E nos intercambios de uma cultura decorrente de um manifesto concordante, a gaya (cidade mitica dos sonhos) vai exclamando:
- Pertenço ao grande Porto!!!
- Dou-lhe sonhos!!!
- Fui a gaia ciência e honrei os meus compromissos.
- Fui vila, cresci e sou CIDADE.
- Os barcos rabelos e o seu belo VINHO são aportados na MINHA COSTA.
- E de onde vem, toda esta HUMANIDADE?
- Do meu VINHO?
- Do meu SONHO?
- Da minha CIÊNCIA?
E calma e serena, ela vai continuando a meditar nas suas ruas e calçadas.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Uma simetria ilusória - Na mui nobre e invicta
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| Avenida dos Aliados |
Descalço sobre as dunas de uma qualquer pátria e a padronizar ecos solenes á nossa pátria, vai gritando uma criança numa atmosfera hostil e demasiado enclausurada:
- SOMOS UM POVO.
- TEMOS AS NOSSA RAÍZES.
- QUEM VOCIFERA POR AQUI?
- QUEM COMANDA A NOSSA CIDADE?
A criança continua a observar tudo, enquanto vai dando milho aos pássaros ou pedaços de pão numa avenida enorme.
Os adultos olham para ela cabisbaixos e vão murmurando:
- Ele tem razão, mas o que pudemos nós fazer?
- Ele é uma criança ainda; tem que se sujeitar ás regras da sociedade como nós.
Vai gritando um homem na casa dos seus 40 anos.
De repente e sem contarmos, aparece uma velhinha com os seus 80 anos que vai sussurrando:
- É somente uma criança ou é o nosso futuro?
- Quem somos nós para protestar com os pensamentos duma criança?
Em toda aquela exaltação, aparece um homem na casa dos seus 30 que vai gritando:
- Porra, que cambada de lunáticos e demagogos, porque é que não se metem na vossa vidinha engaiolada?
- E tu miúdo, não tens que estar a estudar em vez de estares a fazer estes espectáculos gratuitos e infames?
O miúdo regressa a casa a soluçar e no seu choro balbucia palavras:
- Onde estou?
- Para onde vou?
E no meio desta hesitação toda, o miúdo não sabe qual a ponte que deve cruzar ou qual a margem que deve ocupar e a praça onde ele se encontrava, encontra-se agora deserta e despovoada, sem uma voz, sem um GRITO.
- SOMOS UM POVO.
- TEMOS AS NOSSA RAÍZES.
- QUEM VOCIFERA POR AQUI?
- QUEM COMANDA A NOSSA CIDADE?
A criança continua a observar tudo, enquanto vai dando milho aos pássaros ou pedaços de pão numa avenida enorme.
Os adultos olham para ela cabisbaixos e vão murmurando:
- Ele tem razão, mas o que pudemos nós fazer?
- Ele é uma criança ainda; tem que se sujeitar ás regras da sociedade como nós.
Vai gritando um homem na casa dos seus 40 anos.
De repente e sem contarmos, aparece uma velhinha com os seus 80 anos que vai sussurrando:
- É somente uma criança ou é o nosso futuro?
- Quem somos nós para protestar com os pensamentos duma criança?
Em toda aquela exaltação, aparece um homem na casa dos seus 30 que vai gritando:
- Porra, que cambada de lunáticos e demagogos, porque é que não se metem na vossa vidinha engaiolada?
- E tu miúdo, não tens que estar a estudar em vez de estares a fazer estes espectáculos gratuitos e infames?
O miúdo regressa a casa a soluçar e no seu choro balbucia palavras:
- Onde estou?
- Para onde vou?
E no meio desta hesitação toda, o miúdo não sabe qual a ponte que deve cruzar ou qual a margem que deve ocupar e a praça onde ele se encontrava, encontra-se agora deserta e despovoada, sem uma voz, sem um GRITO.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Sussurro
E num constante murmúrio entorpecido, a visão é uniforme.
Num objecto latente de olhares desmultiplicados em sensações, descobre-se um lamento ou um acto obsessivo que transgride a dimensão da palavra e vai sendo transmutado para um papel (observamos uma lua e uma rocha a dialogar)
Lua: Que fazes por aqui?
Rocha: procuro o mar, as ondas e o sal.
Lua: Porque é que nao me observas?
Rocha: procuro, absorver tudo o que me rodeia e acabo por ser absorvida.
Lua: Ja tive rochas; agora divago e medito para com os meus montes.
Rocha: Por muito que o manto de estrelas te cubra; não te faz a justiça que mereces.
Lua: Talvez, o propósito de o ser humano não era atingir o meu solo?
Rocha: Sim; mas o encanto, está no constante vislumbramento das tuas fases.
O diálogo termina e o constante monólogo e pensamentos dos dois intervenientes, é somente uma mera coincidência, na qual os pensamentos nunca sao difusos.
Num objecto latente de olhares desmultiplicados em sensações, descobre-se um lamento ou um acto obsessivo que transgride a dimensão da palavra e vai sendo transmutado para um papel (observamos uma lua e uma rocha a dialogar)
Lua: Que fazes por aqui?
Rocha: procuro o mar, as ondas e o sal.
Lua: Porque é que nao me observas?
Rocha: procuro, absorver tudo o que me rodeia e acabo por ser absorvida.
Lua: Ja tive rochas; agora divago e medito para com os meus montes.
Rocha: Por muito que o manto de estrelas te cubra; não te faz a justiça que mereces.
Lua: Talvez, o propósito de o ser humano não era atingir o meu solo?
Rocha: Sim; mas o encanto, está no constante vislumbramento das tuas fases.
O diálogo termina e o constante monólogo e pensamentos dos dois intervenientes, é somente uma mera coincidência, na qual os pensamentos nunca sao difusos.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Review on the videos of the blog " Videowashere"
Mogwai Versus Nosferatu (Part 01)
Mogwai Versus Nosferatu (Part 02)
Mogwai Versus Nosferatu (Part 03)
These videos are great and why do I see greatness on them?
Mogwai's music is perfect for this music with all its crescendos and the silence beneath the guitars sometimes.
It's my favourite band; but if Murnau was alive he would be proud of these videos; in here we see a mix of classic with improvisation and it works, doesn't it?
http://videowashere.blogspot.com/2007/05/mogwai-livela-route-du-rock-2001.html
One of my favourite songs of Mogwai and alive with great sound.
In here, we found everything:
Dreams
Nightmares
Chaos
Order
Balance
The instruments are merely a tool to sensations that exist on our subconscious.
http://videowashere.blogspot.com/2007/05/mogwai-livela-route-du-rock-2001.html rights make 1 wrong
Another entrance into pure balance,:
we see here all in sync.
The flute as a bird; the chords of the cellos as a crying and the guitars lamenting thoughts expressed without words.
A powerful song that I think's one of the greatest of all times.
MOGWAI - Travel Is Dangerous
That's what I like on Mogwai also; they transport us into the realms of dreams and faeries, while giving us with the titles of their songs, the basic notions of life.
They also become interested on animation; like a way of telling our inner child that everything's connected:
Books; Music, Animation, Photographs, paintings, Movies.
But above it all:
Dreams.
MOGWAI - Stanley Kubrick
This song is an homage to the great Kubrick.
A calm song to mark the difference between the two personalities that he had:
Calm and frenzy.
catching a glimpse of the video, it transports us into a probable Kubrick's childhood with those old movies that he (and myself of course) adored.
MOGWAI - Friend Of The Night
Another great song and video by Mogwai.
The title tells everything (the words aren't needed)
I love one more time the bridge made from music to animation.
Mogwai Versus Nosferatu (Part 02)
Mogwai Versus Nosferatu (Part 03)
These videos are great and why do I see greatness on them?
Mogwai's music is perfect for this music with all its crescendos and the silence beneath the guitars sometimes.
It's my favourite band; but if Murnau was alive he would be proud of these videos; in here we see a mix of classic with improvisation and it works, doesn't it?
http://videowashere.blogspot.com/2007/05/mogwai-livela-route-du-rock-2001.html
One of my favourite songs of Mogwai and alive with great sound.
In here, we found everything:
Dreams
Nightmares
Chaos
Order
Balance
The instruments are merely a tool to sensations that exist on our subconscious.
http://videowashere.blogspot.com/2007/05/mogwai-livela-route-du-rock-2001.html rights make 1 wrong
Another entrance into pure balance,:
we see here all in sync.
The flute as a bird; the chords of the cellos as a crying and the guitars lamenting thoughts expressed without words.
A powerful song that I think's one of the greatest of all times.
MOGWAI - Travel Is Dangerous
That's what I like on Mogwai also; they transport us into the realms of dreams and faeries, while giving us with the titles of their songs, the basic notions of life.
They also become interested on animation; like a way of telling our inner child that everything's connected:
Books; Music, Animation, Photographs, paintings, Movies.
But above it all:
Dreams.
MOGWAI - Stanley Kubrick
This song is an homage to the great Kubrick.
A calm song to mark the difference between the two personalities that he had:
Calm and frenzy.
catching a glimpse of the video, it transports us into a probable Kubrick's childhood with those old movies that he (and myself of course) adored.
MOGWAI - Friend Of The Night
Another great song and video by Mogwai.
The title tells everything (the words aren't needed)
I love one more time the bridge made from music to animation.
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| The Pogues |
This one's a classic from The Pogues (a beautiful video) with the peculiar atmosphere that the city (siam) has.
An homage also to a city that suffered a lot on the vietnam war.
Shane mcgowan voice and lyrics transport us into a sweet melancholy.
It isn't Hiroshima; but is also a city that passed a lot, because of our fellow americans.
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| Tindersticks |
Tiny tears
Beautiful video that describes the lyric and the melancholic voice of Stuart Staples (who sings a little bit similar to our portuguese "Fado")
Tindersticks - Dying Slowly
Great.
Tindersticks opened here a bridge with animation. The video; the music and the lyrics are in total sync.
Tindersticks / Traveling Light
Everybody are travelling light on this era; but Tindersticks, tell us to slow a bit and relax, a great song full of raw.
Once again I notice here the bridge of music with photography.
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| Tom Waits |
The man who knows it all, that puts us all on a constant surprise with lyrics that talk about simple but complex things.
His voice changes a lot with all the whiskey that he drinks and all the fags that he smokes, but who cares?
He tells us everything that we must know.
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| Peter Murphy |
Peter Murphy interview
Peter Murphy - Final Solution
Peter Murphy Cuts You Up
Peter Murphy - Hit Song
Peter Murphy - All Night Long
I don't like to talk much about Peter; because everybody knows that he gave us everything and all we ever got was cold (back on the days of Bauhaus)
The videos are great, the songs and the lyrics are full of energy.
Some of them are melancholic, some of them a shout from his inner self.
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| Nick Cave |
nick cave and the bad seeds wings of desire
Red Right Hand
Nick Cave - Straight to you
Nick Cave- into my arms
Nick's always right; he can put desire into words, chaos and order unified.
Lyrics that makes us wonder how simplicity's and who's the person who can be indifferent with:
Into my arms (the lyric and the video)
Straight to you ( the same thing)
or his debut on the fabulous movie " The wings of desire"?
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| Bowie |
On the 70's bowie knew that the world was changing minute by minute and was almost a visionary, because the lyric tells us what happened on the 90's and what's happenning on the 21st Century.
Rock'n roll Suicide - Live in Japan
Was he a Rock and roll suicide?
Sure he was; he created and killed all these characters:
Major Tom
Ziggy Stardust
Alladin Sane
The thin white duke
and then on the album "Outside" created several and killed them on that album.
David Bowie - Ziggy Stardust
Another character that he created.
At that time people began to wonder:
- Who's Ziggy?
- Who's Bowie?
Has he read Fernando Pessoa?
I'm positively sure that he did.
David Bowie - China Girl
A song about love, betrayal and the bridge between ocident and orient ( so common today).
The video's beautiful.
David Bowie - Let's Dance
His hitsong; I can provide here some info:
-Do you remember a story from Hans Christian Andersen; where a girl only danced with her red shoes that were made of magic?
Under Pressure - Bowie and Lennox
Queen and David Bowie - Under Pressure
In here, we see Bowie doing what he wanted more, putting people under pressure:-)
No, the main theme here's the stress and the rush of our lives.
Love Annie's voice also.
Absolute Beginners - David Bowie
A song for the beginners on the art of love (what a beautiful song and a beautiful video)
David Bowie - Jump They Say
Dedicated to his brother, who literally jumped (he was schizofrenic).
I think that memories were launched from Bowie's heart and also a cry for help to understand, people that need help with this terrible disease.
David Bowie - Life On Mars (Live)
A beautiful song; a powerful video (he was always on other planets; was he tired of ours?)
Space Oddity David Bowie
The beginning of Major Tom's Era and the spacial voyages that Bowie did.
The birth of Major Tom (few years before, the man had landed on the moon)
David Bowie Ashes to Ashes So; Major Tom was dead by this time or disappeared (who knows), bowie on a great concert that put everybody enthusiastic with his mimic, his songs and his powerful voice on Sound and Vision Tour. Who else to talk wisely about life on other planets and people missing in space or dying in it, with a contemporary vision that can be found here on the International Network?
Bauhaus - In The Flat Field
It's boring doing nothing (or so Peter Murphy said that on that time)
A great concert, where we've everything: Theater; mimic, German expressionism, music and literature.
Great song indeed.
Bauhaus - Dark Entries
The title says it all; not gothic, but releasing our Mr Hyde on the streets or on the green.
Bauhaus - Bela Lugosi's Dead
This video was taken from "The hunger" by Tony Scott, where Bowie appears as a vampire that's dying.
