquer outra, no meu caso, como no de tantas outras pessoas suponho, um pouco mais obsessiva e muito mais inconclusiva, nunca terminada, nunca perfeita, sempre parva aos meus olhos, os dos outros não posso nem quero comentar.

Elbert, Lord Emille and Lira.

Arriving in the end of time there is surely no escape from the past, i mean, what else is there? For the simpleton that drove his truck every single day of the week up and down the hill, getting up at hours unacceptable to some, the latter being the tean-beat generation that in it's renewed wisdom and fresh approach towards the infinite possibilities of the opening of the world. He was unhappy but relatively pleased with the simple sums he could bring home to feed the single daughter and light of his life. A wife long gone, succumbed into the spirit of the treacherous kitchen enslaver, work that monetarily amounts to nothing but feeds the dying certainty that tradition and loving dedication is permeable to happiness.

The more complex the human subjects himself to being or in turn is drawn into or dreadfully conditioned from the start the more it becomes easy for the mind to deliver itself to ambition, yearning or yet another element that when truly considered is improbable to satisfy. The cycle is a parasite, a disease unto those who meditate beyond religious or spiritual beliefs, quests for meaning. Eggs, bread, company and the occasional predicament of where my patch ends and yours begins should be the civilization in the vision of thinkers and the likes of these. Discussion, debate, revolving around themes and insisting on the ideals of one another, based on adequate citations. All is background, feedback, the right environment, every once in a while there comes along the man who escapes his empty, from this standing point, life and manages to succeed in whatever area he sets his most tireless mind to. But it is this my point, areas and sections of cultivation have no place in the utopia of my eyes. Of course I am not stupid to the point of overlooking matters that can only benefit from persistence through empirical, theoretical and any other -cal that has discovered preventions to sickness and aids to development. Why must things have a cost, if they ever do? Must progress towards the safeguard of life lead ultimately to death, skipping a whole lot of shenanigans and comically referred matters that are all but this. I got carried away, making an objective out of vagueness and pointless generalizing.

The unsaciable thirst for intellectual supremacy, a super computer fully equipped with all weighed against the oblivion of those who know not beyond their ride up the hill... To me, there is no competition. He carried a sack of potatoes from the market and the occasional personal assortment of vegetables from his own reserve, a way to repay the kindness of the wealthy eremit who rarely escaped the top of the hill and his villa of this demand left unperceived by the driver, Elbert was his name and the luck of falling into the graces of said bat was something he never overlooked and thanked humbly on the also rare contact with Lord Emille. Although to this man's ever thankful eyes this was a one in a lifetime break the truth is he was payed miserably, barely covered the gas to fill up his truck, but all he needed was that unconditional smile and reassuring words uttered by his emerald eyed Lira. Lira was, since an eager suggestion from a a bewildered Emille, tutored up on the hill amongst the valleys of books and rainfalls of papers signed by her own personal, hardly concealed admirer. Skeptical at first Elbert had allowed Lira to follow a life which he himself found fit for another sort, he had come to this conclusion on realizing the facilities in transportation(the local school was of a distance worrying to any parent, blindly trusting as he may be) and the possibility of spending more time with his "lovely Lira," a name never worn out by use.

It had befallen upon him from very early in her life that he was to be outsmarted and would let no one get in the way of this fact, specially himself. "I have no interest in making my remaining family into a prosperous society for the delivery of goods" he had concluded on an exclusive episode of consideration. So it was that Lira was dropped off to 4 sufficient hours of learning, walking back down to her home keen on telling her father of yet another story too involving
for him to understand, he had sacrificed selflessly simple conversation but in overwhelming happiness observed the talent his offspring had to never make him feel dumb or in need of something more. Emille, partly intrigued by the sponge that was this girls brain and mostly delighted by the firmness of her young bosom, him not being that old himself, gave more and more of his person every time, reaching the advertised desire of passing the thirst onto the kindred spirit. There was little expectation of a riot in the skies, in the elements, in all that was grand enough to determine not one but a monstruosity of destinies calmly minding their own business on a yet to erupt earth. Nevertheless it came, at an hour of slumber somewhere, an hour of leisure elsewhere, hours of work, meditation, tramping, ranting, loving, desperation, breaking apart or driving from point a to point b, the last being the occupation of the fewest possible generation ladder that were at present moment discussing in a restrained manner Lira's recent tendency to arrive home later than expected, beyond even a tolerance supposed by Elbert to consist of a normal offer of Emille's, such as a cup of tea or a display of his own patch of vegetables.

