o derrame do meu antigo amor

do erro que se fez obrigado
da demência que se torna em torno deste fado
Ele que não canta o belo, mas o desencanto e o desordeiro
ele que não se arrepende, que não se prende

são como escritos incomparáveis,
como nobre, como rascos
de bom augurio, como nefastos
deixa-se o testamento
resta um típico agravamento pois nada fica para filhos
nada resta para família, nem se quer para amigos
tudo cai em cacos, as confianças feitas em pedaços

desejariam-no morto, mas depois o que se colheu não foi feliz
nem tão pouco a saudade
em vez restou uma maior vontade de nem se quer celebrar um funeral
simplesmente restava, a que não sabiam, a verdade

Quando encontrou o barco, entrou nele. Não sabia nadar, não conhecia estas marés, estes caminhos e o nevoeiro caía que nem a cinza de um incêndio de agosto. Entrou e remou, haviam duas longas extensões de timbre aos braços e simplesmente foi. A ilha tinha lá a sua família aut|entica, a que o havia visto nascer e com quem tinha crescido. Enterrados no topo da colina, os pais, o irmão. Todos estes outros eram facínoras, eram pegajosas e desnonradas pessoas que queriam saquea-lo. Deixou tudo para a empregada dos pais, aquela que o havia educado e tomado conta deles até á sua última respiração. Morreu ele no regresso da ilha, morreu ela quando soube da notícia. Mas tinha um filho, um rapazinho muito simpático, já com uma família de pessoas estimadas.



Tenho saudades de ser querido, sinto falta de ter alguma importância. Bem sei que na verdade nunca a tive, mas era-me iludida essa condição de forma tão impecavel que chegava a ser feliz.

(Non sequitur)

From the books that made him academic, from a course that gave him credibility, from a house a name that gave him fame and comfort, from a town that knew his knowledge- still, he was unhappy.
I´d been keeping an eye on him for years now, coming to the café religiously at four every other day. Arriving with brown leather satchel and the paper he hadn't been able to read due to his other daily commitments that i assume, or rather know, we're many. The white hair, a small portion of it that grew even though he was still young i believe came from the worry. His mind, he had a worried mind. He was a dashing fellow, tall and master to an air of confidence at the steps he took, and the words he said. But he couldn't fool me. I knew he was distressed and unproud. There had been a turning point, there had been a sin and i knew by the way his eyes sort of rolled down in shame when he bid his farewell and left. At 5, always. There had been once he'd stayed a minute or two over the hour, having got distracted with a conversation taking place on the table beside his concerning the pregnancy of a teenage girl and upon noticing his double indiscretion he got most disenchanted by my saying "You're late!". He left a big fat note on the table and flustered himself out the door.
Today i decided i would, in an amicable way, confront him. It was a little past the half hour and he had gone through 3 cups of coffee and his paper seemed read over more than once, it was just pretend now.
-Hello Mr. Swift. How are you feeling today?
He was a little nudged by this question, i could smell his discomfort at having me ask his such a thing.
-Quite alright thank you. And you?
-Well, you know me. My mood's always right up there with the clouds and the light blue sky. I'm happy.
-I'm glad to hear that.
He was a little surprised that i kept there, that I stood where i was by his table and didn't just leave.
-Is there anything wrong?
-Nope. Nothing at all. Not an ounce of a worry in the world. Do you want another coffee?
-Not just yet no. I do think I've had quite a few as a matter of fact.
-You have. Everyone has there portion isn't it?
-Indeed.
-I've been meaning to ask you Mr.Swift, why don't you ever do anything during these afternoons? I mean, a cup or two of coffee is as legitimate a passtime as any other but i'd think a young man like you would be out having some fun with some ladies or meeting some friends at a club, i don't know...
-I see.
He wasn't keen on my curiosity.
-Well. Mr. Jones. It just so happens i've got appointments to uphold during my mornings, and up until a little before the moment of my arrival and am tired consequently when i do. I couldn't possibly meet anyone, i'd be a bore.
-I don't think so, i actually think you sell yourself short. You ought to have some energy in you still.

Mr. Swift then got up, smiled at me, left some money at the counter and left. I haven't seen him since.