Their first recorded song and dedicated to the man who didn't need to speak english very well or to bite necks, while seeing its blood, sensuality was on lugosi's dracula and that was what counted for Bauhaus.
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| Bauhaus |
It's boring doing nothing (or so Peter Murphy said that on that time)
A great concert, where we've everything: Theater; mimic, German expressionism, music and literature.
Great song indeed.
Bauhaus - Dark Entries
The title says it all; not gothic, but releasing our Mr Hyde on the streets or on the green.
Bauhaus - Bela Lugosi's Dead
This video was taken from "The hunger" by Tony Scott, where Bowie appears as a vampire that's dying.
Their first recorded song and dedicated to the man who didn't need to speak english very well or to bite necks, while seeing its blood, sensuality was on lugosi's dracula and that was what counted for Bauhaus.
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| Sisters of Mercy |
Andrew giving us another bridge, music with historical facts based on Lucretia Borgia.
Was her, his reflection?
A great voice, a video that transports us into the past and the present.
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| Joy Division |
Loved this video, the poet that appeared in life immortalized.
-Why haven't their friends helped him, he was begging for help.
tribute to joy division
joy division decades tribute
JOY DIVISION ceremony tribute video
Reservoir Dogs
Four videos that I loved with tributes to a man that was on pills today for sure; this world had plenty of chaos for him.
Joy Division - Day of the Lords (live)
Joy Division - Dead Souls (live)
Ian Curtis live; his voice was a normal voice, but "where have they been?"
Joy Division - Love will tear us apart
Problems with his wife or with his world; who knows?
Joy Division - Atmosphere
Fantastic tribute by corbjin, when Ian commited suicide.
Bridge with photography and the black and white telling us that there's a little bit of good and evil on us.
It must come from within us to make the proper balance in life.
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| Spacemen 3 |
Spacemen 3 - Hypnotized (Full Version)
Spacemen 3 - Suicide (Live), First Half
Spacemen 3 Interview - Sonic Boom and Jason Pierce...
Spiritualized - She Kissed Me
Spiritualized - Let It Flow
spiritualized - come together
Spiritualized-Ladies and Gentlemen We are Floating...
Spacemen 3 - I Love You
SPACEMEN 3 WALKING WITH JESUS
Jason Pierce leds us into worlds full with magic; influenced by the beatnik generation:
Kerouac; burroughs, ginsberg (another bridge with literature and science fiction)
Phillip K.Dick
While putting us on space; releasing ourselves from the pills, giving us freedom to live on our brains with music.
Important bands that made history with a new kind of music that people didn't understood (maybe them also) but loved immensely.
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| My Bloody Valentine |
My Bloody Valentine - Realise
Cigarette in your Bed - my bloody valentine
My Bloody Valentine, Only Shallow
My Bloody Valentine - Soon
My Bloody Valentine - Soon (live)
My bloody Valentine - Soft as snow
The band that put the concept of "shoegazing" (because of the guitar player being concentrated so much on the music that was always looking at his shoes)
I feel that dreams and reality are always on their songs and even Sofia Coppolla noticed that and asked Kevin Shields to do some songs for her movie " Lost in translation".
The videos give us also the sense of spirituality; dreams and reality.
Lost In Translation - Bob Harris sings More Than T...
lost in translation - charlotte sings karaoke
Great Karaoke (as they should be), people enjoying the songs while feelling them
Love the movie; sofia connected everything; photography, music, literature and the basic notions of life.
One of the best movies on this century.
Siouxsie and The Banshees - Face To Face
A song that Tim Burton asked Siouxsie to do to his movie "Batman Returns"; Burton always loved Siouxsie and The Banshees and they made a great tribute to the batman movie and its main characters; Batman and Catwoman.
Face to face; no masks and no telling lies.
The video's a beauty.
lost in translation - charlotte sings karaoke
Great Karaoke (as they should be), people enjoying the songs while feelling them
Love the movie; sofia connected everything; photography, music, literature and the basic notions of life.
One of the best movies on this century.
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A song that Tim Burton asked Siouxsie to do to his movie "Batman Returns"; Burton always loved Siouxsie and The Banshees and they made a great tribute to the batman movie and its main characters; Batman and Catwoman.
Face to face; no masks and no telling lies.
The video's a beauty.
the chain 2 - phil mulloy
Phil Mulloy - The sexlife of a chair
Phil Mulloy - The Sound of Music
Now; animation by Phil Mulloy.
The man who told me to draw with my left hand and improve with the right to draw better.
The man who paid me a beer and traded one cigarette for two drawings from him and I talked and talked with him about London and he said to me:
" You know more about London than me and I'm from London." while laughing and laughing and me also.
Talked with him about jack in the green (a myth in England made by a portuguese long time ago)
He mixes everything; drama, comedy, horror on a singular style.
I would describe him as the "Lynch" of animation, a nice fellow that was a warrior (talked with me for 2 hours and resisted:-) )
Not the common artist (hope that he puts the credits on Jack in the green with my name as he promised on his next episode of "the christies" hahahahahaha )
Stardust Movie Trailer - De Niro.Pfeiffer
A powerful story of love written in comic book form passed to the big screen with De Niro and the great Michelle Pfeiffer.
The Day I Swapped My Dad for 2 Goldfish
'Mr. Punch' Trailer #2
Two movies that will be made by Neil Gaiman and Dave Mckean, based on their graphic novels.
Me And My Big Ideas
Dave Mckean - Sonnet 138
Coraline
Reason. - Dave MCKean
The Week Before - Dave McKean
It seems that comics are everywhere (one must have the ideas)
Neil gaiman and Dave mckean started making comics books; passed to animation and now to movies and literature (and yes; they do comic books also now)
Neil won everything that was possible to won on comic books (won even an Hugo award for best fantasy/science fiction story with a comic book from " The Sandman" with people like: Stephen King or Harlan Ellison in competition also with their novels)
Dave Mckean illustrated everything; comic books; books from: Stephen king and Iain Sinclair (my favourite writer) cd's covers, commercials for Nike and Adidas and now made the beautiful movie "Mirrormask", his short movies are a delight for the eyes and soul.
Phil Mulloy - The sexlife of a chair
Phil Mulloy - The Sound of Music
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| Phil Mulloy |
The man who told me to draw with my left hand and improve with the right to draw better.
The man who paid me a beer and traded one cigarette for two drawings from him and I talked and talked with him about London and he said to me:
" You know more about London than me and I'm from London." while laughing and laughing and me also.
Talked with him about jack in the green (a myth in England made by a portuguese long time ago)
He mixes everything; drama, comedy, horror on a singular style.
I would describe him as the "Lynch" of animation, a nice fellow that was a warrior (talked with me for 2 hours and resisted:-) )
Not the common artist (hope that he puts the credits on Jack in the green with my name as he promised on his next episode of "the christies" hahahahahaha )
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| Neil Gaiman |
A powerful story of love written in comic book form passed to the big screen with De Niro and the great Michelle Pfeiffer.
The Day I Swapped My Dad for 2 Goldfish
'Mr. Punch' Trailer #2
Two movies that will be made by Neil Gaiman and Dave Mckean, based on their graphic novels.
Me And My Big Ideas
Dave Mckean - Sonnet 138
Coraline
Reason. - Dave MCKean
The Week Before - Dave McKean
It seems that comics are everywhere (one must have the ideas)
Neil gaiman and Dave mckean started making comics books; passed to animation and now to movies and literature (and yes; they do comic books also now)
Neil won everything that was possible to won on comic books (won even an Hugo award for best fantasy/science fiction story with a comic book from " The Sandman" with people like: Stephen King or Harlan Ellison in competition also with their novels)
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| Adicionar legenda |
Brothers Quay - Stille Nacht V - Dog Door
Are we still married? (Stille Nacht II) by Quay Br...
Brothers Quay -1985- The Epic of Gilgamesh
The memorable quay brothers who make animation never seen before.
They don't need words (whispers are sufficient) and they create bridges also,on their animations, if we look closely, we can see:
Man Ray (Photography)
Kafka (literature)
German Expressionism (Wiene; murnau and Lang)
Music (They made lots of videos to the band Tool)
Mythology (Gilgamesh)
Everything's linked, one must find its sources.
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| Adicionar legenda |
TooL - Right In Two / Brothers Quay - Street of Cr...
I love this band.
They make a new kind of music that enters on our brain like a tornado, that's inside of us, ready to be released or controlled and they also make the links and bridges to; animation and literature.
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| Adicionar legenda |
Love this song and video; the words appear and disappear, dreams, reality, freedom.
Everything's here.
Patti whispers; sighs, shouts.
Telling us that in spite of all; life's simple.
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| Adicionar legenda |
The lyric says it all
Depeche Mode - Insight
Life at its best with a huge spirituality.
Depeche Mode - Walking In My Shoes
Everybody must walk on other people's shoes from time to time.
Depeche Mode - In Your Room
Inner peace; inner love. The private sometimes must be public, sothat an idea appears.
Depeche Mode made the bridge with Corbjin on photography and with theater (on their tours) and they gained more appeal by linking all this.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Light out
Try to postpone watercolours that will appear on the surface of someone that won't remain quiet and silent.
Someone's looking at glasses choosing sugar on some unfulfilled powder that will become an inner spirit.
- Was willst du machen?
- Was hast du verstehen?
A pen's being filled on someone that tries its best effort to enter on other dominions, light's the source on which treasures are multiplied, becoming part of an endless void of wonder, the stars gaze meticulously at the sky in search of an umbrella's that's being left on the decay of boredom.
Another gulp of fresh water and the sanity's assassin's being put in dark dungeons.
Sillhouettes are being put aside and suddenly the laughter's something to be quietly provided.
Hats and cigarettes makes the sun and earth move towards infinity, smokes are being passed on, nurture's at stake, the pen moves quietly into the sweet sound of silence.
Your hand around my throat, girls are whispering softly into my ears.
Lost smiles endure the tenderness of something to behold in its dark atmosphere.
Rain's falling down and one doesn't know where to go.
Ink's passing by and the dangers are being put to shreds.
Seeing the inside, one can marvel at the outside.
Hair's soft and deranged. the strangeness appears when nobody's there.
I remember the empty words of quietude.
Being quiet and still isn't merely some spirit that won't endure.
Horses appear from nowhere.
An huge city appear out of the blue with lots of buildings moving from one place to another, the boats sink into the stillness of water that converge into tiny spaces of wonder.
Mirroring the city from above, the green embraces quietly the sea on a silent whisper of nothingness, the treasure's at stake, when the lost men arrive at shore.
Wood's screaming loudly, when all the particles remain closed on themselves.
Black and white scenarios give endless ways towards the streets that pave the earth on a similar way.
The smile's being on a transparent way of crowds that aren't special at all.
The flute passes on a mournful journey that will appear on someone else's ribbons, stones mixed with ancient clouds of whispers to come.
Palaces are being built and no one knows what for.
Cries on a quiet morning are something to rely on and to escape into unshattered lands.
A child's speaking loud as the emptyness and tiredness of a mother is something to harbour on.
Pianos throughout the sky; soft on clouds that will rise and rise at a colourful event.
Someone's looking at glasses choosing sugar on some unfulfilled powder that will become an inner spirit.
- Was willst du machen?
- Was hast du verstehen?
A pen's being filled on someone that tries its best effort to enter on other dominions, light's the source on which treasures are multiplied, becoming part of an endless void of wonder, the stars gaze meticulously at the sky in search of an umbrella's that's being left on the decay of boredom.
Another gulp of fresh water and the sanity's assassin's being put in dark dungeons.
Sillhouettes are being put aside and suddenly the laughter's something to be quietly provided.
Hats and cigarettes makes the sun and earth move towards infinity, smokes are being passed on, nurture's at stake, the pen moves quietly into the sweet sound of silence.
Your hand around my throat, girls are whispering softly into my ears.
Lost smiles endure the tenderness of something to behold in its dark atmosphere.
Rain's falling down and one doesn't know where to go.
Ink's passing by and the dangers are being put to shreds.
Seeing the inside, one can marvel at the outside.
Hair's soft and deranged. the strangeness appears when nobody's there.
I remember the empty words of quietude.
Being quiet and still isn't merely some spirit that won't endure.
Horses appear from nowhere.
An huge city appear out of the blue with lots of buildings moving from one place to another, the boats sink into the stillness of water that converge into tiny spaces of wonder.
Mirroring the city from above, the green embraces quietly the sea on a silent whisper of nothingness, the treasure's at stake, when the lost men arrive at shore.
Wood's screaming loudly, when all the particles remain closed on themselves.
Black and white scenarios give endless ways towards the streets that pave the earth on a similar way.
The smile's being on a transparent way of crowds that aren't special at all.
The flute passes on a mournful journey that will appear on someone else's ribbons, stones mixed with ancient clouds of whispers to come.
Palaces are being built and no one knows what for.
Cries on a quiet morning are something to rely on and to escape into unshattered lands.
A child's speaking loud as the emptyness and tiredness of a mother is something to harbour on.
Pianos throughout the sky; soft on clouds that will rise and rise at a colourful event.
River ashore
Floating upon the endless river; one ventures into the wild gaze of an endless atmosphere.
A child's running in circles; where to go, when there isn't an answer to the question that won't become mute towards ancient clouds of wisdom:
- One more for the road.
Whispers silently the old man
On an endless parade of freaky and absolute wisdom, the atmosphere's strange as a lost anag ram of words:
- Where to?
Asks the little child
- I don't know the tricky and risky ways of quiet slumber.
Whispers the sailor
A man in a trenchcoat does his job endlessly; he thinks on some quiet song that won't be silenced.
Lost buses appear out of nowhere; trying to catch a train, one falls into a devious trap.
The glass is filled with water and ice, it trembles into some vast dominion.