The sky turned a shade of dark purple, apocalyptic and bizarre yet the mystery it induced and the fear it caused was accompanied to the eye of the vegetable and family oriented beholder as beautiful. To the full intellect and culture of the objective hilltop monk all sorts of theories, prophecies, damnations spun to mind, and to this the inevitable cold sweats adjoined propulsing the genuine physical feeling into the unfaithful task of terrifying the receiver of it's sensations. Lira, still in an early stage towards enlightenment saw only what was to displayed: unlikely colors crying over each other and prohibiting the slightest feeling of hope that such phenomenon was similar to that of a sunset of impossible description, this was no green ray, the end was nigh. Had she been in control of the wheel the instinct would have been to step hard into full throttle and foolishly let one area of the sky behind her and the rest above and ahead, the same. Elbert dazzled still by a real image that hadn't even been seen in similarity fictionalized or illustrated into documents out of his interest and area of expertise, kept on committing to his delivery that would not be kept for once due to a pretty picture. By the time he was arriving at the gates of the presently somber mannor deaf from the sycophantic panting of Lira and the meanwhile downfall of Emille's sanity he was long gone into an inexplicable trance of organic LSD proportions. It was then that the patches of cosmic flora dropped violently into the planet's core, such was the massiveness of these brute colisions that a wandering look would lose track of theses blocks of "worldacide", an implosion was to gradually take place and most of the earth's inhabitants would be deprived of such spectacle. Lira began to manically shout and run into the house where she found Emille under a table counting the strips of wood under an oak desk, victim to his many cerebral rages, emphatic punishments laid from dusk till dawn until hand and wooden surface became one in harsh matter, exhaustive studies and ramblings. There lay locks of hair beside him on the floor covering a number of piled up books opened in specific pages, on sighting this obsessive dedication to a logic, rational explanation to everything and all she made her way back to the arms of her father. Elbert, though in a state of ultra-self-conscience through incomprehension was unloading the sack of potatoes into the service door, left open by a few dedicated yet reasonable servants when confronted with the definite precognition of a sudden final installment to their suddenly realized short lives. Embraced by his lovely Lira a smile brought to his face the eventuality of return but it was not to be. He held her hand and passed through the gate, this time on foot, cut through the green and found a privileged spot from where to absently witness with the prized company of his daughter the fall of civilization, the one that crept into comfort only to go back in a false evolution. Under the shade of a cypress tree he gazed into what seemed almost an expectation, Lira, frightened by so many things she had not the maturity or the foolishness to decipher delivered in part her gaze into her fathers. She set her head on his shoulder, crying silently and assimilating all that had been left to do, remembering her mother and that one specific time when she was taught to peel an onion under the supervision of her entertained mother, laughing and weeping, mixing these ingredients leaving but a breathless taste for being, simply taking in what was to be offered. Elbert had no thoughts, just a detachment from all that he had known prior to this event, to say the least. The chunks of matter seemed to pace themselves slower through an invisible atmosphere and recollect themselves before the plunge into their individual contribution to the world's demise. The ground began to shake, this did not change anything, father and daughter trembling back and forth from each other, the purple sky fell. A last cry over the surface of what they had held dear escaped Lira embracing her father in fear and a warm response marked what ceased forever to be.

Ressaltar de uma linguagem para a outra
Encontrar a palavra mais adequada
A frase que se insira na perfeição
É escusada a demora
É preferível o imediato

Aquela janela de tempo não merece consideração
Aqueles breves segundos que se manifestam essenciais constantemente
Retórica de um monstro verbal
Horizonte inalcançavel num vocabulário preparado, nem sempre.
Mas porque é que falar é tão importante?
O discurso não se gasta
A manutenção do mesmo é mais eloquente
Mas contenção? Basta!

Um mundo de honestidade é aquele em que a comunicaçao é algo de tal forma fluído que a seleção, essa mesma referida contenção, é feita pelo ouvinte.

Proponho, a não sei quem, a que autoridade competirá?
Proponho a abolição da dor de cabeça e o esmorecimento do envelhecimento, a inversão da evolução retrógrada que é o amadurecimento, inevitável.

Ou talvez se queira:
Não.
Sim.
Talvez.
Tá bem.
Ás 16h00.
Foi giro.
Então adeus.
Até lá.
Isso.
Baaaaah!!

Left Lisbon, to grab europe by the crotch,
upon my arrival, it is my own that was rendered grabable.
Nothin particular, no evil fathoms I expected.
Naught but night in search of a place to sleep.

No prejudice as to where
Just a tad of despair
As the mind starts to wonder
And it´s tricks make me ponder.

Can´t afford to be left with nothing
Need at least to maintain my food
But what's mine is mine
Unto others this right
What was given to me must go back whence it came from.

So a cave was my ally, an open door my salvation.
A quiet exit from subtle irritation.

Lights in line
Effervescent as can be,
body's touching,
closer to the beat.