Rush down to the market and get me some pee(ce)s

I have a little tale to offer to you my mineons, my delightful guaranteed witnesses of a bold and bitter world.
It tells of a man, and a truck. They we're both old and decrepit, only one was red. The other white and black eyelashed, and hair filled with yellow shades. The lack of bathing to this set of hair. He drives the truck, lanslides through hills and never ever manages to pay his fucking bills. Poor and disgraceful though humble and modest, got a pension. Wasn't enough.

He bought a house, when he was a priest and still made some money from sunday mass with generous handouts and proud outspoken argumentation in the lords name. He fiddled with a dog, they sent him to a bog. With nothing but that truck, and the solitude of a lunatic brain filled tuck.

He settled far off in the west, near Candles. Spent years writing letters to wives of the friends he grew up with, wanted to have em at his house. at any cost. None replied. So he bought a typewriter, probably ilegible his caligraphy, that was it.

Still no reply.

He went to a bar, talked with a gal. Sitting with her drink she didn't look up.

"I'm Ben, live at the bog. Not very inviting I know but i cook some real good potatoes. Spice em up and there good to go. You seem the girl up for sucha dish. Simple but grand I tell ya!"
She kept looking to her drink, dirty hair and rough presentation. She was beautiful to a poor slob, drank his ass through the day and barely saw how nasty this sight was. Took a sip of her whisky and shot a gaze at ol ben- "Yeah, love taters. Whadya put? Garlic seasonings and tabasco, some pepper on top o this and ketchup?"

"Yeah, i can do that." He approached her, sat at the stool right next and continued.

"You ain't got a name?"

"Yeah. I'm sara Ben. And i'm also married" She showed the ring on her finger and got up. at the door moved her finger, calling to him. He followed.

She walked to his truck. He stood at the back just watchin "What are you waitin for, open it, let's go. come on."

He did.

She went to the bog, they had sexual intercourse after eating some potatoes with a flittering speck of light, screeching an atrocious mood from the light bulb above the table.

He fell asleep afterwards. Found a not e when he woke up, it read: "Lovely potatoes and that cock was equally delicious ol Ben. Can't wait to come back. Kisses and compliments, Sarah." With an H he thought.

He got up and went to the door, shot in the back. She was hiding in the space between his fridge and oven. He was drousy so couldn't really care to notice the barreled rifle pointed at him with malice and contempt.

Ben never really deserved to live, sarah was an angel o death. Took pitty on men she fucked cause she was so darn ugly, delivering the blow of redemption. sendin em to heaven after cruisin through hell.

Dear Ben,

Get well soon, send us a postcard will ya? Tell us what you've been thinkin. What's it like amongst clouds and uncorkable good? A little annoyin sometimes I bet. Anyway, margaret misses ya. she was upset with the whole exile, couldn't believe she had to feed them mouthes all alone now. So we called up a social security agent, I adopted your kids. They're well taken care of now.

Yours sincerely and most regretably,

Isaeah Joshua Mellencamp, father to all your efforts and brother to all your sins. I'm sorry dude.

O sal (também aqui, ou ali)

Nunca me tirararam o sal da mão á mesa. Sempre me pediram, e eu que dizia só querer mesmo deixar de acreditar naquela parva superstição. De nada adiantou. Não aceitavam. 7 FILHOS QUE TENHO e tive, criei. Bem demais, tanto que contei esta regra de á mesa o sal ter de passar pela própria e quando munido de sete mentes que me rodeavam mais a mãe desta audaz ninhada evitando que me enganasse no meu próprio ensinamento. Deixei de crer em parvoíces, o problema é que as tolerava e alimentava. Mas quando o mais novo dos putos fez 7, e os outros os seus 9, 10, 11, 11, 12 e 13 deu-me para tentar uma coisa: engana-los pa me darem o sal. Pa ver o que acontecia.

Mas não se deixavam enganar os tramados!
Então entrei um dia de rompante na nossa sala de jantar improvisada e perguntei qual era a melhor ideia para “exorcizar” esse mau presságio do sal, mas eles nunca foram estúpidos. Até o Zé, a tal criança de sete anos: - Olhem, este totobola acha que nos enfia o barrete!