A baby's asleep from the quiet solitude of lost bricks; grass everywhere on nurtured beings without thoughts.
The turtle's an ancient wisdom of rattlesnakes on the desert, linking strange visions of a forgotten lore of past, present and future.
Echoes are still on the remains of logic; being bored forever on an empty space, the huge rabbit appears out of nowhere, being passed from time to time into secret oblivion.
The passages are what they seem to provide, sand's everywhere, the sea's a treasure to be filled into a current mix of oxygen on silent sounds that appear out of nowhere.
The mute noises are being put on a caressed ocean of tears, someone's lurking over windows that won't close, perception's long gone.
The eyes can't be the mirror of the soul, since the ancient tradition of lost particles on the air seems like a transition to other worlds of slumber.
The pillow's wide awake; when searching for the holy grail that won't become a simple task of putting words into phrases, words aren't merely words, they are worlds that seem to crash and collide into some empty rocks of void.
The paper's filled with inner spirit.
The seagulls are passing by, the wind's a curious gaze towards an academic voice of wonders that won't be spoiled.
Chairs are chanelling energy and moving along with current landscapes of joyfullness, the bread's filled with butter.
The strange cacophony of millions of stars that disappear into an empty phrase of treasures on a leafless paper of knowledge.
- Books and books, what for?
The fox continues to mutter endlessly
Searching for the river on the streets of ancient rocks, the air's soft, the rain appears from nowhere, the pen's becoming slave of the man.
- Enter into other ideas.
- Venture into the green.
- Carry on with your busyness.
Cries the little child to the old man.
Hunger and famine's a strange parallel of colours that aren't there, dressing the endless atmosphere of soft stairs that won't lead to nowhere, the little vermin tries to escape into another realm of being, into somewhere and everywhere.
Merely words that won't flee into worlds.
Black and yellow as a strange void of emptyness, hapyness comes and goes, the collision of stars, the world seems like simple cigarettes that won't be more than a tender and soft whisper on a tender smile.
A child's running in circles; where to go, when there isn't an answer to the question that won't become mute towards ancient clouds of wisdom:
- One more for the road.
Whispers silently the old man
On an endless parade of freaky and absolute wisdom, the atmosphere's strange as a lost anag ram of words:
- Where to?
Asks the little child
- I don't know the tricky and risky ways of quiet slumber.
Whispers the sailor
A man in a trenchcoat does his job endlessly; he thinks on some quiet song that won't be silenced.
Lost buses appear out of nowhere; trying to catch a train, one falls into a devious trap.
The glass is filled with water and ice, it trembles into some vast dominion.
A baby's asleep from the quiet solitude of lost bricks; grass everywhere on nurtured beings without thoughts.
The turtle's an ancient wisdom of rattlesnakes on the desert, linking strange visions of a forgotten lore of past, present and future.
Echoes are still on the remains of logic; being bored forever on an empty space, the huge rabbit appears out of nowhere, being passed from time to time into secret oblivion.
The passages are what they seem to provide, sand's everywhere, the sea's a treasure to be filled into a current mix of oxygen on silent sounds that appear out of nowhere.
The mute noises are being put on a caressed ocean of tears, someone's lurking over windows that won't close, perception's long gone.
The eyes can't be the mirror of the soul, since the ancient tradition of lost particles on the air seems like a transition to other worlds of slumber.
The pillow's wide awake; when searching for the holy grail that won't become a simple task of putting words into phrases, words aren't merely words, they are worlds that seem to crash and collide into some empty rocks of void.
The paper's filled with inner spirit.
The seagulls are passing by, the wind's a curious gaze towards an academic voice of wonders that won't be spoiled.
Chairs are chanelling energy and moving along with current landscapes of joyfullness, the bread's filled with butter.
The strange cacophony of millions of stars that disappear into an empty phrase of treasures on a leafless paper of knowledge.
- Books and books, what for?
The fox continues to mutter endlessly
Searching for the river on the streets of ancient rocks, the air's soft, the rain appears from nowhere, the pen's becoming slave of the man.
- Enter into other ideas.
- Venture into the green.
- Carry on with your busyness.
Cries the little child to the old man.
Hunger and famine's a strange parallel of colours that aren't there, dressing the endless atmosphere of soft stairs that won't lead to nowhere, the little vermin tries to escape into another realm of being, into somewhere and everywhere.
Merely words that won't flee into worlds.
Black and yellow as a strange void of emptyness, hapyness comes and goes, the collision of stars, the world seems like simple cigarettes that won't be more than a tender and soft whisper on a tender smile.
Olhos esbranquiçados
No meio de uma formação contínua e ascendente; os olhos vão sendo somente pequenos atributos meritórios de chamas em ebulição.
O prazer hediondo e nefasto de corpos etéreos vai sendo continuadamente diluído num sem fim de ideias latentes e subjacentes.
A mesa está vazia num qualquer fundo e mundo meritório; encontra-se novamente plena nos seus interiores ópticos, a atenção desmembrada vai-se tornando num objecto transitório.
O burburinho é constante; a forma intermitente de desleixo cognitivo vai-se apresentando fugaz e ocular.
Os comprimidos são somente uma forma de fugir para outro hemisfério; a textura labial é formada por identidades e entidades discretas.
A tinta vai percorrendo todo o seu caminho interminável de formas constantes.
Os olhos vão absorvendo o tom esbranquiçado em contextos latentes; alguém vai falando francês com uma convicção por demais evidente.
A música vai sendo estilhaçada para toda uma eternidade; os ouvidos vão servindo de percursor para um conjunto alheado de elementos em frenesim.
O sol e a chuva vão fazendo a sua aparição fugaz e intermitente, continuam a escutar-se as batidas coerentes e consequentes de guitarras em ebulição e uma flauta a ser demovida do seu propósito inédito.
A serenidade é uma consequência de estratégias a despontar num antro cheio de mistérios; o som abafado vai-se tornando cada vez mais silencioso e verossímil entre a flauta que segue o seu caminho triunfal e nefasto, poderiamos deambular num qualquer esquema de autocarros em marcha.
O expoente máximo de mentes dilaceradas vai continuando o seu propósito residual de fumo pouco concreto e demasiadamente intermitente.
A liberdade continua a ser o expoente máximo de encruzilhadas a serem recortadas e favorecidas; várias faces vão sendo descobertas num marulhar de sensações que vão seguindo o seu trajecto idílico, o jogo poderia começar sem os seus principais intervenientes.
Os bolos vão sendo discretamente polvilhados com farinha e ovos; os transístores vão sendo devidamente infrigidos numa margem fluvial.
O Tamisa serve de ponte introspectiva ao constante desvario que vai sendo linearmente envolto num anexo desprovido de causas e consequências; através das suas ruas amplas e escorregadias, os pretextos insondáveis vão sendo devidamente atados.
Um homem de camisola encarnada vai fazendo a sua entrada triunfal; de repente, vai ecoando uma aura espiritual no ar que vai circundando todos os deveres patrióticos, ao escutar atentamente todas as fragrâncias que vão sendo respiradas e acaraciadas, a mistura de ideias e consequente fusão de corpo e alma, vai sendo o mote para um sorriso jovial e espiritual.
Os dedos vão pousando no piano como se de pequenas carícias se tratassem, todo o envolvimento estrutural é um constante prazer visual e ao mesmo tempo, quase hipnótico.
Entramos no carrossel da vida; sem um grito a ser transcrito, a descrição é bem mais que uma nuance estelar, mais um trago a ser consumido devagar, devagarinho, a suavidade é sempre um constante labor arrendado e aveludado.
Um velho vai-se manifestando para com os alicerces da humanidade.
Um homem de raça negra, vai dialogando constantemente ao telefone.
Os enigmas vão sendo rarefeitos de trajectos insondáveis; as noticias que vão aparecendo nos Media fazem-nos transitar para outros mundos.
O ritmo começa a entrar de uma forma constante e variável; mais uma vez as guitarras vão entrando de crescendo em crescendo, sem qualquer desvio estrutural.
As curiosas sapatilhas vão servindo o seu trajecto peculiar e introspectivo, o carvão está em marcha contínua, de repente, escutam-se músicas a serem literalmente entoadas numa qualquer descarga psicológica, mais uma vez vão-se escutando ondas em perfeita transição desviante, surgem-nos as palavras em perfeito estado bruto:
- Anda lá; MORRE JOVEM.
Os seus diminutivos vão servindo um qualquer propósito insondável; a transição de um cigarro vai sendo passada entre dedos exigentes, as raparigas vão entoando pequenos cânticos amorfos e desenvoltos.
O trabalho seco é por demais evidente; o silêncio impera num gelo absolutamente glacial.
O desmoronar de um tijolo é um constante rodopio de palavras incessantes e gritos estridentes, a pausa manifesta-se enclausurada nos instrumentos variados:
- Mãos á volta do pescoço?
O divino marquês vai sendo um artíficio deslumbrante quando o tom torna-se puro.
A idade é somente é somente um conceito a ser libertado; todavia a persistência da frase, torna-se um cadeado que vai sendo devidamente formado, dão-se informações inócuas de trajectos a serem percorridos.
Os olhos permanecem esbugalhados e imperceptiveis, toda a permissividade oculta é desfeita em pequenos fios de ligação, toda uma desenvoltura sintomática vai-se tornando perceptível nesses olhos que permanecem afoitos no vento, como se de pequenas pétalas se tratassem.
Uma luta olho a olho vai sendo descortinada, num assombro multicultural; poderíamos ir de encontro ao céu, mas não podemos fazer a devida homenagem a Ícaro.
As velhas vozes são demasiado frequentes para se tornarem esféricas; perder a mente é um futuro aparentemente estéril, as consequências são demasiado puras para poder determinar a frieza do acto em si, calças vermelhas são um projector de combinação ilusória, a semelhança de um simples objecto é demasiado verdadeira para poder testemunhar as ocorrências diárias, todas as diversas incidências são um qualquer tranformismo incipiente, os sorrissos vão denotando o bem estar apalavrado e consequentemente manipulado:
- Quais as visões ensaístas que produzem ideias coerentes e que são ao mesmo tempo multiplicadoras de conceitos vagos e estruturais?
- Pois; o ponto de partida foi o mesmo.
A procura da juventude é deveras evidente quando esta nos persegue nos seus olhos chagados.
O tom esbranquiçado vai sendo pautado de uma forma descontinuada; fugazes lampejos vão-nos remetendo para as pontes perceptivas, poderiamos tentar abrir as cortinas para poder apagar todas as exigências que estão envolvidas em actos despovoados de um qualquer nexo ilusório.
Os olhos continuam numa observação intermitente; o entendimento nunca pode ser assumido como um dado concreto ou obsoleto, perante montanhas gigantescas, o homem vai fazendo a sua minuciosa observação de elementos a serem transpostos para uma cavidade memorial, as pálpebras vão-se unindo, as pestanas vão-se mantendo demasiado abertas, as sobrancelhas estão demasiado juntas para se tornarem num permanente vácuo de emoções e sensações.
A tampa vai sendo demasiado flexível e no entanto, vai-se agigantando num contexto aparente e desconexo.
O prazer hediondo e nefasto de corpos etéreos vai sendo continuadamente diluído num sem fim de ideias latentes e subjacentes.
A mesa está vazia num qualquer fundo e mundo meritório; encontra-se novamente plena nos seus interiores ópticos, a atenção desmembrada vai-se tornando num objecto transitório.
O burburinho é constante; a forma intermitente de desleixo cognitivo vai-se apresentando fugaz e ocular.
Os comprimidos são somente uma forma de fugir para outro hemisfério; a textura labial é formada por identidades e entidades discretas.
A tinta vai percorrendo todo o seu caminho interminável de formas constantes.
Os olhos vão absorvendo o tom esbranquiçado em contextos latentes; alguém vai falando francês com uma convicção por demais evidente.
A música vai sendo estilhaçada para toda uma eternidade; os ouvidos vão servindo de percursor para um conjunto alheado de elementos em frenesim.
O sol e a chuva vão fazendo a sua aparição fugaz e intermitente, continuam a escutar-se as batidas coerentes e consequentes de guitarras em ebulição e uma flauta a ser demovida do seu propósito inédito.
A serenidade é uma consequência de estratégias a despontar num antro cheio de mistérios; o som abafado vai-se tornando cada vez mais silencioso e verossímil entre a flauta que segue o seu caminho triunfal e nefasto, poderiamos deambular num qualquer esquema de autocarros em marcha.
O expoente máximo de mentes dilaceradas vai continuando o seu propósito residual de fumo pouco concreto e demasiadamente intermitente.
A liberdade continua a ser o expoente máximo de encruzilhadas a serem recortadas e favorecidas; várias faces vão sendo descobertas num marulhar de sensações que vão seguindo o seu trajecto idílico, o jogo poderia começar sem os seus principais intervenientes.
Os bolos vão sendo discretamente polvilhados com farinha e ovos; os transístores vão sendo devidamente infrigidos numa margem fluvial.
O Tamisa serve de ponte introspectiva ao constante desvario que vai sendo linearmente envolto num anexo desprovido de causas e consequências; através das suas ruas amplas e escorregadias, os pretextos insondáveis vão sendo devidamente atados.
Um homem de camisola encarnada vai fazendo a sua entrada triunfal; de repente, vai ecoando uma aura espiritual no ar que vai circundando todos os deveres patrióticos, ao escutar atentamente todas as fragrâncias que vão sendo respiradas e acaraciadas, a mistura de ideias e consequente fusão de corpo e alma, vai sendo o mote para um sorriso jovial e espiritual.
Os dedos vão pousando no piano como se de pequenas carícias se tratassem, todo o envolvimento estrutural é um constante prazer visual e ao mesmo tempo, quase hipnótico.