Dancing flirting,
being noticeable.
Our little LA

Polish models dettached from the rest,
little people intimidated by the best.
Fucking conventionally,
waiting thoughtfully,
Considering the move.
Younging celebrations in a restricted time frame, adultdhood is near,
reach for the closest life boat.

Manifest from another mind

Always na object of obsession
A girl to set the groove
An ode to get the mood

A protest for lack of retribution
A fist raised against denial
Yet again, the same old trial

Why verse for a she and not an it?
For a cause, for an inanimate being
Writing as a consequence of seeing

An emotion put to paper
A pair of glasses to describe
Hell! Document the vibe!

Banal words in beaten up issues
Philosophies, theories reaching for tissues
Crying to the mirror, emoing it up
Feelings of loneliness? Buying a pup

A solution to all the above
Escape the strains of love
No use breaking a sweat
Don’t think of that girl you met

So I raise the other
And climb a chair
In drama, in fake despair

And I speak of experience
And I talk of estructures
And I advertise natures

Not life with others
Or dates with mothers
Fathers so skeptical

Just a simple thought
Or something I bought
A discussion of what’s unethical

A flower lives but does not speak
A dog barks but does not critique
Don’t distance yourselves
But retstrain yourselves

Don’t run from interaction
But savour the conversation
Remain amongst others
But leave when you’re smothered

Colective is nice
Individual is better
Admire the mice
Climbing the tether

Rock your chair
Read your book
Write your legacy
Wait but don’t look

Settle in given time
Maybe you’ll marry a mime
Follow this parabole
Won’t be read by the whole world

Guess half will abide
The other will not
So the latter will grow tired
And the first will enjoy the lot

Um texto para despertar consciências ou a história da Búlgara que me tramou.

Tudo pode acontecer quando os ombros estão desprotegidos. Á medida que avanço sozinho pela tão inesperada 24 de Julho penso na filha que me espera em casa e peso mais uma vez como foi possível acabar a minha vida em tão tenra idade . O suicídio que não é premeditado nem acidental. A simples inconsciência de uma pessoa se deixar levar pelo momento. Mas algum credito tenho de dar a minha pessoa pois a mulher, a rapariga, a menina nos meus olhos praticamente, era um banquete para os olhos e a noite foi como uma ceia depois da guerra. Algo estava reservado para mim, sabia-o mas não estava garantido. Era também sabido pelos outros que se envolviam na minha cabeça, amigos de longa data ou vítimas de conversas de 30 segundos não pedidas e talvez bizarras, que nada me ia deixar permanecer, a permanência existia apenas na deslocação do espaço físico, temporal, profissional. Mas por enquanto estava feliz, naquela altura estudava pouco mais que o suficiente para ser brilhante. Com 17 anos e 3 dias faltavam-me 270 dias escolares para o fim de uma etapa e o início de outra, desta, infindável. Foi com um amigo que decidi ir até ás docas apanhar um bocado de sol e comer bem.