Um puto de sete, e foi esta a soma de risos, a mãe só sorria. A ninhada é dela olha! É por isso que são tão espertos os crianços, e eu aqui que só quero deixar de me assustar com palermas gatos pretos e escadotes por cima da minha cabeça. Queria acabar com essa mera. Mas o Guilherme, o segundo a nascer, esse gosta muito de mim. Alinha, á mesa. Todos a ver(já o Zé tem 20n e eu quase a cair de morto), ninguém queria acreditar, houve um ou dois que até tentou impedir, saltou pa cima do gui, ele a passar-me o saleiro. Nem cheguei a ver.

Porquê titular quando o que interessa é o conteúdo?

A minha querida irmã, origem de Toda a erupção. Qual? O início e “opening statement” deste o texto que vos apresento. Tenho a tal palavra portuguesa e forte: saudade. É muita para mim esa rapariga única confusa, e díficil nestas circunstâncias verdadeira! Muito!
Está ausente mas sempre manifestada, latente no entanto pensada. Querida.

A Marta,

Chega o subjectivo, o atingido por meias ideologias e creditado por incríveis incompreensões: é muito ela eim?!

Estou bêbado, é verdade. Porquê revelá-lo? Porque para, e em mim é o mais sincero: I love and miss her much. Não sei quantos dias passaram da prazenteira altura em que desfrutei da sua ûnanime e BRUTAL companhia mas desejo-a(removendo qualquer conotação sexual) de volta.

Aqui e agora.

Minha querida.

You will return, brighter , better and bent: corrected. (But still you)

Irrompe-se algo de toda esta confusão ou permanece-se na incontestada, (e algo foleira a expressão que se segue), “sopa de palavras”?

Porque não substituir o final supostamente premeditado por um infantil tratamento, um apelativo, um apelar antigo? Tata,

Down Until And Through Mia Lane

What a marvelous sense of being, enjoying the company of song! This, remark so very gay!
Thankie -O’ Julian: good sensations.
What Am I getting at now? Anythin’ in particular? A nullity, but the expression, through words, of this the song I hear. “4 chords of the Apocalypse” Or was…

Was listening. This next one’s good as well.

Self-proclaimed and enjoyed set of words to whom remains one fan, it’s one egocentric and vandalized nonetheless self.
Such verve in such “vamped and voided” symphony, nothing remains but the SeNsAtIoNAL sYNTEthizer!!

But such masterdom in it’s use, put to a good one. (I’m enjoying myself.)

My appraisal and reverence to the reader that has made it so far on his/her Endeavour(a laborious one), of reading my rambled, cocked-up, pretense filled cathartic, and alas: humble words. in this the new decade, the year 2010!
Music still present, not omni but loud!!!! (strokes popped up in a fit of indiscretion, lost back into the deserving lead singers soirée of sound! His solo trip.)

Anyway, I was thanking thee the procurer of sense for insisting far beyond the limitations of reason (also unfound amidst uncalculated errors, but springed letters! Not even words anymore if your highnesses might or may not have surreptitiously noticed… oooooooooo!)

Here it is: Logic. Has arrived: a continuity, a pattern, a purpose. Which? She.

But she who you may or might not inquire: the trauma induced, experience benign tumor “haver", scared and sacred, as well as lovely woman. {[No names, definitely. (Would remove all the fun would it not?)]}

Anyways: I be Pompee, she be Hipatia. She be the slave to the emperor, the minister, the man. Willing. Naught but a sense of style, no lack of respect, no self-denial, just adoration. Remove thy vexation and be mine. Shiver slowly, replenish, enthralled, engorged: again, words! But good ones.
Ones I like, as I do her.

My darling.
Stupendous.

mas q real merda esta de s estar a satisfazer simultaneamente o pedido de um amigo e uma exaustão de uma curiosidade pessoal para se apagar simplesmente tudo através do erro de uma tecla. e agora recuperar? Nicles.


recomeçarei? terei essa necessária paciência ou serão 3 da matina e a prioratização está agora noutro sitio?


pois, levanta-se a questão.

muito sintetizadamente: será a arte uma expressão exclusivamente pessoal e unilateral, sabendo perfeitamente da impossibilidade de uma generalização, ou apresenta-se como um túnel ente o que constrói e o q "observa"? túnel útil? (quando forem horAs uteis)