Entramos no carrossel da vida; sem um grito a ser transcrito, a descrição é bem mais que uma nuance estelar, mais um trago a ser consumido devagar, devagarinho, a suavidade é sempre um constante labor arrendado e aveludado.
Um velho vai-se manifestando para com os alicerces da humanidade.
Um homem de raça negra, vai dialogando constantemente ao telefone.
Os enigmas vão sendo rarefeitos de trajectos insondáveis; as noticias que vão aparecendo nos Media fazem-nos transitar para outros mundos.
O ritmo começa a entrar de uma forma constante e variável; mais uma vez as guitarras vão entrando de crescendo em crescendo, sem qualquer desvio estrutural.
As curiosas sapatilhas vão servindo o seu trajecto peculiar e introspectivo, o carvão está em marcha contínua, de repente, escutam-se músicas a serem literalmente entoadas numa qualquer descarga psicológica, mais uma vez vão-se escutando ondas em perfeita transição desviante, surgem-nos as palavras em perfeito estado bruto:
- Anda lá; MORRE JOVEM.
Os seus diminutivos vão servindo um qualquer propósito insondável; a transição de um cigarro vai sendo passada entre dedos exigentes, as raparigas vão entoando pequenos cânticos amorfos e desenvoltos.
O trabalho seco é por demais evidente; o silêncio impera num gelo absolutamente glacial.
O desmoronar de um tijolo é um constante rodopio de palavras incessantes e gritos estridentes, a pausa manifesta-se enclausurada nos instrumentos variados:
- Mãos á volta do pescoço?
O divino marquês vai sendo um artíficio deslumbrante quando o tom torna-se puro.
A idade é somente é somente um conceito a ser libertado; todavia a persistência da frase, torna-se um cadeado que vai sendo devidamente formado, dão-se informações inócuas de trajectos a serem percorridos.
Os olhos permanecem esbugalhados e imperceptiveis, toda a permissividade oculta é desfeita em pequenos fios de ligação, toda uma desenvoltura sintomática vai-se tornando perceptível nesses olhos que permanecem afoitos no vento, como se de pequenas pétalas se tratassem.
Uma luta olho a olho vai sendo descortinada, num assombro multicultural; poderíamos ir de encontro ao céu, mas não podemos fazer a devida homenagem a Ícaro.
As velhas vozes são demasiado frequentes para se tornarem esféricas; perder a mente é um futuro aparentemente estéril, as consequências são demasiado puras para poder determinar a frieza do acto em si, calças vermelhas são um projector de combinação ilusória, a semelhança de um simples objecto é demasiado verdadeira para poder testemunhar as ocorrências diárias, todas as diversas incidências são um qualquer tranformismo incipiente, os sorrissos vão denotando o bem estar apalavrado e consequentemente manipulado:
- Quais as visões ensaístas que produzem ideias coerentes e que são ao mesmo tempo multiplicadoras de conceitos vagos e estruturais?
- Pois; o ponto de partida foi o mesmo.
A procura da juventude é deveras evidente quando esta nos persegue nos seus olhos chagados.
O tom esbranquiçado vai sendo pautado de uma forma descontinuada; fugazes lampejos vão-nos remetendo para as pontes perceptivas, poderiamos tentar abrir as cortinas para poder apagar todas as exigências que estão envolvidas em actos despovoados de um qualquer nexo ilusório.
Os olhos continuam numa observação intermitente; o entendimento nunca pode ser assumido como um dado concreto ou obsoleto, perante montanhas gigantescas, o homem vai fazendo a sua minuciosa observação de elementos a serem transpostos para uma cavidade memorial, as pálpebras vão-se unindo, as pestanas vão-se mantendo demasiado abertas, as sobrancelhas estão demasiado juntas para se tornarem num permanente vácuo de emoções e sensações.
A tampa vai sendo demasiado flexível e no entanto, vai-se agigantando num contexto aparente e desconexo.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Caneta
Permanece envolta num qualquer sentido oposto; a intuição é demasiadamente afável.
Através da tinta que vai escorrendo em demasia; somos confrontados com sonhos envoltos em almofadas desmembradas.
Através da tinta que vai escorrendo em demasia; somos confrontados com sonhos envoltos em almofadas desmembradas.
Maré ensombrada
No meio de sons entrecortantes; as incidências diárias vão sendo continuadamente aglutinadas.
A felicidade é demasiadamente englobada em contextos de verossimilhanças que vão sendo cortadas numa fina membrana de papel a ser dilacerado.
Escutam-se guitarras a tornarem-se demasiamente incidentes.
A maré vai sendo despojada de um qualquer artefacto mediático; as sombras vão servindo estruturas de uma forma cordial e intermitente, as janelas vão sendo descritas e polvilhadas num qualquer desleixo inconsequente.
Os mitos urbanos vão sendo devidamente encadeados; escutam-se telefones a tocar incessantemente e vozes a marcarem encontros pontuais.
Todas as sonoridades que pausadamente nos transmitiam sentimentos texturais vão sendo delimitados de crescendo em crescendo.
O tempo vai passando fugazmente; as vozes vão sendo cruzadas num diálogo simbiótico.
As conversas vão sendo atiradas para um vácuo desligado.
Os sons que permanecem caóticos e desmembrados; vão surgindo num eco com uma precisão acutilante e deslumbrante.
Brigadeiros surgem num escoamento de estrelas mirabolantes.
O fumo surge continuadamente ESBATIDO........
A felicidade é demasiadamente englobada em contextos de verossimilhanças que vão sendo cortadas numa fina membrana de papel a ser dilacerado.
Escutam-se guitarras a tornarem-se demasiamente incidentes.
A maré vai sendo despojada de um qualquer artefacto mediático; as sombras vão servindo estruturas de uma forma cordial e intermitente, as janelas vão sendo descritas e polvilhadas num qualquer desleixo inconsequente.
Os mitos urbanos vão sendo devidamente encadeados; escutam-se telefones a tocar incessantemente e vozes a marcarem encontros pontuais.
Todas as sonoridades que pausadamente nos transmitiam sentimentos texturais vão sendo delimitados de crescendo em crescendo.
O tempo vai passando fugazmente; as vozes vão sendo cruzadas num diálogo simbiótico.
As conversas vão sendo atiradas para um vácuo desligado.
Os sons que permanecem caóticos e desmembrados; vão surgindo num eco com uma precisão acutilante e deslumbrante.
Brigadeiros surgem num escoamento de estrelas mirabolantes.
O fumo surge continuadamente ESBATIDO........
The story of a fag
At its current status; while trying to postpone a new vehicle, other worlds must be filled with words.
The paper does its job permanently in a quiet whisper of silent slumber; on and on, the treasure's at stake.
When put to lips; it smiles like a wanderer on the desert.
Lost smoke with plenty of apples and onions.
FEUER. ROT FEUER IM HIMMEL.
Cells are once again on a tremendous quest for oxygen.
Les oiseaux doivent parler et chanter sans être écoute.
The fag's close to inner circles of lost oblivion; teeth sink into it, but the smile's always at stake.
Wood's everywhere being burnt; the synthesis is a coerent form of being played like a football game.
Smoke upon smoke; barrels are always at the epicenter of malignant smoke.
Red; yellow, white, journey that won't end towards an astonishing act of stars on the horizon.
Paper collects the seeds to inner spirit; sponge's something to be regarded as a peculiar inuendo.
Flames upon flames of lost smoke's spoiled at the vastness of the sky.
A cup of coffee's making the silent transition from one place to another.
Replace the echo with something to behold.
Parler; chanter, manger, fermer er sans aucune doute, etre un simple cigarette que n'exist pas.
L'argent attend toujours pour un simple devoir et pouvoir de reflêchir sans être stopé, mais quoi faire quand le cigarette est pas lá?
Les acheter?
Les (re)trouver?
Questions s'imposent d'une faison merveileuse.
Listening to a fag scream is something to be regarded as a silent whisper.
One can put pens into inner mouths.
- Mais; de quoi parle ce mec?
- Je n'entends rien.
- Écrire est parler sans être aveugle.
- Le savoir faire est une question seulement heureux.
Deux mecs parlent sans écouter sa propre voix.
Le chat est toujours lá; dans son lit a rêver.
The ashes circle the paper, while remaining unique and enthusiastic.
- Mais de quoi PARLER?
- Á qui ÉCOUTER?
La fleuve est toujours lá dans la mer; le sel est seulement ce que nous avons dans les yeux, pour avoir des questions que sont une caracteristique ilusoire.
Entrer dans beaucoup des questions sont des vraies coups.
Vivre sans écouter des illusions que nous ramenent dans les casquets que nous devons faire ensemble.
- Mais pourquoi être dans un cubicle?
The fag's questioning itself towards eternity..
The paper does its job permanently in a quiet whisper of silent slumber; on and on, the treasure's at stake.
When put to lips; it smiles like a wanderer on the desert.
Lost smoke with plenty of apples and onions.
FEUER. ROT FEUER IM HIMMEL.
Cells are once again on a tremendous quest for oxygen.
Les oiseaux doivent parler et chanter sans être écoute.
The fag's close to inner circles of lost oblivion; teeth sink into it, but the smile's always at stake.
Wood's everywhere being burnt; the synthesis is a coerent form of being played like a football game.
Smoke upon smoke; barrels are always at the epicenter of malignant smoke.
Red; yellow, white, journey that won't end towards an astonishing act of stars on the horizon.
Paper collects the seeds to inner spirit; sponge's something to be regarded as a peculiar inuendo.
Flames upon flames of lost smoke's spoiled at the vastness of the sky.
A cup of coffee's making the silent transition from one place to another.
Replace the echo with something to behold.
Parler; chanter, manger, fermer er sans aucune doute, etre un simple cigarette que n'exist pas.
L'argent attend toujours pour un simple devoir et pouvoir de reflêchir sans être stopé, mais quoi faire quand le cigarette est pas lá?
Les acheter?
Les (re)trouver?
Questions s'imposent d'une faison merveileuse.
Listening to a fag scream is something to be regarded as a silent whisper.
One can put pens into inner mouths.
- Mais; de quoi parle ce mec?
- Je n'entends rien.
- Écrire est parler sans être aveugle.
- Le savoir faire est une question seulement heureux.
Deux mecs parlent sans écouter sa propre voix.
Le chat est toujours lá; dans son lit a rêver.
The ashes circle the paper, while remaining unique and enthusiastic.
- Mais de quoi PARLER?
- Á qui ÉCOUTER?
La fleuve est toujours lá dans la mer; le sel est seulement ce que nous avons dans les yeux, pour avoir des questions que sont une caracteristique ilusoire.
Entrer dans beaucoup des questions sont des vraies coups.
Vivre sans écouter des illusions que nous ramenent dans les casquets que nous devons faire ensemble.
- Mais pourquoi être dans un cubicle?
The fag's questioning itself towards eternity..
Insignias mascaradas
Uma rapariga vai-se manifestando fielmente para com os seus pares; os seus olhos tentam irradiar felicidade, mas as cortinas vão sendo cada vez mais um reflexo da sua alma.
As suas sobrancelhas tremem; o seu sorriso é magnifico, ela vai-se servindo de guardanapos numa simbiose estrutural.
Ela é magra e alta; vai demonstrando ao mesmo tempo a sua beleza através de pequenos sorrisos.
O seu tom demasiadamente secreto, faz com que ela consiga os seus objectivos: Passar uma imagem bela e desprovida de acessórios.
Ela adora sentir a magia no ar e voar na direcção de outros mundos ou sonhos.
A responsabilidade é o seu lema; mas necessita urgentemente de uma fuga.
Os seus cabelos vão sendo continuadamente ajeitados com poucos maneirismos.
No interior de um espaço comum a todo o público; ela distribui energia e felicidade a rodos.
Subitamente; aparece um rapaz desleixado que vai sorrindo calmamente, ele é alto e magro também, vai desfolhando folhas e folhas sem cessar, apesar de manter-se atento a todos os pormenores que rodeiam esse espaço mitíco.
Diversas personalidades vão passando por lá; gente de todo o tipo, hipócritas, falsos e incoerentes, aparecem ainda vultos sombrios que tentam obter algo mais da rapariga que não se apercebe disso, os olhares famintos destes lobos em pele de cordeiro, são opacos e a fragilidade da rapariga faz com que a sua percepção não seja a mais adequada, mas de uma forma bastante inteligente vai-se divertindo e gozando com as constantes verossimilhanças que estes lhe vão oferecendo.
Letras vão sendo escritas aqui e ali; a sensibilidade vai-se tornando cada vez mais gigantesca.
Percorrendo os mais variadissimos livros, dos mais diversos temas, o rapaz vai tentando fazer a junção de todos estes mundos que ele vê com os seus próprios olhos. Por vezes; acende um cigarro e continua na sua busca desenfreada por atenção, simultaneamente vai perscrutando de uma forma bastante dolente, todos os olhares que vão perseguindo objectos díspares envoltos numa qualquer nomenclatura.
As tentativas fugazes de aglutinar tudo ao mesmo tempo, faz com que todos os minutos sejam diluidos numa simples hora.
Vai-se desenrolando a conversa entre ambos:
- Como anda a tua vida?
Pergunta a rapariga.
- Penso que todos os sinais de cores vão sendo incaracteristicos.
Vai balbuciando o rapaz.
- As proveniências do chá, são deveras dispersas, notamos num escape, a calma vai imperando, mas Sake é extremamente reconfortante.
Continua o rapaz a balbuciar palavras interiormente.
- Como te entendo.
Vai dizendo extasiada a rapariga.
Num mero segundo; despedem-se até uma qualquer próxima vez.