Um livro, era esse o único amigo que podia e queria suportar nesse dia. Tinha ido sair no dia anterior até Santarém, a uma festarola de um senhor amigo qualquer e a noite estava apagada da minha memória, apenas restavam relatos de que tinha mergulhado para dentro de um lago num simbolismo descabido de quem volta para o útero da mãe, o retrocesso do nascimento, disseram-me que estava enrolado em celofane e pude constatar isso mesmo porque juntamente com a rapariga que jamais havia visto com que acordei num fardo de palha estava ainda com pequenas aderências de plástico nas costas. A viagem de carro foi também bastante vaga, dormi e deixaram-me em casa, a minha mãe levou-me as docas e seguiu para a praia de São Pedro do Estoril. Almocei bem e bebi também qualquer coisinha para poder tirar alguma dor de cima da mona. Li bastante na relva e adormeci, não tinha levado nada de valor por isso não estava nem em perigo, nem contactável. Acordei à meia-noite com um sabor empapado e desconfortável na boca. Levantei-me e por acaso tinha uma pastilha no bolso que não devia estar nas melhores condições. Caminhei e atravessei a avenida no túnel que passa por baixo da linha de comboio. Estava já algum frio mas o sobretudo que tinha vestido era senhor para a tarefa. Comecei a fazer a 24 de Julho a pé com a finalidade de apanhar um autocarro na Infante santo, quando faltava pouco para o meu destino vi uma pessoa na berma do passeio. Estava com umas sabrinas de criança, pretas polidas até se ver o reflexo, apertadas que nem uma branca de neve cuidadosa. A saia comprida de um azul eléctrico que vestia parecia um polar, devia aquecer tanto como um “fogão” de uma senhora velhinha, mas não complementava isso no resto do corpo. Abraçava os joelhos flectidos numa tentativa de acalorar os braços descobertos. Tinha um top branco ligeiramente decotado e que seria proibitivo não fosse o tamanho considerável do seu peito. Estava a chorar e alça esquerda parecia remendada mal e porcamente, algo que aparentava ter sido feito recentemente. Sentei-me ao lado dela e estiquei as pernas e cruzei uma sobre a outra. Não disse nada, esperei que ela desse sinais de vida e que se entregasse a uma complacência ainda que forçada. De repente, passados 5 minutos em que até já tinha aberto o livro que não consegui ler por estar demasiado preocupado ela falou:
-Go away! Eu vi finalmente a sua cara que até então estava tapada pelo cabelo preto cerrado. Uns olhos verdes mas claros e que se podiam ser transparecidos com a visão mais apressada. Um nariz perfeitinho, não muito grande, não muito pequeno e os beixos extremamente contraditórios a si mesmos. Pequenos mas cheios, carnudos, imensos. Quando falou detectei um sotaque de leste mas não Russo, não Ukraniano, um país mais florestal ainda. A Hungria, Bulgária ou até mesmo talvez a Republica Checa. Havia uma sofisticação no seu discurso mesmo que só tenha solto duas palavras. Eu tirei o casaco e tentei pô-lo o mais lentamente possível por cima dos seus ombros, como se estivesse a desarmar uma bomba. Ela olhou-me de forma ameaçadora mas eu apenas fiz como se tivesse mudado de fio e redobrei o cuidado. Depois, finalmente, poisei o casaco.
-What´s troubling you? Arrisquei usar a fala e revelar que não era mudo. Ela respondeu:
-What´s it to you?
-Absolutely nothing. But you see, unfortunately I´m too curious of you’re whereabouts. I really must know.
-I’m from Bulgaria.
-I see. What does a girl from Bulgaria do in Portugal to be left crying on the side of the road?
-Well... Allright. I came with a friend. My best friend since forever. Problem is I didn´t know of his intentions for this trip.
-Do you want to call the police? What happened?
-No! God no! It was my fault. I let him kiss me and suddenly he was on top of me. In the car! I tried to get away but i only ripped my top with his insistence. I ran and he left, now i’m here talking to a total stranger.
-Don’t worry. I’m always quite straightforward with my intentions. Where are you staying?
-In a youth pension near rossio.
-Can i walk you?
- Ok sure. Why not?

Então levantámo-nos e a ligação estava feita, o gelo quebrado, a barreira atravessada, a química despoletada. Tudo isso. Já não havia cautela senão no desconforto do que iria dar aquele humilde passeio. Conversámos bastante, sobre tudo. Quando chegamos ao cais de sodré e subimos a rua do alecrim começou a chover e entrámos com um rock pesado. Então deixámos de falar e contemplámo-nos. Ao início timidamente da parte dela e confiantemente da minha, mas depois de algum tempo fizemo-lo de forma acolhedora. Quando me levantei para ir buscar as bebidas já éramos amantes. Não queríamos ficar rodeados de gente então continuámos pela Avenida onde nos conhecemos em direcção e para lá da casa dos bicos. Subimos pela Alfama e chegamos a um miradouro um pouco acima da Sé, para lá do Santiago Alquimista. Aí desenfreou-se, não a paixão, não a devoção, talvez a curiosidade, o aperto definitivamente o conforto. Tirei-lhe o sobretudo e vesti-o, depois com a mão nos bolsos aconcheguei-a e escondi-a perto de mim. Olhei para ela e inclinei a cabeça de forma a que só eu, naquele momento, a pudesse considerar sem olhares alheios. Ela chamou-me, sem sombra de dúvida e beijei-a sem se quer saber o seu nome. Pareceram horas e as lapas em que nos transformámos muito simplesmente não desgrudaram.

O resto foi a minha casa vazia de pais ausentes, arrumar o quarto a pressa, a restrição de movimentos demasiado lascivos ou pelo menos a ausência da sua intenção e a imersão de um corpo noutro. No fim ela chorou e eu desesperei, perguntei qual era o problema mas não havia nenhum. Disse que tinha atingido pela primeira vez a felicidade plena e eu não manifestei a minha concordância acreditando que seria possível talvez um momento que suplantasse este na nossa história. O que se passou a seguir foi um pathos de destruição. A derrocada do clímax para corrosão de um homem. Esteve mais três dias cá em que não me atendeu o telefone e 8 meses depois apareceu com uma criança que sofria de trissomia 21, ficou em minha casa uma semana em que mal nos falámos, os piores 7 dias da minha vida e depois desapareceu deixando a Yordanovshka Salvadorovitch Strafelnikov Mayer com um pai solteiro de 18 anos com 75% de ácido sulfúrico no corpo.

I pulled a heist.

Can't disclose the details.

But I pulled a fuckin' heist.