A mesa vai-se tornando cambaleante devido á escrita cruzada que se vai desmultiplicando dia após dia, hora após hora.
Mais uma vez as recordações de um jogo de sombras vao sendo um entusiasmo individualista.
As conversas são demasiado curtas e intransigentes entre os dois, mas a alegria vai imperando em cada novo motivo que vai sendo descortinado.
No final de o dia de ambos; vão pensando num novo amanhã e ao acordarem, sabem que apesar do tédio vão alegremente encontrando uma constante inércia aparente, onde os objectivos de cada um são imprevisivéis, afastam-se continuadamente num sitio enclausurado e encontram a alegria de viver e da própria noção de vida que os dois detém...
As suas sobrancelhas tremem; o seu sorriso é magnifico, ela vai-se servindo de guardanapos numa simbiose estrutural.
Ela é magra e alta; vai demonstrando ao mesmo tempo a sua beleza através de pequenos sorrisos.
O seu tom demasiadamente secreto, faz com que ela consiga os seus objectivos: Passar uma imagem bela e desprovida de acessórios.
Ela adora sentir a magia no ar e voar na direcção de outros mundos ou sonhos.
A responsabilidade é o seu lema; mas necessita urgentemente de uma fuga.
Os seus cabelos vão sendo continuadamente ajeitados com poucos maneirismos.
No interior de um espaço comum a todo o público; ela distribui energia e felicidade a rodos.
Subitamente; aparece um rapaz desleixado que vai sorrindo calmamente, ele é alto e magro também, vai desfolhando folhas e folhas sem cessar, apesar de manter-se atento a todos os pormenores que rodeiam esse espaço mitíco.
Diversas personalidades vão passando por lá; gente de todo o tipo, hipócritas, falsos e incoerentes, aparecem ainda vultos sombrios que tentam obter algo mais da rapariga que não se apercebe disso, os olhares famintos destes lobos em pele de cordeiro, são opacos e a fragilidade da rapariga faz com que a sua percepção não seja a mais adequada, mas de uma forma bastante inteligente vai-se divertindo e gozando com as constantes verossimilhanças que estes lhe vão oferecendo.
Letras vão sendo escritas aqui e ali; a sensibilidade vai-se tornando cada vez mais gigantesca.
Percorrendo os mais variadissimos livros, dos mais diversos temas, o rapaz vai tentando fazer a junção de todos estes mundos que ele vê com os seus próprios olhos. Por vezes; acende um cigarro e continua na sua busca desenfreada por atenção, simultaneamente vai perscrutando de uma forma bastante dolente, todos os olhares que vão perseguindo objectos díspares envoltos numa qualquer nomenclatura.
As tentativas fugazes de aglutinar tudo ao mesmo tempo, faz com que todos os minutos sejam diluidos numa simples hora.
Vai-se desenrolando a conversa entre ambos:
- Como anda a tua vida?
Pergunta a rapariga.
- Penso que todos os sinais de cores vão sendo incaracteristicos.
Vai balbuciando o rapaz.
- As proveniências do chá, são deveras dispersas, notamos num escape, a calma vai imperando, mas Sake é extremamente reconfortante.
Continua o rapaz a balbuciar palavras interiormente.
- Como te entendo.
Vai dizendo extasiada a rapariga.
Num mero segundo; despedem-se até uma qualquer próxima vez.
A mesa vai-se tornando cambaleante devido á escrita cruzada que se vai desmultiplicando dia após dia, hora após hora.
Mais uma vez as recordações de um jogo de sombras vao sendo um entusiasmo individualista.
As conversas são demasiado curtas e intransigentes entre os dois, mas a alegria vai imperando em cada novo motivo que vai sendo descortinado.
No final de o dia de ambos; vão pensando num novo amanhã e ao acordarem, sabem que apesar do tédio vão alegremente encontrando uma constante inércia aparente, onde os objectivos de cada um são imprevisivéis, afastam-se continuadamente num sitio enclausurado e encontram a alegria de viver e da própria noção de vida que os dois detém...
Nights
How many days with this irresistible look?
How many years to become imortal?
I'm pretty as a flower...
What are those four wolves doing here?
What do I see in the mirror?
Who do I see there?
How many years to become imortal?
I'm pretty as a flower...
What are those four wolves doing here?
What do I see in the mirror?
Who do I see there?
First wolf: I'm your past. I'm you present. I'll be your future.
Second wolf: I'm what you are now.
Third wolf: Don't you love me?
Fourth wolf: I'm more than a cover of a magazine... LOOK AT ME and surrender to my fangs.
Friday, April 27, 2007
A structure's being provided
While catching a glimpse of an empty tower; I try to feel its scent.
- Am I at home?
- Am I without a direction?
The little sparrow's whistling to me with its peculiar flute.
- Am I at home?
- Am I without a direction?
The little sparrow's whistling to me with its peculiar flute.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Noite calma
Na quietude se sombras esvaidas; o sensasorial não é nefasto.
A magia é um mero interlocutor de palavras.
Dá-mos hinos a Deuses encobertos pelo nevoeiro, descobrimos falsidade ao virar duma esquina.
Pessoas é um dom esquecido, digitalmente percorremos montes e vales na tentativa de encontrar fogo.......
A magia é um mero interlocutor de palavras.
Dá-mos hinos a Deuses encobertos pelo nevoeiro, descobrimos falsidade ao virar duma esquina.
Pessoas é um dom esquecido, digitalmente percorremos montes e vales na tentativa de encontrar fogo.......
Saturday, April 14, 2007
The Whisper
Wandering; thinking, not correcting.
See luminous handcrafts.
Alles verstehen.
Windigo's in a world of its own.
Paradise isn't lost at all.
The conception of a story; the birth, nurturing her, possessing, wanting more, loving it.
Mixing this with wine; smoke, lustful habits with something peculiar.
A man in a strange land, his birth, its creation, the PLOT.
The development of ideas; growing up, feeling down, all this and more.
On a world of its own; lines, lots of li(n)es.
Reason and no reason at all, smoking the dust of some chimney's dust.
Feeling pure, inhaling odours, sweating pants, walking shoes, quotations quite unsure and still the complex mixed with the simple.
Possessing a gun or not possessing it, here's the question.
A gun, two plus one.
Whispering softly; no charging with no charge.
Problemathic, mathematic and rhetorics.
Air together or in communion, lights flashing, pleople smashing, screaming and yelling.
- Wo ist das?
- Wie gehen sie?
- Ich habe das kaufen...
- Wen bist du?
Something singular; a story within a story, no bullets to fire upon.
No more cigarettes, only pleasant dreams.
Classes or no classes; Kevlar, bullet proof.
Hit the head, smash his brains out, take his eyeballs out.
- What did he do?
- He did what he must be done and that's what we should do.
- Why?
- It's on our way of thinking; like the the pot land, like goblins running after rainbows.
Sky with no clouds; only stars. Les coques chantent, no story, no limits or burdens, stairs of thought, developping and sleeping.
- Where are they?
- What?
See luminous handcrafts.
Alles verstehen.
Windigo's in a world of its own.
Paradise isn't lost at all.
The conception of a story; the birth, nurturing her, possessing, wanting more, loving it.
Mixing this with wine; smoke, lustful habits with something peculiar.
A man in a strange land, his birth, its creation, the PLOT.
The development of ideas; growing up, feeling down, all this and more.
On a world of its own; lines, lots of li(n)es.
Reason and no reason at all, smoking the dust of some chimney's dust.
Feeling pure, inhaling odours, sweating pants, walking shoes, quotations quite unsure and still the complex mixed with the simple.
Possessing a gun or not possessing it, here's the question.
A gun, two plus one.
Whispering softly; no charging with no charge.
Problemathic, mathematic and rhetorics.
Air together or in communion, lights flashing, pleople smashing, screaming and yelling.
- Wo ist das?
- Wie gehen sie?
- Ich habe das kaufen...
- Wen bist du?
Something singular; a story within a story, no bullets to fire upon.
No more cigarettes, only pleasant dreams.
Classes or no classes; Kevlar, bullet proof.
Hit the head, smash his brains out, take his eyeballs out.
- What did he do?
- He did what he must be done and that's what we should do.
- Why?
- It's on our way of thinking; like the the pot land, like goblins running after rainbows.
Sky with no clouds; only stars. Les coques chantent, no story, no limits or burdens, stairs of thought, developping and sleeping.
- Where are they?
- What?
I don't understand you.
- The sleeping pills.
- Ohh, near pistols inside them.
- Yes, in the caliber.
- Why a monologue?
- I don't like long speeches, it aches.
- Ohhh; that.
- Think carefully.
- No, not in the bus again.
- I saw it.
- What have you seen?
- Nothing at all.
- Why are you screaming?
- Lines, I don't figure them out.
- Ach so?
- Yes, they are speaking in a nostalgic manner.
- Fights, chicken fights.
- Bull fights with horns.
- The soup?
- It's over there.
- Want some?
- No thanks.
- Liquor?
- There.
- Is it food for thoughts?
- Ich finde das, yes.
- Strange; it didn't seemed pale yesterday.
- I haven't seen him or maybe it.
- What?
- The beginning, the theme.
- Dialogue?
- No, I don't think so.
- Does it fit?
- Maybe.
- Where are we?
- Ohhh yeah, still lines, in skyscrappers, in the oceans, everywhere.
- On the Tv sets?
- No.
- In the monitors?
- Yes.
- Why?
- Life is full of li(n)es.
- Do you think so?
- No, it can't be.
- Wasting or maybe counting?
- The bullets on the caliber, how many have you?
- ONE.
- Only ONE?
- Yes, I spend them all, shooting at cans, sardine cans and beer cans.
- Are you stupid or what?
- I don't know, I like to see holes in things.
- That's why you have scars all over your body...
- Signs of times; can't you see it?
- Lines; one more time.
- Are you still thinking that life is full of lines?
- Quite sure; my friend.
- Walking buses; pedestrians: can't you see the noise that people make thinking?
- No, it is wrong to judge other people; isn't it?
- No, bunch of losers and faggots, lots of them.
- Do you like winchester?
- A lot.
- Clothes?
- I buy only the necessary.
- Shoes?
- Only booths.
- Oh.. I see..
- Let's talk about something else.
- Sure.
Ramblings of a mad monk of maddog and his cohorts; Will Bill Hickock and his bullets.
Jesse James and his bravery.
Billy the Kid and its infancy.
- Are you still thinking?
- I'm occupying my mind with my thoughts.
- I'm struggling for the independence.
- Trying to make a story in your story.
- But, it isn't possible, I'm trying to do something positive.
- Are you learning something from this?
- Maybe.
- Do you think or are you still counting?
- Counting what?
- Our own number, your deeds and misdeeds.
- I'm trying to make something here in all the oily fog.
- Do you scent the smell?
- What smell?
- The same one that I feel.
- The smell of rivers, of people, of rain.
- I'm counting on that.
- Don't you trust your senses?
- I don't have any.
- And your vision?
- Also.
- Are you writing or not?
- I'm thinking and trying to clean my gun; it's all dusty.
- Screwed up; what does this means?
- Não sei.
- You are approaching the end, aren't you?
- I'm supposed to do that.
- Why?
- Everything must come to an end.
- A tragic ONE?
- Nothing is immortal, we are immortal only in a people memories, so there is no people, there aren't memories.
- And memoirs?
- It's something else.
- Food for thoughts?
- Maybe, it depends.
- Depends on what?
- In your point of view.
- Are you getting something from this?
- No, I'm not quite sure.
- It's a certainty.
- What?
- The fact that you are un sure.
- Do you enter on people's mind?
- Can you feel it?
- What?
- All in sincrony; body and mind, body piercing and pieces of bodies.
- Everybody?
- No, not everybody, only some of them.
- Why do I've all these bullets on my hand?
- I think that, that is the rush.
- Figuring some strange ways of killing or is it living?
- Maybe both of them.
- Control?
- Everything's on control.
- I want your mind.
- All of it?
- No, just a small piece of it.
- Why do we've to kill to live?
- So, that we can both survive.
- In your body?
- The sleeping pills.
- Ohh, near pistols inside them.
- Yes, in the caliber.
- Why a monologue?
- I don't like long speeches, it aches.
- Ohhh; that.
- Think carefully.
- No, not in the bus again.
- I saw it.
- What have you seen?
- Nothing at all.
- Why are you screaming?
- Lines, I don't figure them out.
- Ach so?
- Yes, they are speaking in a nostalgic manner.
- Fights, chicken fights.
- Bull fights with horns.
- The soup?
- It's over there.
- Want some?
- No thanks.
- Liquor?
- There.
- Is it food for thoughts?
- Ich finde das, yes.
- Strange; it didn't seemed pale yesterday.
- I haven't seen him or maybe it.
- What?
- The beginning, the theme.
- Dialogue?
- No, I don't think so.
- Does it fit?
- Maybe.
- Where are we?
- Ohhh yeah, still lines, in skyscrappers, in the oceans, everywhere.
- On the Tv sets?
- No.
- In the monitors?
- Yes.
- Why?
- Life is full of li(n)es.
- Do you think so?
- No, it can't be.
- Wasting or maybe counting?
- The bullets on the caliber, how many have you?
- ONE.
- Only ONE?
- Yes, I spend them all, shooting at cans, sardine cans and beer cans.
- Are you stupid or what?
- I don't know, I like to see holes in things.
- That's why you have scars all over your body...
- Signs of times; can't you see it?
- Lines; one more time.
- Are you still thinking that life is full of lines?
- Quite sure; my friend.
- Walking buses; pedestrians: can't you see the noise that people make thinking?
- No, it is wrong to judge other people; isn't it?
- No, bunch of losers and faggots, lots of them.
- Do you like winchester?
- A lot.
- Clothes?
- I buy only the necessary.
- Shoes?
- Only booths.
- Oh.. I see..
- Let's talk about something else.
- Sure.
Ramblings of a mad monk of maddog and his cohorts; Will Bill Hickock and his bullets.
Jesse James and his bravery.
Billy the Kid and its infancy.
- Are you still thinking?
- I'm occupying my mind with my thoughts.
- I'm struggling for the independence.
- Trying to make a story in your story.
- But, it isn't possible, I'm trying to do something positive.
- Are you learning something from this?
- Maybe.
- Do you think or are you still counting?
- Counting what?
- Our own number, your deeds and misdeeds.
- I'm trying to make something here in all the oily fog.
- Do you scent the smell?
- What smell?
- The same one that I feel.
- The smell of rivers, of people, of rain.
- I'm counting on that.
- Don't you trust your senses?
- I don't have any.
- And your vision?
- Also.
- Are you writing or not?
- I'm thinking and trying to clean my gun; it's all dusty.
- Screwed up; what does this means?
- Não sei.
- You are approaching the end, aren't you?
- I'm supposed to do that.
- Why?
- Everything must come to an end.
- A tragic ONE?
- Nothing is immortal, we are immortal only in a people memories, so there is no people, there aren't memories.
- And memoirs?
- It's something else.
- Food for thoughts?
- Maybe, it depends.
- Depends on what?
- In your point of view.
- Are you getting something from this?
- No, I'm not quite sure.
- It's a certainty.
- What?
- The fact that you are un sure.
- Do you enter on people's mind?
- Can you feel it?
- What?
- All in sincrony; body and mind, body piercing and pieces of bodies.
- Everybody?
- No, not everybody, only some of them.
- Why do I've all these bullets on my hand?
- I think that, that is the rush.
- Figuring some strange ways of killing or is it living?
- Maybe both of them.
- Control?
- Everything's on control.
- I want your mind.
- All of it?
- No, just a small piece of it.
- Why do we've to kill to live?
- So, that we can both survive.
- In your body?
In your mind?
- Altogether, the ideas must be in sincrony with each other.
- Howls and grievings?
- Maybe moanings.
- Reasons?
- I don't have any.
- I want to be a person, a human being and not someone with his mind divided.
- Flashes?
- Still lots of them.
- The truth?
- I think that it's everywhere.
- Everywhere you go; everywhere I go.
- The junction?
- Must be divided with parcels on it.
- I'm drifting on a whirlpool of thoughts.
- Are you getting nauseous?
- Perhaps, it's all this smoke, these barricades of fog.
- Nightmares, any?
- Sometimes, dreaming of forsaken places and ancient people.
- What are you doing?
- Chewing some tobacco; spitting nebulous spasms of saliva.
- Why?
- It's the thoughts, the drowning of ideas, the sensation of loss.
- And the mind?
- It's getting absorbed by all this bullets, calibers with no bullets.
- Regrets, unregreteful, brand new bullets and brand new desires.
- Desires for what?
- Desires of doing something, something that's inside my skull.
- Sometimes.
- As in your mind?
- Mind and body in convulsion, secrets remain kept and hidden.
- Mistery is everywhere.
- Don't you want a change?
- Change of doing what? I do what I'm supposed to do.
- Are you a bounty killer?
- I treat life well, I think that life's like a marriage, like a skin left to be made into an eskimo's underpants, something that starts to rotten very soon.
- I think that life should be lived in a rhapsody.
- Lights, everything, turning me colourblind or almost blind.
Suffering carcasses; struggling for a chance to die for.
Money as the center as the true ruler of the Universe.
Bear with his paws an d claws, wolves with its fangs and shattered teeth.
Stories left untold; spreading on the morning mist, expanding as a nightless fog and still me, perplexed and shut up by somebody's own ideas.
Neon lights, closing and disappearing ideas unshut, just like the sun rises.
- The beginning of dawn, the atmosphere of the night, quite surreal, don't you think so?
- You're quite sure my beloved; your passion of the night remains intact.
- Like bruises screwing, like black holes everywhere, the light vanishing and the sound clicking and cheering, the dense cartilage, the breaking of bones.
- Jaws shattered and mind's elsewhere.
- Don't you feel the mist, all that on a particular mood with too many senses.
- Let's start our conversation.
- The ideals, we're entering on a new age, on a new world, are you waiting for somebody?
- No, I sense the stench of powder.
- The affection by one's own bullets, the tenderness by filling them, the love of revolvers
- I don't like trousers, I don't like to have my hair cut, but I like to see my winchester shining and my silver bullets too.
- So, where are you?
- I don't know.
- What's your fucking name?
- I don't quite remember.
- It seems to me, that it's all very sad, cause I don't have a name or a place to live.
- It's all in the head; in the subconscious.
- In my inner selb?
- Maybe or maybe not.
- Too many damn questions with no answers.
- The smelling; the hearing, the vision, feeling nothing, listening something.
- Seeing anything by my own eyes, it's a weird process.
- Are you hired?
- I don't have a Boss, just someone who takes care of my own acts.
- Who?
- You.
- Me?
- Altogether, the ideas must be in sincrony with each other.
- Howls and grievings?
- Maybe moanings.
- Reasons?
- I don't have any.
- I want to be a person, a human being and not someone with his mind divided.
- Flashes?
- Still lots of them.
- The truth?
- I think that it's everywhere.
- Everywhere you go; everywhere I go.
- The junction?
- Must be divided with parcels on it.
- I'm drifting on a whirlpool of thoughts.
- Are you getting nauseous?
- Perhaps, it's all this smoke, these barricades of fog.
- Nightmares, any?
- Sometimes, dreaming of forsaken places and ancient people.
- What are you doing?
- Chewing some tobacco; spitting nebulous spasms of saliva.
- Why?
- It's the thoughts, the drowning of ideas, the sensation of loss.
- And the mind?
- It's getting absorbed by all this bullets, calibers with no bullets.
- Regrets, unregreteful, brand new bullets and brand new desires.
- Desires for what?
- Desires of doing something, something that's inside my skull.
- Sometimes.
- As in your mind?
- Mind and body in convulsion, secrets remain kept and hidden.
- Mistery is everywhere.
- Don't you want a change?
- Change of doing what? I do what I'm supposed to do.
- Are you a bounty killer?
- I treat life well, I think that life's like a marriage, like a skin left to be made into an eskimo's underpants, something that starts to rotten very soon.
- I think that life should be lived in a rhapsody.
- Lights, everything, turning me colourblind or almost blind.
Suffering carcasses; struggling for a chance to die for.
Money as the center as the true ruler of the Universe.
Bear with his paws an d claws, wolves with its fangs and shattered teeth.
Stories left untold; spreading on the morning mist, expanding as a nightless fog and still me, perplexed and shut up by somebody's own ideas.
Neon lights, closing and disappearing ideas unshut, just like the sun rises.
- The beginning of dawn, the atmosphere of the night, quite surreal, don't you think so?
- You're quite sure my beloved; your passion of the night remains intact.
- Like bruises screwing, like black holes everywhere, the light vanishing and the sound clicking and cheering, the dense cartilage, the breaking of bones.
- Jaws shattered and mind's elsewhere.
- Don't you feel the mist, all that on a particular mood with too many senses.
- Let's start our conversation.
- The ideals, we're entering on a new age, on a new world, are you waiting for somebody?
- No, I sense the stench of powder.
- The affection by one's own bullets, the tenderness by filling them, the love of revolvers
- I don't like trousers, I don't like to have my hair cut, but I like to see my winchester shining and my silver bullets too.
- So, where are you?
- I don't know.
- What's your fucking name?
- I don't quite remember.
- It seems to me, that it's all very sad, cause I don't have a name or a place to live.
- It's all in the head; in the subconscious.
- In my inner selb?
- Maybe or maybe not.
- Too many damn questions with no answers.
- The smelling; the hearing, the vision, feeling nothing, listening something.
- Seeing anything by my own eyes, it's a weird process.
- Are you hired?
- I don't have a Boss, just someone who takes care of my own acts.
- Who?
- You.
- Me?
But I don't think, I can't think.
- Yes you can; it's a matter of letting go.
- Just like living and dying.
- It's something that makes one feel alive without being alive.
- A dimension with no ports, a frontier with no barriers, quite unusual, isn't it?
- Do you think so?
- Yes you can; it's a matter of letting go.
- Just like living and dying.
- It's something that makes one feel alive without being alive.
- A dimension with no ports, a frontier with no barriers, quite unusual, isn't it?
- Do you think so?
I don't recall that phrase.
- Another pint of beer; please.
- Iced?
- No; just damned cold, ahhhh! quite refreshing, feels good, seems good.
- I don't like it, why do you drink?
- Cause I smoke.
- Why?
- Cause I've lots of time.
- Time; time and more time, that's the problem.
- What are you shooting at?
- Bottles; lots of them, killing them bastards, refreshing them with alcohol.
Still the mind; the air's crawling, trying to enter on a new dominion with smoke all mixed with spiderwebs, still writing, no thinking, listening to the clock, waiting for the bell(e).
- As a beast like something in my teeth, like mustard, waiting for you to spit it down: yeah; quite good, another day and nothing to do.
- Another pint of beer; please.
- Iced?
- No; just damned cold, ahhhh! quite refreshing, feels good, seems good.
- I don't like it, why do you drink?
- Cause I smoke.
- Why?
- Cause I've lots of time.
- Time; time and more time, that's the problem.
- What are you shooting at?
- Bottles; lots of them, killing them bastards, refreshing them with alcohol.
Still the mind; the air's crawling, trying to enter on a new dominion with smoke all mixed with spiderwebs, still writing, no thinking, listening to the clock, waiting for the bell(e).
- As a beast like something in my teeth, like mustard, waiting for you to spit it down: yeah; quite good, another day and nothing to do.
- Have you read something?
- I don't have time to read.
Still the story, dialogue or monologue, weird tales left on the air with nothing to believe on.
- Quite untrue, you're creating it, making it, idealizing it, a story with no END.
- Does it still exist the word END?
- To somebody, YES.
- Thinking on alcohol; drowning on alcohol, smoking marijuana, chewing tobacco.
- Dark city; dark place, people everywhere and I'm still counting.
- Why?
- It's funny to sum it up; to feel them and to love them.
- Salt?
- Lots of salt.
- Sand?
- No sand, thank you.
- I would like to have some, please.
- Why?
- To enter the kingdom of the perfidious nightmare with my own bullets; pointed at me?
- Don't you like it?
- What?
- The sound of no sound; the feeling of leaving with leaks everywhere and puzzles, lots of them.
- Why?
- It's good.
- Ink everywhere; no lines, only paper to clean my pistol on.
- Pistols, ahhhh!
- I don't have time to read.
Still the story, dialogue or monologue, weird tales left on the air with nothing to believe on.
- Quite untrue, you're creating it, making it, idealizing it, a story with no END.
- Does it still exist the word END?
- To somebody, YES.
- Thinking on alcohol; drowning on alcohol, smoking marijuana, chewing tobacco.
- Dark city; dark place, people everywhere and I'm still counting.
- Why?
- It's funny to sum it up; to feel them and to love them.
- Salt?
- Lots of salt.
- Sand?
- No sand, thank you.
- I would like to have some, please.
- Why?
- To enter the kingdom of the perfidious nightmare with my own bullets; pointed at me?
- Don't you like it?
- What?
- The sound of no sound; the feeling of leaving with leaks everywhere and puzzles, lots of them.
- Why?
- It's good.
- Ink everywhere; no lines, only paper to clean my pistol on.
- Pistols, ahhhh!
I'm vomiting pistols.
- Yeah; sure what's your topic?
- Maybe clothes.
- No.
- Writers?
- I don't know none.
- Photographers?
- Nahhhhh.
- Cowgirls with short skirts and long hair?
- No.
- Still you, me and you, just a flew, leaving one, entering another, like valvules.
- No.
- Still things to think upon?
- Yes.
- I want to have you.
- What?
- Possess you, have your credits, to enter new places, seeing new places, observing new people, behaving like normal guys do.
- School?
- No school, only parties with no work.
- Alcohol?
- No.
- Marijuana?
- No.
- Tobacco?
- No, just me feeling you, that's me, just me, not you, measuring the length of my arms and legs, that's all.
- Nebulae?
- Yeah; sure what's your topic?
- Maybe clothes.
- No.
- Writers?
- I don't know none.
- Photographers?
- Nahhhhh.
- Cowgirls with short skirts and long hair?
- No.
- Still you, me and you, just a flew, leaving one, entering another, like valvules.
- No.
- Still things to think upon?
- Yes.
- I want to have you.
- What?
- Possess you, have your credits, to enter new places, seeing new places, observing new people, behaving like normal guys do.
- School?
- No school, only parties with no work.
- Alcohol?
- No.
- Marijuana?
- No.
- Tobacco?
- No, just me feeling you, that's me, just me, not you, measuring the length of my arms and legs, that's all.
- Nebulae?
Algae?
Not mollusks, just an animal with purpose of living, insects drifting all periods of time.
Lifetime for me, clapping my hands, another lifetime, singing around, another one, just like that.
- Do you love insects?
- Yeah, you've got my point.
- PEOPLE, people crashing, screaming, hammering my head, noises, lots of noises, don't you think so?
- Quite sure, it hurts the pain, the collapses, fallen like die sieben, movies with no guns, silent ones, RICOCHET, all that in my head?
- Maybe.
- The torment, the storms, all flowers, all of them blue, still feeling so, freezing with the fire, icing with the tempest, they are my feelings, not yours of course.
- Evil lurking on the streets, windows in pain, doors with no gain, only the old closets, your drawers.
- My drawers?
- Yes, the conscience.
- The hurting, closing in and opening out.
- No CLUES.
- Pens with blood; all oily and foggy.
- Them.
- What?
- The feelings, legless bullets with no bullets in, armless guns without harm, itching and scratching, figuring it out. Fog; fog, seamless fog, skyscrappers, do you see them?
- Do you love insects?
- Yeah, you've got my point.
- PEOPLE, people crashing, screaming, hammering my head, noises, lots of noises, don't you think so?
- Quite sure, it hurts the pain, the collapses, fallen like die sieben, movies with no guns, silent ones, RICOCHET, all that in my head?
- Maybe.
- The torment, the storms, all flowers, all of them blue, still feeling so, freezing with the fire, icing with the tempest, they are my feelings, not yours of course.
- Evil lurking on the streets, windows in pain, doors with no gain, only the old closets, your drawers.
- My drawers?
- Yes, the conscience.
- The hurting, closing in and opening out.
- No CLUES.
- Pens with blood; all oily and foggy.
- Them.
- What?
- The feelings, legless bullets with no bullets in, armless guns without harm, itching and scratching, figuring it out. Fog; fog, seamless fog, skyscrappers, do you see them?
They don't exist, only in the curtain, where past, present and future collide themselves.
In the winter, snowy winter, damned season to be with no clothes on.
- It's easy?
- Yeah, quite easy fuer mich, the seventh art, carries no art, only dirt in opaque colours drifting on the horizon.
- It's easy?
- Yeah, quite easy fuer mich, the seventh art, carries no art, only dirt in opaque colours drifting on the horizon.
Weapons, guns, arms and arms fighting without other arms, minds collapsing into other minds, no SHIRT, my beer and my breast hair, only them and me. Blake taught me nothing.
- Nonsense.
- Nonsense by whom? Crazy, crazier, the craziest am I them all?
- Probably not.
- Blind horses without patches pointing their ears. Thinking on Milton?
- Perhaps or maybe; although, maybe not. They don't have time.
- Time for what?
- Short periods.
- Do you like Oceans?
- A lot, seas with no flames, burning it all, coming down.
- Your feelings?
- Sorrow, regret and ENVY.
- Envy?
- Envy of clothed ones with their hats on.
Still searching the road; trying to finish a line.
- I'm fishing with no bait, hunting without a gun, mirrors, lots of them.
- Broken?
- No, shattered and lonely, dark places with no light, plenty to fight for. I've crushed a spiderweb, got entangled in its web and got a nice scar and some scorpion's eggs with their mother defending them.
- Nonsense.
- Nonsense by whom? Crazy, crazier, the craziest am I them all?
- Probably not.
- Blind horses without patches pointing their ears. Thinking on Milton?
- Perhaps or maybe; although, maybe not. They don't have time.
- Time for what?
- Short periods.
- Do you like Oceans?
- A lot, seas with no flames, burning it all, coming down.
- Your feelings?
- Sorrow, regret and ENVY.
- Envy?
- Envy of clothed ones with their hats on.
Still searching the road; trying to finish a line.
- I'm fishing with no bait, hunting without a gun, mirrors, lots of them.
- Broken?
- No, shattered and lonely, dark places with no light, plenty to fight for. I've crushed a spiderweb, got entangled in its web and got a nice scar and some scorpion's eggs with their mother defending them.
Lots of dreams.
- Dreaming of what?
- I'm not dreaming; I'm thinking, doctors in cages, fighting to earn more, to avoid the hunting process, the obituaries, the graveyards without any flowers, images, lots of them and figures, and paper, and glass, all mied with dust and worms, still plenty.
- My HEAD.
- It's MINE.
- A great bowl on an iron table.
- Dreaming of what?
- I'm not dreaming; I'm thinking, doctors in cages, fighting to earn more, to avoid the hunting process, the obituaries, the graveyards without any flowers, images, lots of them and figures, and paper, and glass, all mied with dust and worms, still plenty.
- My HEAD.
- It's MINE.
- A great bowl on an iron table.
Fishes they can't swim, can they?
- Probably they can.
- Razor's teeth shattered; lots of them, no food to live, no fool to seek.
- Ohhh, you and your ramblings, I don't like them, it's awful, it's strange and tasty.
- Maps inside me HEAD, the streets seeing, watching us and observing us like slugs, bugging us and depending on us.
- Like FLIES?
- Yeah.
The perception of doors that can't be opened. Blasphemy plus blasphemies gives its way to ironies.
The pen and the men; the construction, the failure, just like a looser.
- Looney?
- Not looney; perhaps loser.
- Living on it?
- Maybe depending on it.
Just a story, still a story to write.
- Probably they can.
- Razor's teeth shattered; lots of them, no food to live, no fool to seek.
- Ohhh, you and your ramblings, I don't like them, it's awful, it's strange and tasty.
- Maps inside me HEAD, the streets seeing, watching us and observing us like slugs, bugging us and depending on us.
- Like FLIES?
- Yeah.
The perception of doors that can't be opened. Blasphemy plus blasphemies gives its way to ironies.
The pen and the men; the construction, the failure, just like a looser.
- Looney?
- Not looney; perhaps loser.
- Living on it?
- Maybe depending on it.
Just a story, still a story to write.
Die augen, kein herz, trotzdem icha habe das gemachen, danke. Schreiben mit einer kugelschreiber oder einer gummi, und die herz, der aertzt.
Toten alles machen.
Kein FEUER und alles machen.
- The Paradise isn't lost at all. It hurts, the agony, fearing it while desiring it.
- Have you got a heart?
- That's covered with muscles; flesh, skin and hair. It's too deep.
- And your brain?
- No heart in it, but still pulsing and beating.
- What have you got there?
- A knife, that's the way, slaughter of skinning, leaving carcasses without flesh or skin. Bones on the ground; worms around and rats among.
It's all in the book and by the book, without ink, only curtains of time. Inking; blurring and disappearing.
- No clothes, no clues, narrow streets, it's all on your mind.
- My mind?
- Yes.
- Carpet soaked in blood; you've got tears that rot and all of them in the plot, those forsaken goblins still searching for the golden pot.
- The Paradise isn't lost at all. It hurts, the agony, fearing it while desiring it.
- Have you got a heart?
- That's covered with muscles; flesh, skin and hair. It's too deep.
- And your brain?
- No heart in it, but still pulsing and beating.
- What have you got there?
- A knife, that's the way, slaughter of skinning, leaving carcasses without flesh or skin. Bones on the ground; worms around and rats among.
It's all in the book and by the book, without ink, only curtains of time. Inking; blurring and disappearing.
- No clothes, no clues, narrow streets, it's all on your mind.
- My mind?
- Yes.
- Carpet soaked in blood; you've got tears that rot and all of them in the plot, those forsaken goblins still searching for the golden pot.
Odes, rhymes and poets, a sordid combination, what do you think of that?
- Smelling and rotting; yellowing on the shelves but still kept on the drawers.
- And the scots?
- Not a Scotch, thank you.
- A pint?
- Yes, my kingdom for a pint and some cigarettes, please.
- Ashtray?
- Figuring it, I try to understand my mind, are you still in there?
- Yeah, not thinking because of the alcohol, too much beer, I think...
- God save the KING.
- The king's a lunatic, a rambler of all sorts. It's confusing and weird; headaches and no head to rely on, no pills, no more alcohol.
- Smelling and rotting; yellowing on the shelves but still kept on the drawers.
- And the scots?
- Not a Scotch, thank you.
- A pint?
- Yes, my kingdom for a pint and some cigarettes, please.
- Ashtray?
- Figuring it, I try to understand my mind, are you still in there?
- Yeah, not thinking because of the alcohol, too much beer, I think...
- God save the KING.
- The king's a lunatic, a rambler of all sorts. It's confusing and weird; headaches and no head to rely on, no pills, no more alcohol.
Can you spare a cigarette; gentleman?
- I don't have many.
- Shit; even the cigarettes, no nurture, no food, I'm not an object, still there?
- Yeah. Although; i've seen enough, I don't want to see it anymore.
- What have you saw?
- I don't know; maybe the beginning, lots of riddles, and you?
- I can't see a thing, nothing at all. I see it all with your own mind.
- Quite fertile, you are.
- Maybe; it's the pleasure of not being a being.
- No.
- Shades, a few ones, all clustered on the ground, waiting for the new wave, sitting here, thinking nothing. Lots of paradigmism.
- Paganism?
- Don't know.
- Still peculiar; aren't you?
- The incoming of a bridge; the envy of passing it, all without an end.
I must put more bullets on my gun: one; two, three, four, five and six. That's it. Nothing to waste, each one of them cost money. No powder; a silent one.
Betrayal: Another one; another can.
Other live, another life.
Other and other.
YOU and ME, that's all.
Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
Someplace else; though memories.
The fangs, all the shelves burned down without any tears.
Pages fulfilled; narrow straight, just a story. JUST A FUCKING STORY.
RELAX.
Don't frighten up.
Don't squeeze.
Don't walk.
Don't sneeze.
Don't talk.
- Listen to the sound of lost tides as when Neptune conquered the lost Atlantis; the sea and a flock of seagulls. Wolves, still them devouring seagulls, flesh in its fangs, blood on their mouths. Ravens start making the puzzle, picturing it with red.
No eyes on; nothing to look at, peebles, nipples all that and more.
Large potatoes growing on the ground conquering the toillet seats.
Carrots left uncut; all wide and strange, things left unsaid, thoughts unspoken.
The dialogue on the monologue:
- Cheers, man.
- Queers?
- No; not that.
- Fears?
- No. Cheers, man. Another bottle, another pint. Skeletons remains; the dusk remains obsolete and concrete.
- Concrete? Brick?
- Don't prick on me; please, I'm trying to finish it.
- The cleansing; erasing, disrupting, tentatives still cold and still me and my bullets.
An alienated land with no aliens on.
A Prince on a soft land; alone, nothing to do, nothing to eat, only sleep.
- Dreaming, thinking, wallowing, wandering and it's me, don't you know me?
- Just who the fuck are you?
- Maybe Mr. nightmare.
- Hallo Mr. Jones.
- Hi!!!
- Are you going to tell me a story?
- Hey you!! Are you still sleeping?
- Murders, destroying my soft land, the corruption of my world, the reason of my sleep.
- Have you slept?
- No.
- And you?
- Sure did; thinking on monasteries, of lost lands, immaculated temples, an army with no men on, rulled by a Mr.What's his name? I don't remember, but he's hairy and thin with no skin and no being.
- NO. Still the moans? The pits and the penduluns?
Only a fucking book; a passtime, a no time on a co-existential land with lots of cooperation.
Nothing free; nothing to see.
Birds and monkeys spreading and disappearing on a foggy night, on a shadeless day.
- Nothing to live on; only my bullets to take care of, their creation, their vastness of powder, the liquor, the degrees all hammering on my head, the CULT of the head is too much cultural.
Umbrella's left broken on the street; hats with no heads on, minds with no thoughts, thoughts evolved to pots, invisible rainbows without colours.
Are you listening to the rainbirds? They are too much lyrical.
- I'm hunting high and low, coins with George on it, dollars with the Queen.
There's too many razors, blades and scissors.
Bullets, bullocks...
- Do you think that exists life over death?
- I believe in God almighty; the lord is my shepard, and you?
- There's lots of them, too much confusion to my brain, too much offer with a few demands.
- Nepal in there.
- Everest?!
- Not here.
- Canada?
- I would like to; I've seen them with no horns on, without skin, seen the fur, skin, all skinned and dollars, lots of them, vultures on their constant feeding, worms devouring bones.
The desert sky full of eagles without needles.
Rats...
- I don't have many.
- Shit; even the cigarettes, no nurture, no food, I'm not an object, still there?
- Yeah. Although; i've seen enough, I don't want to see it anymore.
- What have you saw?
- I don't know; maybe the beginning, lots of riddles, and you?
- I can't see a thing, nothing at all. I see it all with your own mind.
- Quite fertile, you are.
- Maybe; it's the pleasure of not being a being.
- No.
- Shades, a few ones, all clustered on the ground, waiting for the new wave, sitting here, thinking nothing. Lots of paradigmism.
- Paganism?
- Don't know.
- Still peculiar; aren't you?
- The incoming of a bridge; the envy of passing it, all without an end.
I must put more bullets on my gun: one; two, three, four, five and six. That's it. Nothing to waste, each one of them cost money. No powder; a silent one.
Betrayal: Another one; another can.
Other live, another life.
Other and other.
YOU and ME, that's all.
Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
Someplace else; though memories.
The fangs, all the shelves burned down without any tears.
Pages fulfilled; narrow straight, just a story. JUST A FUCKING STORY.
RELAX.
Don't frighten up.
Don't squeeze.
Don't walk.
Don't sneeze.
Don't talk.
- Listen to the sound of lost tides as when Neptune conquered the lost Atlantis; the sea and a flock of seagulls. Wolves, still them devouring seagulls, flesh in its fangs, blood on their mouths. Ravens start making the puzzle, picturing it with red.
No eyes on; nothing to look at, peebles, nipples all that and more.
Large potatoes growing on the ground conquering the toillet seats.
Carrots left uncut; all wide and strange, things left unsaid, thoughts unspoken.
The dialogue on the monologue:
- Cheers, man.
- Queers?
- No; not that.
- Fears?
- No. Cheers, man. Another bottle, another pint. Skeletons remains; the dusk remains obsolete and concrete.
- Concrete? Brick?
- Don't prick on me; please, I'm trying to finish it.
- The cleansing; erasing, disrupting, tentatives still cold and still me and my bullets.
An alienated land with no aliens on.
A Prince on a soft land; alone, nothing to do, nothing to eat, only sleep.
- Dreaming, thinking, wallowing, wandering and it's me, don't you know me?
- Just who the fuck are you?
- Maybe Mr. nightmare.
- Hallo Mr. Jones.
- Hi!!!
- Are you going to tell me a story?
- Hey you!! Are you still sleeping?
- Murders, destroying my soft land, the corruption of my world, the reason of my sleep.
- Have you slept?
- No.
- And you?
- Sure did; thinking on monasteries, of lost lands, immaculated temples, an army with no men on, rulled by a Mr.What's his name? I don't remember, but he's hairy and thin with no skin and no being.
- NO. Still the moans? The pits and the penduluns?
Only a fucking book; a passtime, a no time on a co-existential land with lots of cooperation.
Nothing free; nothing to see.
Birds and monkeys spreading and disappearing on a foggy night, on a shadeless day.
- Nothing to live on; only my bullets to take care of, their creation, their vastness of powder, the liquor, the degrees all hammering on my head, the CULT of the head is too much cultural.
Umbrella's left broken on the street; hats with no heads on, minds with no thoughts, thoughts evolved to pots, invisible rainbows without colours.
Are you listening to the rainbirds? They are too much lyrical.
- I'm hunting high and low, coins with George on it, dollars with the Queen.
There's too many razors, blades and scissors.
Bullets, bullocks...
- Do you think that exists life over death?
- I believe in God almighty; the lord is my shepard, and you?
- There's lots of them, too much confusion to my brain, too much offer with a few demands.
- Nepal in there.
- Everest?!
- Not here.
- Canada?
- I would like to; I've seen them with no horns on, without skin, seen the fur, skin, all skinned and dollars, lots of them, vultures on their constant feeding, worms devouring bones.
The desert sky full of eagles without needles.
Rats...
I haven't seen rats.
- Dogs?
- Yes.
- My bullets give me them; I want to shoot that, I want money, that's my purpose, the meaning of my life.
- Where are you going? It's raining; isn't it?
- Maybe's.
- Wo bist du?
- On the rain.
- Quel est ton plaisir?
- The rain; I like it, it's easy to clean and shower my head with it, to get rid of these vampires.
- And your clothes?
- I don't have clothes. Just a form; a paper to fill in, some rags that doesn't mean a thing.
Only on the head; on the pen.
- Wo ziehst du an?
- On the streets.
- No clothes?
- No. Still a life, the conscience, a purpose without meaning.
- Dogs?
- Yes.
- My bullets give me them; I want to shoot that, I want money, that's my purpose, the meaning of my life.
- Where are you going? It's raining; isn't it?
- Maybe's.
- Wo bist du?
- On the rain.
- Quel est ton plaisir?
- The rain; I like it, it's easy to clean and shower my head with it, to get rid of these vampires.
- And your clothes?
- I don't have clothes. Just a form; a paper to fill in, some rags that doesn't mean a thing.
Only on the head; on the pen.
- Wo ziehst du an?
- On the streets.
- No clothes?
- No. Still a life, the conscience, a purpose without meaning.
Shagless on the land of nowhere.
- Counting the snakes?
- Trying to erase them of this arm.
- Too many blankets. It's a damned season; snowing snow, encefalic snow.
Still pointless; all by the reason, trying to give without being given.
The immaculate corpse; all the fishes on all the dishes and the countless leeches.
- What are you doing?
- Cooking; that's all. It's a rotten scent, isn't it?
- Yeah; I think so.
- Are you going to eat it?
- No; and you?
- No I can't.
- So, for the strays then, the coyotes.
Skinny cows without milk all on a flowerful world.
The taste; the feeling and without earing.
Teaching it, adoting that.
Still at ease, just in Peace. Broken to Pieces..
- And you there, there and there.
Just talking to myself, killing her, adjoining it.
All on the brain.
The pain with no gain.
- Do you want coffee?
- Lots of it; please.
- Are you sleepy?
- How can I be? With this fight at damn light?
COINS AND COINS, TWO FACELESS ONES.
The End
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Árvores escandeadas em papéis gloriosos
Por vezes, procuramos o verde.
Por vezes, encontramos o azul.
Por vezes, tentamos encontrar o amarelo.
Por vezes, somos feitos de carne e osso.
Por vezes, somos feitos de alma e espírito.
Por vezes, necessitamos dos prazeres que a vida nos dá.
Por vezes, o oxigénio é parco.
Por vezes, falta-nos a força e o verde para caminhar-mos.
Por vezes, percorremos vales e montes.
Por vezes, deparamo-nos com artérias entupidas de trâfego inconsequente.
A matéria é somente uma: VIVÊ-LA.
Verde, AZUL, vermelho.
A existência de um estômago necessitado.
A dictomia de estados de alma.
A procura de ajudar e ser ajudado.
Os motores de escape a fazerem o seu peculiar barulho.
E no meio disto tudo, enquanto se olha para o verde e para o azul do Oceano; entendemos com clareza que a imatéria é uma constante e não passamos duns grãozinhos de areia no Universo.
Por vezes, encontramos o azul.
Por vezes, tentamos encontrar o amarelo.
Por vezes, somos feitos de carne e osso.
Por vezes, somos feitos de alma e espírito.
Por vezes, necessitamos dos prazeres que a vida nos dá.
Por vezes, o oxigénio é parco.
Por vezes, falta-nos a força e o verde para caminhar-mos.
Por vezes, percorremos vales e montes.
Por vezes, deparamo-nos com artérias entupidas de trâfego inconsequente.
A matéria é somente uma: VIVÊ-LA.
Verde, AZUL, vermelho.
A existência de um estômago necessitado.
A dictomia de estados de alma.
A procura de ajudar e ser ajudado.
Os motores de escape a fazerem o seu peculiar barulho.
E no meio disto tudo, enquanto se olha para o verde e para o azul do Oceano; entendemos com clareza que a imatéria é uma constante e não passamos duns grãozinhos de areia no Universo.
Watching the stars gazing towards oblivion
One enters on mindscapes, on deep and powerful ideas.
One enters on vast dominions.
One enters in our mind's eyes.
One sees through pictures.
One gazes at the stars.
One seeks harmony.
One search peace of mind and spirit.
One searches on photos a whole life, where, past present and future collides sometimes.
One's bad the other takes care of us.
One's good, one must take care of the other.
Not even a tear of the sun's promised, but one must remind a thing:
- On the vast Universe, we're tiny particles of sand that move and move and time isn't an argument isn't a fact.
Paper's gone, ink's split.
One becomes wondering once again: Where I am?
One enters in rethorics: Who was I?
And without us noticing the world is simplier than we thought.
One enters on vast dominions.
One enters in our mind's eyes.
One sees through pictures.
One gazes at the stars.
One seeks harmony.
One search peace of mind and spirit.
One searches on photos a whole life, where, past present and future collides sometimes.
One's bad the other takes care of us.
One's good, one must take care of the other.
Not even a tear of the sun's promised, but one must remind a thing:
- On the vast Universe, we're tiny particles of sand that move and move and time isn't an argument isn't a fact.
Paper's gone, ink's split.
One becomes wondering once again: Where I am?
One enters in rethorics: Who was I?
And without us noticing the world is simplier than we thought.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Moon and Stars
 |
| 01 |
Poderemos falar com a boca...
Noto que a conversa e deveras articulada...
Será que existe comunicação somente com a boca ou com a alma?
( Text in Portuguese )
"Essence"
"Essence"
We can speak through our mouth...
I feel that the conversation is articulated...
Wonder if there's comunication with our soul or mouth?
( Text in English )
 |
| 02 |
"Olhos sem brilho"
Sendo o cabelo uma particularidade da alma...
Os olhos vão sendo o espelho de quem somos...
Pergunto o porquê da falha da Iris e descubro que o invisivel faz parte do sonho.
(Text in Portuguese)
"Eyes that don't shine"
Being air, something that belongs to the soul...
Eyes are being the mirror of who we are...
I wonder why there's no Iris and I found that the invisible makes part of the dream...
(Text in English)
 |
| 03 |
Numa imortalidade aparente, o sorriso disfarça a máscara.
A mortalidade é uma utopia e os olhos absorvem-na imediatamente.
(Text in Portuguese)
"Lost smile"
In an ilusion we see immortality, a smile covers a mask.
Mortality's an utopia and the eyes absorb it immediately.
(Text in English)
 |
| 04 |
"Nariz"
Procuro um sentido...
Tento absorver a essencia do que me envolve pelo olfacto.
No entanto, vou sendo somente mais uma pessoa que percorre os cheiros com o meu olhar, mesmo sendo transportados para o dominio da magia.
(Text in Portuguese)
"Nose"
I search a sense...
I try to absorb the essence of the olfact.
What surrounds me by it.
( Text in English )
 |
| 05 |
Sinto o meu rosto como se de uma máscara se tratasse.
Procuro incessantemente a matéria e a minha identidade.
Escondo-me na mascara e de repente, já sei quem sou...
(Text in Portuguese)
" Face "
I feel my face as if a mask was it.
Search aimlessly matter and my iddentity.
I hide on the mask and suddenly I know who I am...
(Text in English)
 |
| 06 |
Tantas teias de aranha envoltas em mim...
Tantos segredos para revelar...
Tantos desejos que não sinto...
No entanto, e apesar do meu deslocamento, sou alheia aos devaneios do mundo..
(Text in Portuguese)
"Wrong mind"
So many spider webs in me...
So many secrets to reveal...
So many desires that I don't feel...
Meanwhile and spite not being here, I don't care of world's collapses..
(Text in English)
 |
| 07 |
"Sombra de um Passado"
Já fui mãe e pai...
Já fui um objecto de desejo...
Já fui uma caricia malicia...
Agora sou somente um utensilio do passado...
(Text in Portuguese)
"Shadow of a past"
I was mother and father...
I was an object of desire...
I was a caress...
Now I'm only a thing of the past...
(Text in English )
 |
| 08 |
Sou uma criança com poucas ideias...
No entanto e apesar do firmamento do Universo, vislumbro todo o poder que existe na minha mente distorcida..
(Text in Portuguese)
"Calm"
I'm a child with small ideas ...
I'm a child with small ideas ...
(Text in English)
 |
| 09 |
Tento ser mais que uma mera parede...
Sou uma mancha que quer ser alastrada...
Percorro o mundo como se me tratasse de um canvas...
Deem-me liberdade, é só o que penso..
(Text in Portuguese)
"Wall with invisible spots"
"Wall with invisible spots"
I'm trying to be more than a simple wall...
I'm a spot that wants to be larger than life...
I vision the world if a canvas was it...
- Give me freedom, it's all I ask..
(Text in English)
 |
| 10 |
Tento uma objectiva concreta e absoluta.
O cranio é o mentor da mente.
Não me sinto desfasado com os traços concretos que a parede me envia...
Escuto-a como parte da minha essência.
(Text in Portuguese)
"Mortal"
I'm trying to be a lens of a camera concrete and absolute like an eye.
The skull is the mentor of the mind.
I don't feel dislocated with concrete lines that the wall sends me...
I listen to it as part of my essence.
 |
| 11 |
Sou parte da substancia...
Dou-te comida quando precisas.
Dou-te afecto quando necessário..
No entanto, estou aqui.
(Text in Portuguese)
" Bread "
I'm part of substance...
I.ll give you food when you need it.
I'll give you caress when necessary..
(Text in English)
 |
| 12 |
Procuro a liberdade necessária para o meu voo..
No meio do preto e do branco; procuro o equilibrio necessário para o meu voo..
(Text in Portuguese)
"Bird"
I search the necessary freedom for me to fly..
(Text in English)
 |
| 13 |
Consegues ouvir-me, apesar de estar coberta por teias e sombras opticas?
Sou a liberdade que anseias..
Procura-me e farei parte de ti.
(Text in Portuguese)
"Whisper"
"Whisper"
Can you hear me, even being covered by webs and optical shadows?
I'm the freedom that you visioned..
(Text in English)
 |
| 14 |
A pedra acaricia o vento...
As minhas lágrimas correm pela minha face...
Será sangue?
Será chuva?
(Text in Portuguese)
"Shadow tears"
The stone caress the wind...
My tears run down on my face...
Is it blood?
Is it rain?
I'm a child that wants to free herself..
(Text in English)
 |
| 15 |
A fibra do que escrevemos está num contexto desactualizado.
No entanto, protejo a chuva, o frio e o conforto.
Sou uma mera rede utópica, mas através de mim, vou filtrando o desnecessário..
(Text in Portuguese)
"Nets"
"Nets"
The fiber in which we wrote is in an out of order context.
Meanwhile, I protect the rain, the cold and give you confort.
I'm a mere utopic net, but through me, I filter what's necessary..
(Text in English)
 |
| 16 |
Tantos segredos ocultos...
tantas palavras murmuradas...
Tantos segredos partilhados...
Escuta-me...
Sou quem serás...
(Text in Portuguese)
"Whispered words"
So many occult secrets...
So many whispered words...
So many shared secrets...
Listen to me...
I'm who you'll be...
"Whispered words"
So many occult secrets...
So many whispered words...
So many shared secrets...
Listen to me...
I'm who you'll be...
 |
| 17 |
Sou um puzzle desconexo..
-Tenta encontrar-me, não me vês aqui?
-Faz com que as minhas peças formem o meu eu.
-Grita e dá-me liberdade...
-Preciso de ser eu outra vez...
-AJUDA-ME...........
(Text in Portuguese)
"Soul of a lost life"
"Soul of a lost life"
I'm a meaningless puzzle ..
-Try to find me, don't you see me here?
-Make that my pieces form my being....
-Scream and give me freedom...
-I need to be me again...-HELP ME...........
Words, idea and translation: Manuel Espirito Santo
Photos and ideas: Joe Vella
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